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1
Autumn is Stiles’ favorite time of the year—leaves are falling, the air is getting crisp, the whole of Market Street smells like cinnamon, and he gets to spend Saturday mornings watching his daughter tear around a football field like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.
Okay, he’d be a little happier if someone stopped scheduling pee-wee football games at nine in the morning, but it’s not so bad. At least their first game is at home, which means he can stumble out of bed half an hour before it starts, shower, and walk down to the high school football field where their games are played and still be on time. And his ex-wife clearly still loves him because she’d texted him that she picked up coffee for both of them, so the only detour he has to make is into the bakery where he can pick up two apple cider donuts and a pumpkin muffin, and he’s done.
Audrey’s already on the field when he gets there—both donuts devoured, sugar wiped from the corners of his mouth—and she waves excitedly when she sees him, helmet dangling from her fingertips. He waves back, points over to where her coaches are gathering the rest of the players, and waits until she’s trotted off to look up at the bleachers and make his way to Lydia.
“Hey,” he says, handing over the white paper bag with the muffin and smacking a kiss on her cheek.
She hands him a cup, which he takes a grateful sip of, and leans into him briefly. “Where’s your dad?”
“Finishing up a shift,” Stiles answers. The coffee’s good, just what he needs, which doesn’t surprise him. They may be coming up on being divorced for longer than they were married, but Lydia still knows him better than almost anyone. “He said he’d get here if he could, but he’ll be there for lunch either way.”
“Please tell me we aren’t planning on going to the diner again.” Lydia’s face, when he sneaks a look, is pale.
“Smell of fried food still bothering you?” he asks, and she nods. He wrinkles his nose and slides an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a side-hug. “How does pizza at home sound?”
“Better,” she says. She pats his knee before she straightens up, smoothing the wrinkled hem of her dress down over her leggings, hand running over her baby bump before resting it there. “Jordan said you had a date last night.”
“Jordan needs to keep his mouth shut,” he says, without much bite. “It was just drinks. Awkward as hell. Zero chance of a second date.” The kids break out of their huddle then and jog towards the fifty yard line; Stiles seizes the opportunity to change the subject. “Hey, what’s the plan for Audrey’s birthday?”
Audrey’s birthday isn’t for another two months, but it works; Lydia’s got her phone out in an instant, reading through a list of ideas, and Stiles sits back and enjoys the football game.
2
“Dad, you’re making us late!” Audrey hollers from the doorway; she’s got a duffle bag looped in one elbow, cleats and helmet clenched in the other hand. She’s ready fifteen minutes before they have to leave—her mother’s daughter through and through.
Stiles runs a frazzled hand through his hair. He knows he’s forgetting something but God only knows what that something is. Wallet, keys, phone, Audrey’s school bag slung over his shoulder—tickets. He turns on his heel and detours through the kitchen to dig through the mail pile on the counter, holding the envelope up in triumph when he finds it. “Got it. Alright, go hop in the Jeep.”
Audrey’s jumping anxiously in the driveway by the time he makes it outside—the second time, because his first foray onto the porch had been enough to make him go back in and grab a jacket. “We’re going—”
“We’re not going to be late, relax,” he says, lifting her gear bag up and unlocking the car. “We still have time to get coffee.”
“You always say that, and we’re always late.”
They’re not late.
Barely.
Audrey’s a blur as runs out onto the field, only pausing to give her mother a wave as she heads towards her team’s sideline. “Glad she missed me,” Lydia says drily, accepting the cup he hands her—apple cider, extra caramel, extra hot. She adjusts her woolen blanket so it’s covering his legs when he sits down, takes the envelope with the tickets out of his jacket pocket and replaces it with something else. “How was laser tag last night?”
“Awesome,” Stiles says. He wiggles the paper free—an ultrasound photo, and he can feel his smile go a little softer as he looks at it. “She kicked Scott’s ass. What’s this, twenty weeks? They tell you what you’re having yet?”
“A child,” Lydia says, and he rolls his eyes. “I did you a favor this week.”
He looks over at her, eyes narrowed. “I didn’t ask you for a favor.”
“And yet I did you one anyway,” Lydia says sweetly. “Wouldn’t you like to know what it was?”
“Nope.”
She shrugs, which infuriates him—because her nonchalance definitely gets his attention. “Fine. But don’t come crying to me when Coach Derek gives you the sad eyes for standing him up.”
Stiles chokes on his coffee, mocha flooding its way up his nose. Disgusting. “Derek? Derek Hale? That Derek?”
“Dinner tonight, 6 o’clock, Beacon Brewery,” Lydia says. She has a smug grin on her face, and Stiles hates her a little.
“You’re the worst.”
“Yes, yes,” she says.
“And kind of the best.”
“Don’t I know it.” She fully turns her attention to him then, looking him over with a sharp eye. “I’m well aware I won’t be able to talk you out of plaid, so at least make it a green one, it brings out your eyes. And don’t you dare wear those cargo pants I told you to throw out two years ago, I know you still have them.”
He looks out at the field, where Jordan’s standing shoulder to shoulder with Derek, and tries to will his heart not to beat so loudly. “Are you sure he knew he was saying yes to a date with me?”
“Well he wasn’t saying yes to me,” Lydia snorts, shaking her head. “Jordan says he’s been head over heels for you ever since you yelled at him over yelling at the kids to use their bodies to tackle.”
Stiles hides his head in his hands and groans.
3
This time, Stiles is late.
Really late.
Spectacularly late—as in the game’s nearly over by the time he gets there, covered in mud, spare tire slowly wobbling from where he’d finally gotten it onto the Jeep.
“Jesus,” Lydia says, mouth in a worried line when he slides out of the car. “You could have called—”
“Sorry,” he says through chattering teeth, sparing a glance at the scoreboard before allowing Lydia to manhandle him over to where a small canopy is placed over two lawn chairs, keeping them out of the rain. “Got a flat on that stretch of 20 where the cell service is shit. I tried to call but it wouldn’t go through. Please tell me you have a blanket, I’m fucking freezing.”
“Of course I do, take mine too—don’t argue with me, Stiles, I’m not the one who’s soaking wet and my coat keeps me plenty warm. Stop being so stubborn,” she snaps, and he stops his protests and allows her to settle her own blanket around his legs. “Thank you. Audrey was looking all over for you at half time—and Derek came over to ask where you were.”
Stiles sits up a little straighter, snagging the blanket and pulling it back up on his shoulders when it slips. “He did?”
“Jordan asked him how your second date went and said he blushed and grunted,” Lydia teases, and Stiles rolls his eyes.
“Jordan could have told me that, considering I see him every day,” he says, because Jordan is a traitor and Lydia clearly encourages it.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Lydia asks. He takes his eyes off the field after a long pause and looks over to see her frowning at him. “You still look too pale; I’m sure Jordan’s got a change of clothes in the car, we could get you out of most of those.”
“You’re a married woman, stop trying to get me naked,” he says. “I’m fine, there’s only five minutes left anyway.” The feeling is starting to come back into his fingers and sure, his toes are going to be disgustingly wrinkled when he finally gets home and can change, but it’s not the worst thing in the world. “I don’t trust that spare, though—”
“There’s a tire place down the road if you think you can’t make it back to Beacon Hills—I’ll just call and make an appointment, actually, I’m sure they can get you in quickly.” Lydia taps at her phone before he can argue; the Jeep would probably make it back—if he went well under the speed limit. He regrets, now, not getting another spare to mount on the back the last time this happened.
The game is over before she’s off the phone, and Audrey’s leaping into his lap, hair damp with sweat when she pulls her helmet off and beams at him. “I got a touchdown, Dad!”
His heart sinks. “That’s awesome,” he says, grinning and wishing he hadn’t missed it. “Totally deserves a hot chocolate on the way home.”
“Yes!”
Lydia smiles at them; Stiles can hear the camera on her phone click. “Audrey, honey, go tell Jordan to hurry; I’m going to have him take the Jeep in and I can drive you and Dad home to change before we get lunch. Not even the diner will let him in looking like that.”
“Lyds, it’s fine—”
“We’ll stop for hot chocolate on the way,” Lydia says, ignoring him. Sometimes, Stiles doesn’t know why he misses being married to her.
Audrey tumbles off him in an uncoordinated flail of limbs and shoots across the field; Stiles’ focus wanders when she gets to Jordan and rests on Derek, crouched down talking seriously to one of the players, until his gaze shifts to Stiles and his face breaks into a breathtaking smile.
Scratch that—Stiles doesn’t miss being married to Lydia at all.
4
Because Stiles is not an utter disaster at all times, he and Audrey are five minutes early to the next game, paper bag full of breakfast burritos in hand. He takes out two for him and Lydia and sends her off to give the rest to Jordan and Derek before she warms up, grinning across the field and waving when Derek looks over at him.
“Jordan says he’s been moping,” Lydia says when he drops into the chair next to her. “He was bummed when you had to cancel on Wednesday—I didn’t know you had a date planned or I would have asked Allison—”
“I’m not gonna ditch my own kid for a date, Lydia,” he says, taking a huge bite and talking through it just to annoy her.
“Oh please, we all need a break sometimes,” she says, and he thinks about telling her he has that already and wishes he didn’t, but he’s feeling a little too on the wrong side of mean for whatever reason and Lydia isn’t the type to let him get away with it, so he stays quiet. They’re great at co-parenting until they’re not, and he doesn’t want that to cause a scene at Audrey’s football game. “Actually, I wanted to ask you for a favor.”
He eyes her suspiciously. Lydia doesn’t ask for favors, she assumes he’ll grant them without her needing to say anything and acts accordingly. Lydia asking for a favor is unprecedented, in his experience. “What is it?”
“I was hoping to keep Audrey an extra week after the baby was born,” she says, her tone carefully measured. “I know that’s asking a lot, and I’ll happily give up a week of mine whenever you want, even if it’s Christmas. She’s just already upset about us having a baby in the first place and I’m worried she won’t have time to bond with him or that she’ll think we prefer not having her there—what?”
He’s too caught up in the idea of not having his kid for three solid weeks to register what Lydia says right away, but when it hits, he whips his head back from where he’s been watching the team and stares at her. “You said him.”
Realization dawns on Lydia’s face, but she furrows her brow and narrows her eyes. “I did not.”
“You did so.”
“I did not.”
“You did so,” he says, grinning. “You said she won’t have time to bond with him.”
“I did not because if I did that would mean I looked and I promised Jordan that I wouldn’t look, so I did not,” she says again, but her cheeks are pink and Stiles knows the truth anyway.
He takes another bite of his burrito. “Whatever you say,” he says, and she slumps back in her chair, scowling. “I’ll think about it.”
“Thank you,” she says, and he turns his palm up when she reaches over to take his hand. “Jordan and I were talking about taking her to the corn maze tonight, do you want to come with us?”
“Ah,” he says, and although part of him wishes he could, the other part of him really doesn’t want to. “No? Derek’s, uh—I invited Derek over. For dinner. We’re—having dinner.”
“Mmm hmm,” Lydia hums, and he resolutely doesn’t look at her. “And is dinner your—”
He drops his burrito in his lap to clap a hand over her mouth and she laughs behind his fingers, eyes sparkling.
5
Honestly, Stiles is surprised he’s made it three blocks carrying a full tray of drinks without spilling anything. A quick look around the field shows him Lydia isn’t there, but Jordan’s over with the rest of the team so that’s where Stiles goes, carefully easing a cup of black coffee out of the holder. “Yo,” he says, handing it over, “where’s our baby momma?”
“Probably making the realtor wish she’d never given us her card,” Jordan says, and Stiles laughs. “Laugh it up, she’s trying to find one for you, too. She wants to be close enough that Audrey could walk back and forth.”
Stiles waves it off—there’s nothing he could afford in the part of town Lydia likes, and she’s not about to move into a fixer upper in his neighborhood. “She did this when she was pregnant with Audrey, too, and nothing came of it. She’ll drop it eventually.”
“Uh huh,” Jordan says, taking a sip of his coffee. “Where’s Derek?”
“No clue,” he says, which is technically not a lie because Derek could be anywhere between his house—where he’d rolled out of Stiles’ bed that morning and left just before him—and the field. “I don’t keep track of him, he’s his own person.”
“Uh huh,” Jordan says again, a smile playing on his lips. “So that wasn’t his car in your driveway this morning?”
Stiles shrugs.
“And that extra coffee you have isn’t for him?” Jordan shakes his head, glancing over at where the kids are running around on the sidelines and playing a game of tag. “I don’t know why you’re pretending, but he isn’t bothering. He came over Thursday night to watch baseball and spent the whole time talking about you—when he wasn’t texting you.”
He shifts the tray to his other hand and rubs at the back of his neck, and tries to flee when he catches a glimpse of Lydia’s car turning into the lot, followed by Derek’s, plucking the coffee for Derek out of the holder and handing it over. “Just—give him this, okay?”
“Nice try,” Jordan says, stepping back. “Give it to loverboy yourself.”
“Don’t you think it’s weird?” he asks, finally—it’s been on his mind since his first date with Derek, and it’s pretty easy to ignore when he’s with him, but then he gets around Jordan and Lydia and—
“Do I think it’s weird?” Jordan repeats, looking at him like he’s crazy. “Do I think it’s weird that my partner set me up with his ex-wife, my wife set my partner up with my best friend, and my best friend practically moved into my partner’s house after one date? Yeah, I know he’s staying there every night Audrey isn’t, you’re the only one who isn’t talking about it, Stiles.”
“So it’s weird,” he says, glancing upwards. If he could only do things normally for a change—
“Yeah, it’s weird,” Jordan says, “but that’s just kind of what we are, man, isn’t it?”
“Is if you keep calling me your partner,” Stiles mutters, and Jordan laughs. Stiles is pretty sure there are still rumors flying around the station about them, but their coworkers are smart enough to keep them quiet now. “And you think Derek’s okay with that?”
Jordan looks at him and snorts. “Derek’s thirty-two and still likes living with his sisters—or did until he met you. I’d say he’s fine with weird. Look, he takes a long time to jump, you know, but once he does he’s in it. You’re the same way. Just go take your coffee to your boyfriend and be glad you’re weird together.”
+1
“Oh thank God, an indoor sport,” Lydia says, sinking down into the metal folding chair next to him. “Who do I need to give a check to in order to get better seating options in here?”
“Sorry the YMCA doesn’t have premium seating, Lyds,” Stiles says, watching the locker room door and waiting for Derek to come out. He’d been remarkably cagey that morning when Stiles had innocently inquired about his attire, and Stiles has been waiting impatiently to see his new coaching gear ever since. He only glances away to make grabby hands at her, and she blows out an amused breath.
“Surely there’s a better league we can put her in,” she says, and carefully places Jonah in his arms, hand hovering while Stiles brings him close to his chest like she’s afraid he’ll drop him. Which is rude, because out of all of them, Jordan is the one that’s come closest to that.
“She thinks a better league would take your sister, isn’t that cute,” he says, dropping a kiss on the baby’s forehead. “Maybe if Auds ever dribbled the ball instead of just running with it, huh? Coffee’s under your chair,” he adds when she sits back in her seat.
“You are a blessing,” she says, “and I’ll never say that again so—good Lord, does Derek know there are children here? That’s practically indecent. Poor Kim’s already drooling.”
Stiles jerks his head up, and the sight of Derek’s glorious ass in tight joggers meets him. “You’re drooling,” he teases, and winks when Derek looks over at him.
“Damn right I am,” Lydia says. “Tell me what brand those are later, I’m getting a pair for Jordan.”
“Gross.”
“I’ll text you a picture,” she continues, and he kicks at her ankle. “Don’t be like that. Hi, Derek.”
“Hey,” Derek says, but his eyes are on Jonah, soft and sweet, until he ducks down and kisses Stiles. “Quit talking about my ass,” he whispers, and next to them, Lydia laughs.
“To be fair, we’re talking about Jordan’s ass now,” Stiles says, shifting so Derek can lean down and nuzzle Jonah’s cheek. “But we can talk about yours some more, no problem.” He swats at him when Derek flicks his cheek gently and walks away. “Rude.”
“Someone’s got baby fever,” Lydia sing-songs, and Stiles isn’t sure if he’s talking about Derek or him.
“Yeah, but we decided just to let you keep popping them out and we’d be the fun uncles,” he says as the kids line up at center court and the referee tosses the ball up. “That way I can stay Audrey’s favorite parent.”
“Nice try, Stilinski,” Lydia says, and calls out, “Audrey, you have to dribble the ball, honey, you can’t just run—Stiles, I swear, she gets her athletic ability from you.”
“From me?” he says, incredulous. “You never even played a sport! If this is from anyone it’s you.”
“I would have been excellent had I chosen to run around with a ball,” Lydia says, “so clearly this is your genetics at work.”
“I hope you suck at sports so we can blame her,” he whispers to Jonah, and laughs when she pinches his side and starts yelling at Audrey again.