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Derek knows they’re all just holding their breath, waiting for him to screw this up. He’d be offended if there wasn’t a fairly incriminating track record to go by. After all, he’s the king of bad decisions. He bit a rag-tag group of teenagers for chrissake. And not even particularly good ones (although there’s something about Boyd that makes him think he might not have completely screwed up when he chose him. Then again, the disapproving air Boyd tends to generate in Derek’s general direction might say otherwise). He took in a kid who’d grown up with an abusive father only to break that same kid’s arm in a stupid, stupid show of discipline-cum-bullying. He may or may not have pimped Erica out to Scott before he realised just how unbelievably twisted that was. Then there was the entire Scott saga which, the less said the better.
So yeah, he can maybe see why everyone’s freaking out about his new parental status. If he’s being completely honest, he might be freaking out a little too.
He’s not incompetent though, not when it comes to babies. The trouble is, all of them –Scott, Erica, Lydia, Stiles... the list goes on- have only ever known him to be alone. They forget that at one point there were a dozen or so Hales running around Beacon Hills, and Derek wasn’t the youngest. Not by far. (And there’s still that familiar, painful twinge of guilt in his heart whenever he thinks about just how young some of his cousins were). Derek took over babysitting duty from Laura when he turned twelve, and he spent more Friday nights than he’d care to admit looking after the pack’s youngest while their parents enjoyed a rare night out. He knows to use his elbow to assess the temperature of bath water, to dissuade anyone under the age of five from climbing on the back of the couch, to never leave a kid alone with a dog no matter how placid it might seem. In fact, he’d be willing to bet he knows a lot more about looking after kids than anyone else in his pack does (except maybe Boyd because, well, it’s Boyd).
Which is why he’s managed to pass the last five hours or so without issue. (Alright, there might have been a small one when he’d accidentally disturbed her from an impromptu nap but in his defence he’d forgotten baby weres had such sensitive hearing. And anyway, he’d managed to charm her back to sleep with a lullaby he will never, ever be heard singing to anyone old enough to repeat the experience to certain pack members.)
He’s half-way from the kitchen to the family room when the hackles he doesn’t actually have rise defensively, his ears picking up sound and his nose a familiar scent. Seconds later Stiles bursts through the front door, red in the face and gasping for breath like he’s run a marathon instead of the ten or so metres from his car, his eyes darting around wildly until they come to rest on Derek. He seems to pause, his head tilting as he takes in the scene before him.
“What?” Derek snaps, well aware that Stiles is looking at him like he’s grown an extra arm.
“You... she... you...” Stiles stutters helplessly, gesticulating wildly at Derek and the bundle in his arms. The bundle is, going by the tiny snores radiating from it, perfectly fine. Possibly more fine than when Stiles and Allison left that morning, taking their worried eyes and concerned looks and stupid dimples with them. “I’ve seen you kill plants!” he finally blurts out, and Derek’s expression immediately darkens.
He growls defensively -low, so very low because he Does. Not. Want. a repeat of earlier, Stiles would never let him live the lullabying down- and turns on his heel. He can hear the teenager stumbling after him, would even without the werewolf hearing because Derek has come to realise that Stiles is incapable of doing anything quietly. Which sometimes leads to thoughts about what he’d be like if engaged in certain other activities but those thoughts are for later, much later, when there are not tiny little babies in his vicinity. He settles back down on the couch, eyes focusing on the muted TV and he waits for Stiles to get bored and leave. Every now and then the baby makes a small sound –a huffed sigh, a repressed hiccup- and Derek finds his gaze automatically sliding downward to check on her, to make sure she’s still okay. She always is, but he supposes that’s what being a parent is all about. That ever constant fear that something’s going to happen to your kid no matter how close to you they are. He dreads to think how he might feel when she’s actually out of his line of vision. (And resolutely makes the decision there and then to never let that happen).
After a while Stiles drifts closer, first to stand behind the couch, then to perch on the arm of it, before he ultimately slides down into the seat next to him. Derek rolls his eyes, because the kid’s as transparent as Scott’s brain at times, and without a word he shifts the baby into the teenager’s arms. The delighted look on Stiles’ face when he does? Well, Derek doesn’t want to admit what it does to him. He’s still coming to terms with this thing that’s building between them –has been slowly building for years- and he isn’t quite ready to accept what it means just yet. Not with a foundling werebaby suddenly in his life and college looming on the horizon. One life altering step at a time, Derek thinks.
They sit like that, in companionable silence, for a while. Derek’s not sure how long exactly, but he can feel his eyes beginning to glaze over, his eyelids starting to droop. Stiles is a warm, familiar presence at his side and he’d forgotten how much work babies could be, how exhausting the whole process is. Between the feeds and the changes and the fight with the onesie that wouldn’t go on, he’s worn out. Bone tired. He vaguely recalls someone saying once that you should sleep when the baby sleeps, which suddenly sounds like a great idea.
And yeah, Derek knows exactly what it means that he feels safe enough to sleep and leave her warm and content in Stiles’ arms.