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It’s been ten minutes since Stiles sent a text filled with every SOS he could think of, and now he’s starting to get antsy, alternating between darting glances at the window and wary ones at his bed. It’s calm and quiet in his room for the moment, but he’s sure it’s just a matter of time before all hell breaks loose, and there’s no way he’s facing that on his own.
“Come on,” he mutters to himself, checking his phone for what feels like the twentieth time. To be fair, it may actually be the twentieth time he’s checked it. Patience has never been Stiles’ strong suit.
The screen stays stubbornly unchanged, showing nothing but the time.
“Come onnnnn,” Stiles says again, then freezes, head coming up sharply when he hears a scrape outside his open window. An instant later, Derek is gracefully vaulting over the sill, landing softly on his feet.
He’s also naked from the waist up; Stiles’ mouth goes dry at the sight of him, and he scrambles not to think back to last week, because down that road lies memories of the warm bulk of Derek’s body next to him in bed, the soft scratch of his stubble, the way his fingers had lingered at the small of Stiles’ back, just barely brushing, as they’d made their way back from the park.
Those are dangerous thoughts, and Stiles has no use for them right now.
Still, any chance of a greeting gets stuck in his throat as Derek strides over to him, his dark features set in a frown, because that tends to be Derek’s default expression, especially when he thinks he has reason to be concerned.
“What’s wrong?” he demands, reaching out and curving his hands to Stiles’ shoulders. It’s not as weird as it could be - it’s just a thing they do now, sometimes, the careful touching. It’s a little strange; Stiles is still getting used to it, though he’s certainly not going to complain about it.
“You are... without a shirt,” Stiles says, instead of anything useful. His gaze drops from plush line of Derek’s mouth to the single, glistening bead of sweat rolling over the dip of his collarbone, down the center of his chest. “Um.”
Derek abruptly lets go of him, taking a step backwards and crossing his arms over his chest. Oops. Stiles snaps his attention back up to Derek’s face, where he can see just the beginnings of a blush starting to creep in.
“Sorry,” Stiles says quickly, then blinks once, hard. “Um. What was the question?”
That earns him an eye roll, but Stiles decides he’s going to categorize it as ‘affectionate.’ “What’s wrong?” Derek asks. “You texted me - are you hurt?”
“No, no, I’m fine!” Stiles says. “Totally fine, no one’s hurt... um...” He can’t help it. His gaze drifts south again, and this time Derek huffs the most dramatic sigh Stiles has possibly ever heard, then turns around, as if to go to Stiles’ dresser. Which Stiles is actually fine with, because this is an excellent view, too, but after a moment of staring at Derek’s exceptionally well-muscled back, it occurs to him that Derek’s frozen in place.
“Stiles,” Derek says, and Stiles realizes he’s looking at the bed.
More specifically, the bundle of joy currently sleeping on the bed.
“Yeah,” Stiles says, enormously resigned.
“Stiles, that’s a baby.”
“Yes.”
“A real baby.”
“I mean, technically a toddler, I think. But yeah.”
“Stiles!” Derek says, whirling back around to face him. “Who the hell entrusted you with a real baby?”
“My point exactly!” Stiles says, flinging his arms out wide to stress the what-the-fuckery of this entire, ill-advised situation. Derek’s face takes on a look of maximum grumpitude, at which point Stiles finally grabs a shirt from the basket of clean laundry he has yet to fold and put away and tosses it to Derek. The number of muscles on display right now are way, way too distracting.
“My cousin Keri’s in town, visiting,” Stiles says, as Derek yanks the shirt over his head, “and she decided to bring her daughter. She and my dad are getting lunch - he’s helping her with paperwork or something, I don’t really know. Somehow it all ended with them deciding I was responsible enough to be in charge of a whole human life for the next three hours.”
Derek glances back at the bed, where Eleanor - Ellie, because Stiles think Eleanor sounds like a grandmother’s name - is still dozing peacefully. His face softens just a touch, like the sight of Ellie is enough to punch right through his gruff exterior.
“See, I knew it,” Stiles grins, drawing Derek’s attention back to him. “I just made your entire day, didn’t I, you can’t wait to play Papa Wolf some more.”
“Shut up,” Derek says. “Besides, shouldn’t you be capable of this now? You told me you got an A on your assignment.”
“Uh, you got me an A on my assignment,” Stiles says. “I almost dropped Luna on her head, but you saved her with your wolfy reflexes, remember?”
Derek looks down and away, his lips pressed tightly together. Which, as far as Stiles is concerned, means he totally remembers. Stiles is ninety-five percent sure that Derek had been about to kiss him in the instant before he’d fumbled his fake baby - to say it had ruined the moment would be an understatement.
“Besides,” Stiles adds, “that was a baby. This is an almost-four-year-old, I have no idea what to do with a kid that age! I’ll screw it up, I know I will.”
“I was in the middle of a run, Stiles,” Derek says, but he’s wavering. Big time.
“Her name’s Eleanor,” Stiles says, choosing to go with the tried-and-true method of simply bulldozing past any protests, “but we’re calling her Ellie. I have it on good authority that she likes fairies, Wonder Woman, and painting.”
“Stiles,” Derek says, but he hasn’t added anything to it when Ellie suddenly lets out a quiet, huffed breath, the rustle of the covers the only warning before she’s sitting straight up, rubbing chubby little fists at her eyes.
“Okay, you’re on,” Stiles says, gesturing toward his bed. “Go do some baby whispering, make me proud.”
Derek glares at him, but obediently starts making his way toward the bed. Ellie, to Stiles’ ever-lasting surprise, goes silent and still, her eyes huge, before catapulting herself off the bed and racing over to Stiles, where she promptly hides behind his leg.
Derek looks just as shocked as Stiles.
“Hey, hey, Ellie,” Stiles says quickly, crouching down so he’s on her level. “It’s okay - that’s just Derek, his face always looks like that, I promise.” He glances up just in time to see Derek’s face do a funny waver, like he’s torn between scowling at Stiles some more and putting on a smile for Ellie’s benefit. In the end, he seems to settle on a neutral expression, his brow smoothed clear of a frown, and his lips curved in just the slightest of smiles. Like Stiles, he sinks down to his knees, so he’s no longer towering over Ellie.
“Hi Ellie,” he says quietly, his eyebrows ticking up a little bit, signaling a question. “Stiles tells me you like painting. Is that right?”
Ellie doesn’t say anything for long moments, but after an encouraging look from Stiles, she nods.
“I’m not very good at painting,” Derek continues. “Think you could show me how to make a picture?”
There’s silence again, while Ellie considers this, but she finally nods again, though she makes sure to slip her tiny hand decisively into Stiles’ as the three of them head downstairs.
*
“Why isn’t she talking?” he continues in a murmur, handing Derek some more newspaper to finish covering the dining room table. “Also, why doesn’t she seem to like you?”
“She doesn’t know me,” Derek says patiently. “She barely knows you, but between the two of us, you’re more familiar.”
“Well, just know that this is rocking my entire worldview,” Stiles says, “and I may have to revoke your baby whisperer title.”
Derek just rolls his eyes and grabs for the bottle of purple paint.
*
The compliment earns him the flash of a smile, before Ellie studiously bows her head and gets back to work.
Stiles has no idea what Derek’s painting; he apparently hadn’t been lying when he said he wasn’t any good at this, because as far as Stiles can tell, what Derek’s creating is a giant grey blob.
“What is that supposed to be?” he asks, and Derek shoots him a dark look.
“A wolf,” he says stiffly. Stiles laughs out loud.
“A wolf,” Stiles echoes. “Of course, yeah, not even a little bit surprised.”
“Yeah?” Derek challenges. “Well, what are you you going to paint?”
“A frog,” Stiles says promptly. “A pink one.”
“No.”
For a moment, Stiles assumes that the ‘no’ has come from Derek, but then it sinks in, how high and sweet the voice had been, and he turns to Ellie to find her frowning severely at him, her mouth pursed in disapproval.
“No?” Stiles asks, eyebrows lifting high. “Why can’t I draw a pink frog?”
“‘Cause it’s wrong,” Ellie says sternly. “Frogs aren’t pink. Frogs are green.”
“Okay,” Stiles says with a sigh. “Then I guess I’ll just have to draw a blue horse instead.”
“No, Stiles!” Ellie says, in a tone that suggests Stiles doesn’t know anything. He’s trying so hard not to grin, but it isn’t easy; he doesn’t know if he’s ever seen anything more hilariously adorable than a righteously irritated three-and-a-half-year-old.
“Okay, okay,” Stiles says. “How about an orange cow?”
“No!”
Across the table, Derek’s looking at Stiles with this amazingly warm, amused look, one that fills Stiles to the brim with an aching heat, a rush of feeling that’s totally inappropriate, given the company they’re currently keeping.
“Okay, okay,” Stiles says quickly, swallowing against his suddenly dry mouth. “How about a brown dog. Can I make a brown dog?”
Ellie eyes him suspiciously, but finally nods her head.
“Great!” Stiles says, reaching for the brown paint. “So, a brown dog with purple spots - ”
“Stiles!” Ellie exclaims, and Derek breaks down into honest-to-God laughter
*
“You should make it an elephant,” she says after a while, reaching over to point at one of the blob’s curvy bits. “See? That looks like its nose.”
“Here,” Derek says, handing Ellie his paintbrush and sliding his paper over to her, too. “Why don’t you fix it for me, while I go get us a snack?”
Ellie outright beams at him, her face totally lighting up. Derek smiles back at her, giving one of her pigtails a gentle tug as he gets up and heads toward the kitchen. As soon as he’s disappeared around the corner, Stiles jumps to his feet.
“Ellie, I will be right back,” he promises. “If you need anything just yell, okay?”
Ellie nods, already busily adding a swooping trunk to Derek’s blob-turned-elephant.
When Stiles gets to the kitchen, Derek’s already rummaging through the refrigerator, finally pulling out a block of cheese, as well as a cucumber. He doesn’t startle when he turns around and sees Stiles there - he most certainly heard his footsteps, after all - but he does give him a questioning look.
“Uh, hey,” Stiles says, leaning back against the counter. “I just wanted to say thanks. For staying.”
“She likes you,” Derek says. “You’re really good with her.”
“Yeah?” Stiles asks, a shade too eagerly. He’d been thinking the same thing, a bit, but he hadn’t been expecting that sort of outright confirmation from Derek.
“Yeah,” Derek agrees, and in that moment, his expression shifts. It goes from warm and almost proud to hungry, hot, and Stiles chokes on absolutely nothing. Derek notices, his eyes narrowing as his gaze rakes over Stiles, and then he seems to make a decision, setting the cheese and the cucumber down near the sink and crossing over to Stiles.
“You - are you kidding me?” Stiles asks, even as Derek presses in close, his body trapping Stiles’ against the edge of the counter. “Me being good with kids - that’s doing it for you, really?”
“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek says, then curves one hand around Stiles’ neck, his thumb pressed just in front of Stiles’ ear, which allows him to drag Stiles forward into a kiss.
Stiles promptly forgets that they’re in his kitchen, that his dad and his cousin could, conceivably, come home early, that Ellie’s just around the corner, busily painting. All of that goes right out of his head, and he immediately parts his mouth for Derek, lets the kiss go from simple and chaste - the way a first kiss should probably start - to hot, wet, and mind-blowingly awesome.
Derek sneaks his other hand underneath Stiles’ shirt, his warm, wide palm pressed tight to the small of Stiles’ back, and Stiles can’t help but to let out a groan, to reach out and clutch at Derek’s shoulders, marveling in the strength he can feel coiled in the muscles there.
When Derek pulls away, it’s so abrupt that Stiles sways forward, chasing his warmth. “What?” he mumbles, eyes fluttering open. “No, come back here...”
“Ellie,” Derek says by way of explanation, and by the time Ellie’s trotted into the kitchen to see what’s taking so long, Derek’s already busily chopping up cheese cubes, while Stiles is worriedly pressing his fingers to his mouth, trying to figure out if he looks as debauched as he feels.
*
“Mommy!” Ellie yells, and she scrambles down from where she’s been curled up with Stiles, which pretty much leaves Stiles stretched out on the couch, his head pillowed on Derek’s thigh.
“Uh... heeeey, Dad,” he says, quickly sitting upright. His dad doesn’t say a word, just crosses his arms and stares him down. Stiles knows that look. He hates that look. It’s a look that means Stiles had better be prepared to do some serious explaining.
“Derek!” Ellie says, already tugging Keri toward the dining room. “Come show Mommy our paintings!”
Derek, the traitor, gets immediately to his feet and follows Ellie and Keri out of the room, leaving Stiles behind with only an apologetic glance.
“So, how was lunch?” Stiles asks brightly.
“Stiles,” his dad says warningly.
“Did you get something with bacon? I’ll totally let it slide if you got something with bacon. Just this once.”
“Stiles,” his dad says again, but then he sighs and rubs tiredly at his temple. “Is this going to be a thing?”
Stiles goes quiet, thinking about how Derek’s only one room over, how he can probably hear everything they’re saying - how he’s almost certainly listening in to this conversation.
“Yeah,” Stiles says, a slow grin breaking across his face. He ducks his head just a little, scuffs his heel over the carpet. “Yeah, I think it’s going to be a thing.”
*
Stiles waves as they drive away, and the whole time Derek’s hand is a careful, steady warmth pressed to the middle of his back.