Hullo, guys! I pretty much spent my weekend writing this, and it's not beta'd, but we can all live with that, right?
The German translations:
Hansel und Gretel: Hansel and Gretel
Marchen: Fairy tale
Rotkappchen: Lil' Red Cap
Der Werwolf: werewolf
Schneewittchen: Snow White
Bald darauf bekam sie ein Töchterlein, das war so weiß wie Schnee, so rot wie Blut und so schwarzhaarig wie Ebenholz und ward darum Schneewittchen genannt: Soon after that she had a little daughter, who was as white as snow, and as red as blood, and her hair was as black as ebony, and she was therefore called little Snow White.
Fair warning: Story contains Slash.
I do not own anything/anyone in this story. Alrighty then, have we got everything settled? Okie dokie, please read, review, and enjoy.
To infinity and beyond,
Kiwi
Derek watches Stiles from his place on Stiles' bed. He closes his eyes and listens, honing in on all the little details: the soft hum of Stiles' breath, the faint clicks of Stiles' pen, and the periodic tapping of said pen against Stiles' chin. He leans back and rests against Stiles' pillows and considers spending more time there. It's comfortable, peaceful, and smells of Stiles.
Aside from the Old Spice, but Derek figures he can let that go for the time being. All in all, he's just glad to be alive, and ever thankful for at least one afternoon of peace. For once, he can just rest, and he's trying to keep himself from counting down the moments until a crisis emerges. He allows himself to fall into a half-sleep, because Derek can't remember the last time he actually had a good night's rest, or the last time he allowed himself to really drift off. Half-consciousness is better, he concludes, he can be half-aware and half-relaxed, because he's never been given reason, or opportunity to do otherwise. Besides, he accepts the paranoia as precaution, having been proven one too many times that everything he cares about gets taken away whenever he stops paying attention.
"Hey, Derek?"
"Hm?" He grumbles, not bothering to open his eyes. He knows whom it is, Stiles' breathing has a specific tempo, and he'd be worried if he somehow couldn't recognize that voice.
"On a scale of one to Pythagoras, how keen are you on geometry?"
Derek stills and cracks an eye open, "You need help with your homework?" He asks, entirely unconvinced because he's stolen peeks at Stiles' GPA, and the last thing it seems the kid needs is help with anything school-related.
Stiles looks down at his hands and shrugs, "And German, and probably environmental science."
He bats off Stiles' question with another, "Why do you need help?" Derek's reluctant, partially because he's comfortable, and partially because he knows he'll be of no help at all to Stiles in this department. Pulling him out of a sticky situation? Sure. Making sure he doesn't get killed? Totally a pro. Besides, the only other language he knows is sarcasm, and the last thing he cares about is why leaves change color in the fall.
"I just... I need help studying, is all," Stiles finally replies, spinning in his desk chair to face Derek. He stares at Derek's feet and scrunches up his nose. "You're tracking mud on my sheets."
Derek sighs and kicks off his shoes before returning his feet to the bed. He laces his fingers behind his head and contemplates for a moment. "Ask Scott," he mutters.
Stiles huffs a laugh and spins once in his chair. "Ask Scott," he mocks as if it's the funniest thing he's heard all day, then straightens his face. "Scott doesn't answer my phone calls anymore. Stiles only exists when Scott's having a crisis. It's all Allison, Allison, Allison. Now, don't get me wrong. I love the girl to pieces, and she's practically my only solid human left, so...I like having her around, and she's good for Scott, it's just...I wouldn't mind it being like it was when we were kids. When we were inseparable and...," he trails off, figuring Derek doesn't want to hear the entirety of his tirade. Stiles lets a sigh slip from his lips and he turns back to his homework. "I just want someone to help me study. Finals start in a week and I'm not ready."
"You only think you're not ready, Stiles," Derek answers, but sits up anyways and holds out his hand. When Stiles gives him a weird look, he rolls his eyes. "I can't help you study if I don't have anything to quiz you on." He acknowledges Stiles' thank you with a snort and allows Stiles to set a pile of papers and flashcards beside him. They study, more like Derek watches passively as Stiles answers practically everything correctly, even the trick question Derek tries to throw in there, and they move progressively down the list of Stiles' subjects, some of which Derek turns his nose up at. "Why are you willingly taking Honors Chem, Physics, and two math classes?"
Stiles shrugs, "I want to get somewhere?"
"How is any of that important?" Derek questions, he hasn't taken a class since he graduated, and he seems to be doing alright, for a werewolf living in Beacon Hills. He made it this far without ever needing to know anything about velocity or converting moles to liters, etc. None of the terms he quizzed Stiles on has ever come up in his life. Then he remembers that Stiles is normal, and Stiles doesn't have to spend the rest of his life putting his life in all sorts of dangers he wouldn't have been subjected to had Scott never been turned. Stiles is normal, Stiles has a choice to live a perfectly normal life, with a perfectly normal wife, and possibly a couple of kids. Stiles has potential. Derek has a quick temper and a life dedicated to his pack.
"Sometimes I feel like I'm trapped here. With everything else going on, all the werewolf stuff, and the Kanima, and...," Stiles trails off again, as if struggling to word it right, "schoolwork makes me feel grounded."
"If you keep it up with the workload, you're going to drive yourself mad," Derek points out under his breath. "But, I'll give you the grounded feeling." What he wouldn't give to feel that normalcy again. Doing homework was normal, spending late nights studying was normal. Fighting werewolves alongside himself—and Derek fully admits he's not exactly Grade-A company—isn't.
Stiles shrugs again and they don't touch the topic anymore. Derek avoids bringing up college, and Stiles continues to go through the flashcards like they're nothing.
/
When Stiles enters his room, he's hardly taken aback by Derek's presence on his bed. The werewolf seemed to have laid claim on the spot, and Stiles isn't about to disturb him. Derek is sleeping, or half-sleeping, Stiles suspects. He's never actually seen Derek sleeping. Passed out, yes. Dozing, yes. Actually sleeping, no. He tries to move forward and settle himself in his desk chair when Derek's eyes open.
"You're home late."
"Detention," Stiles replies as he looks at Derek. Derek lies with his back against Stiles headboard, fingers laced across his abdomen, and Stiles can't help but notice how the fabric of Derek's shirt clung to his frame. "You're not at home."
"I like it here," Derek simplifies. "Have any homework?"
Stiles eyes Derek wearily, and pauses. "Not really. Nothing that can't wait," he smirks and winks at Derek.
"You have three tests tomorrow, Stiles," Derek murmurs, shutting his eyes again. He almost feels himself start to lose it, because he's actually really tired, and wants nothing more than to curl up beneath Stiles' sheets and sleep, but then he feels the tug of his family being torn away and it brings him back. His blood starts to heat up, and he's beginning to feel tense, until Stiles slips into the bed beside him. "And a project due in that science class you're taking."
Stiles pouts—Derek knows him well enough to know that he was about to protest—and slides his hand into Derek's. "How do you know that?"
"You were complaining about it last week," Derek traces shapes around Stiles' knuckles, wincing inwardly as he brushes across a scar. It's one of many that adorn the teen, and he feels that he's partially to blame. "It would've gotten done last week had you not spent 85% of your week 'tagging along'," Derek stresses the 'tagging along', as if it's something that should be the last thing on Stiles' mind. "Isn't school supposed to come first?"
"Not when it comes to you," Stiles murmurs, giving Derek's hand a slight squeeze. Then Stiles brings up something that's been on his mind for a while now. "You don't sleep, Derek. You doze, maybe you nap, but I've never seen you actually well-rested."
And Derek avoids answering because he doesn't even know the answer. Well maybe he does, but he doesn't want to tell Stiles. Stiles is a worrier, and that's what makes Stiles so clingy. He worries, he digs, and he fights. That's Stiles, and the last thing Derek really wants to do is add another weight upon Stiles' already heavy shoulders.
"Let me help you, Derek. I can do research, I can look into things. Maybe snag you some Valium? Valium's a sedative, kind of."
Derek's lip turns at the corner. "I can handle myself, Stiles."
"The last time you said that, you wound up paralyzed at the deep end of the school's pool."
"I know," Derek states, because the image always refreshes itself in his mind whenever he shuts his eyes. It's not the feeling of water pressing against his chest, or the hold of asphyxiation that frightens him. It's that Stiles is willing to dive in, and hold Derek's dead weight afloat for a good couple of hours, when the entire scenario is too dangerous. It's that Stiles could've died. Derek found himself to be disposable. Stiles, however, was not. "You almost got yourself killed."
"I know."
"It scared me," Derek reveals quietly and darts his eyes away. He can feel Stiles' gaze on him. "You scare me."
And Stiles is baffled because he isn't at all frightful, not that he can perceive. He's about as scary as a kitten, and poses as much of a threat as one. Stiles also doesn't see how anything about his appearance could be seen as scary either. Buzz cut, brown eyes, and softer features. Totally frightening. Then he looks at Derek, all chiseled and sculpted with harrowing eyes and a snarky attitude to match. He can't help his laugh. "How?"
Derek doesn't reply, and Stiles doesn't repeat. They lie in silence for the rest of the night, and Stiles puts off his project again.
/
"What the fuck is a Märchen?" Derek's lips curl around the word as if it brings him pain to say it, or attempt to say it. Stiles is sitting across from him, a spoonful of ice cream darting into his mouth. They're in the little park on the edge of town, just up on a hill. It's calm up here, and, from what he's learned, it's Stiles favorite spot. His hand grips the packet and Stiles laughs and corrects his pronunciation.
"We're reading fairy-tales in German class," he answers and Derek raises an eyebrow. "Except, this isn't the Disney shit. This is hardcore, man."
Derek shoots him another look, as if the notion of a hardcore fairy-tale is utter nonsense. "Hardcore?"
"Yeah, like you," Stiles smiles and leans forward to press his lips to Derek's. "Will you let me practice my German on you?"
Derek pulls away and raises his eyebrow. "I can't speak German, Stiles."
"I'm aware," Stiles sits cross-legged and licks his lips. "I just... need to study for a speaking thing we have, and our teacher wants us to practice as much as we can. Be my guinea pig?"
"Do I have to say anything?"
"No, just listen," Stiles murmurs as he slides a hand through Derek's hair and massages his scalp. He leans forward again and steals another kiss from Derek before he pulls away again. He takes Derek's hand in his and takes the packet from Derek. His eyes drift to Derek, because he's surprised he got away with what he told Derek. Yes, he needs to practice. Yes, they have a speaking test. Stiles just has an ulterior motive, and a theory he wants to try out.
"What exactly will I be listening to?"
"You'll see."
/
It's a Friday night and Stiles is making his way through the abandoned subway station, easily and systematically finding Derek's train car. He knows the path by memory and soon stands in the doorway, smiling as he locates Derek. "Derek, guess what."
Derek hums a sigh from his spot on his rumpled mattress. His eyes are shut, and his hand is cradling the back of his head as he reclines further. "You're excited."
"I passed all my finals. With flying colors."
Derek smiles slightly and nods. "I knew you would," and he adjusts his arm as Stiles worms beneath it. He breathes lightly, reveling in the fact that Stiles is so close to him and that he can feel the rhythmic beat of Stiles' heart. Sometimes he thinks it's his favorite sound, because it means that Stiles is still alive, still breathing, and still his.
"Which means I no longer need to study," Stiles smirks and lets his fingers flit across Derek's thigh. "It's Friday, and my dad's working the night shift...," Stiles sifts forward and brushes his lips against the exposed skin on Derek's neck. Derek inhales and his chest tightens.
"Stiles, I just got exonerated and your dad's the Sheriff," he murmurs and ignores Stiles' protests. "Please, Stiles?" He asks and Stiles quiets down, fully knowing that Derek hardly ever said 'please' and the slight off-beat pace of his voice worries Stiles. Derek looks down and curses inwardly.
Stiles straightens up and slips Derek's arm across his shoulders. He waits until Derek stills before reaching into his jacket pocket and extracting a packet. Stiles clears his throat and swallows. "Hansel und Gretel."
Derek's about to stir, to ask what Stiles was doing, but then he remembers. Stiles wants to read to him, to 'practice' his foreign language choice and Derek is absolutely sure that Stiles is an over-achiever who's borderline desperate to prove worth. He doesn't mind, he enjoys the tales. His mother used to read them to him as she tucked him into bed. Except she did it in English, but he's willing to adapt. He can feel his heart quicken and mind race at the memory, and he's almost certain Stiles can sense it too, because Stiles reaches and affectionately rubs the back of Derek's neck.
And then Stiles begins to read, stumbling slightly over some words as he goes. His accent is shit, Derek realizes, but his voice is crisp and for the most part, Stiles is pretty good. Despite that he understands practically nothing Stiles is saying, the tale feels close to him, and he gets the basic idea of what's happening. Derek feels at home again, even if it is only slightly.
/
Derek is sitting across from Stiles with a bunch of packets strewn between them. Derek's eying them wearily, and Stiles is eying Derek. "So," Stiles begins softly, rocking a bit and drumming his fingers against his knee. "Which one today?"
Derek brushes a few packets aside until he finds one that sticks out to him. It looks familiar, and the title is written in plain text across the top. "Schneewittchen," Derek murmurs, tasting the word on his tongue. He repeats the word and Stiles offers a small smile.
"Snow White," he states, eyebrows creasing as Derek's face fell. He could see the shadow falling across Derek's face, and Stiles isn't as worried as he thinks he should be. Derek did that thing all the time, the smile-to-scowl in a flash. So, he smiles and hopes it eases the tension he sees across Derek's shoulders. Derek crosses his arms over his chest, the leather jacket stretching with the movement and he swallows. "Derek?" Stiles finally asks, because Derek still looks wound up and unreadable.
"It was Laura's favorite," he says, looking away from Stiles and out the window. The leaves are green, fluttering and bright, and he's reminded of his sister again. "Snow White," he mumbles and his mouth feels dry all of a sudden and he sees her lying there, covered in blood and torn apart. He's disgusted, sad and bitter that the last time he saw his sister was when she was ripped in half. Anger and sickness bubble inside him and his head goes back to Kate. He blames himself, solely himself, because, he fell for Kate, he allowed Kate inside, and he fully believes that had that not happened, he'd be among his family again.
He shuts his eyes and immediately regrets his decision. The only thing he sees is Laura's eyes staring back at him, dull and lacking their usual luster. He hears an echo of her laugh, and the fading glimmer of her smile. Losing his family was hard—more than hard and indescribably painful—and he thought he'd have Laura to lean on and hold up.
But life never seemed to work out in his favor.
Derek vaguely remembers that Stiles is in front of him before he's taken over by the bile rising in his throat at the bitter memories. He lunges forward, dives into Stiles' adjoining bathroom, and keels over by the toilet. His fingers grip the edges of the porcelain, and his shoulders shudder and eyes water as he heaves. Then he waits there, hovering over the toilet as he blinks slowly. A curse fumbles from his mouth when he finally sits back.
Stiles is there, and Derek is glad, and partially embarrassed. He takes the damp rag Stiles offers him and wipes his mouth and face. His eyes dart to the floor and Stiles is pretty sure Derek utters a whimper. "I'm sorry," he says, his voice hoarse and completely opposite of what he usually sounds like. "I'll clean it u—,"
"Don't," Stiles whispers, his hand finding Derek's hair. He massages Derek's scalp and kisses his temple. "It's alright, Derek," Stiles assures as he helps Derek stand. Derek's arm is around his shoulders, and Stiles places a hand on Derek's lower back. He isn't used to this and seeing Derek looking this helpless isn't something he wants to see often. In all the short while he's actually known Derek, he's never seen Derek break down. He always assumed that Derek was too good for that. Now, he thinks otherwise. "You know," Stiles begins as he helps Derek to the bed, "I could drive you to the subway, if you want me to." But he secretly hopes Derek doesn't want him to.
He eases Derek onto the bed and bites his inner cheek. Derek shakes his head and peels his shirt and jacket from his body. Stiles takes both articles and nods. "Wait here, alright, Derek?"
"Like I'd really go anywhere else," Derek scowls, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He reclines on the bed and bundles a pillow into the crook of his arm. Stiles leaves, and Derek turns to look at the ceiling. Minutes later, the smell of warm tea and honey breaches his nose and he doesn't need to look to know that Stiles is setting a mug on the bedside table, or that Stiles is sitting on the edge of the bed. "Thank you," he murmurs, and Stiles just nods, runs a hand through Derek's hair, and leaves again to clean up the bathroom. When he returns, he slides in behind Derek, and Derek turns around to pull him into his chest.
They lie there until Stiles falls asleep, and Derek is left counting the specs in the wall.
/
Derek always listens, well, most of the time. Most of the time, he sits there with that entranced look on his face while Stiles reads him another story in a language he doesn't understand. Sometimes, he distracts Stiles and allows Stiles to use his mouth for other activities, most of which requires Stiles to do little-to-no concentration.
This time, he's listening, though, too involved with the story to want to distract Stiles. It's one of those May afternoons, where the sun isn't too hot and a calm breeze flutters through the trees. These are the days he cares for the most. Days where he and Stiles are sitting in the grass, Stiles between his legs with Stiles' back against his chest and Derek's arms draped across Stiles' shoulders.
Stiles finishes his story and rests against Derek's bare chest. "You have an aversion to shirts, don't you?"
"Are you complaining?"
"No, God, no," Stiles corrects himself as Derek laughs. Then, Stiles sighs and tosses the packet to the side. "I've tried everything, Derek."
Derek raises his eyebrows, and Stiles instantly knows he's curious, and probably unaware of what Stiles was even referring to. "Stiles."
"I've stayed up all night. I've made you stay up all night. I've tried to make my bed as comfortable as possible. Fuck, we've even had sex and you still don't get enough sleep. You're never well-rested, and I understand you're probably under a lot of stress, but it worries me. It's...it's not natural, Derek," Stiles says it, and his shoulders slump as the words leave his mouth. He tries to read Derek's facial expressions, because by now he knows at least ninety-five percent of them, but it doesn't work. The teen slumps against Derek's chest and rests his hands on Derek's knees, rubbing them affectionately.
He feels Derek shrug and brush a light kiss at the nape of his neck. "Stiles," Derek begins, wrapping his arms around Stiles' middle and pulling him even closer, "Reading to me helps." Stiles wants to ask why, but Derek beats him to the punch. "Hearing your voice helps, having you with me helps, seeing you helps, just...don't stop, alright?" Stiles nods and moves his neck to allow Derek to nuzzle it. He reaches for another packet and clears his throat. Derek nestles his chin into the crook of Stiles' neck and shoulder. "Rotkäppchen?"
" Rotkäppchen," Stiles states.
"Is this the one with the wolf?"
"Yes," Stiles grins and pivots to kiss Derek. He begins to read, glancing every now and then to make sure Derek's listening. And after he finishes the story, Derek asks him.
"Stiles, how do you say werewolf in German?"
"Um," Stiles stammers, "Der Werwolf, I think. I know, it's real original. Nothing cool or snazzy like French."
"I don't mind," Derek drums his fingers against Stiles stomach and peppers kisses along Stiles' collarbone and shoulder. "And that story, the wolf dies, right?" Stiles nods. "They fill him with stones so he can't get up, and the hunter cuts him open; takes off his fur. And the little girl is alright?" Again, Stiles nods. "Stiles, who would I be? The wolf, or the hunter?"
"Hunter," Stiles answers without hesitation. "You're not...you're not evil, Derek. A snarky, sarcastic little shit, yes. Evil, no."
"It's not very nice to call your boyfriend a snarky, sarcastic little shit," Derek chuckles. "You need to work on your romanticism." Stiles can feel Derek smirk against his skin. "You would be Red Riding Hood," Derek states suddenly, letting a beat of silence fall before explaining himself. "You'd be the one to disobey the parent, to, stupidly, might I add, put yourself into danger while trying to help somebody dear to you. You'd be the one to make a rash decision, and you'd do it again and again if it meant saving somebody you care about. You'd get yourself into a mess you can't get out of, and then I'd have to come save you because you mean that much to me."
"I'm glad you see me as the damsel in distress," Stiles snarks, still with a small smile gracing his lips.
Derek gives him a squeeze, "I'm glad you see me as heroic. Most people choose scary, dark, and menacing."
"Yeah, well," Stiles turns to poke him in the shoulder, "you have good intentions," his voice fades into a small smile because he's vaguely surprised. Derek has a different look on his face, warmer, happier, and the corners of his eyes crinkle when he laughs. All around he looks younger, and he's staring at Stiles with an emotion Stiles has tried time and time again to decipher (always to no avail). Stiles heartbeat starts to rise.
"Stiles, I want to meet your dad."
Stiles scoffs, already counting the ways that Derek meeting his dad could go horribly, horribly wrong. "You already know my dad."
"No," Derek states matter-of-factly. "Your dad knows me as a non-criminal."
"How is that any better?"
"I want to meet him, Stiles. Actually meet him. Say hi, talk over dinner..."
"What are you gonna say? Hi, Mr. Stilinski, you're doing a swell job fighting crime in Beacon Hills, I like the way you really take care of this town, I'm sorry I came off as a crazy ax murderer, oh, and by the way, I'm fuckin' your son?" Stiles asks, wincing slightly as Derek slaps the side of his head. "I'll find a way to win him over," Derek assures. "Please?" Then he kisses Stiles, long and steady, and Stiles is kinda regretting that he can't really say no to Derek.
/
Stiles is really regretting not being able to say no to Derek. He stifles a moan that slips out anyway and curls his fingers into Derek's hair, slants his lips against Derek's, and runs his tongue across Derek's lower lip. "Derek," He hums as Derek kisses the corner of his mouth and presses open-mouthed kisses along his jaw and down his neck.
"What time did you say your dad was gonna be home?" Derek's chest is heaving and he backs Stiles into Stiles' room, kicks the door to Stiles room shut behind them, and stumbles onto the bed, pinning Stiles beneath him. His hands find Stiles' hips and grind them against his own, fingers gripping the denim of Stiles' jeans. He rocks forward, deepens the kiss and remains there. This feels normal to him, being with Stiles, letting the hyperactive teen consume his senses. Stiles is Stiles, wholesome, human, and real; a grounding branch to everything he remembers missing out on these past few years. He's drawing in slow, deep breaths as he rests his forehead against Stiles' and melts their bodies together. Derek can feel Stiles' heart beating through his chest, and the sweep of Stiles' breath as he slows the kisses until they're less vicious and more tenderly urgent.
"Uh, um... can' remember," Stiles mumbles into Derek's mouth, tracing Derek's arms up to the shoulders. "He's, uh, he's working a longer shift today. We should be good."
"I swear to Christ, Stiles," Derek growls and shifts his hands to rest under Stiles' shirt, onto his abs to softly knead the muscle there with his thumbs. Then, he's pushing Stiles shirt up, dragging it over his head and tossing it to some far-off corner of Stiles' room.
"Relax," Stiles pants, reclining back as Derek sits up for a moment. He lets out a peal of a whine at Derek's departure before he realizes that Derek's removing his own shirt. "Besides," he lurches up, grabs Derek by the neck, and pulls him back down. "It'd be kinky as fuck if he heard us."
"Until he shoots me," Derek replies, deadpan.
"Hey, dad, Derek Hale's in my bedroom, get your gun?" Stiles tilts his head to the side, smirking as Derek shakes his head.
"You're crazy, kid," Derek murmurs as he nips and sucks at the open planes of skin across Stiles shoulders and chest.
"Who you callin' a kid? I'm eighteen."
"Barely," Derek gruffs digging his hands into Stiles' sides, holding himself up with a leg on either side of Stiles. Stiles rolls his hips into Derek's and Derek moans into Stiles' neck. They continue, kissing, suckling, nipping, until their lips are plump and red, and their bodies are molded to each others.
Stiles is reaching for, and halfway undoing, Derek's belt when Derek suddenly kneels back. Stiles lets out a whimper of disapproval and thumbs open the button on Derek's jeans.
"Your dad's home."
"My dad is not—,"
"Stiles!"
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Stiles repeats his mantra as he tries to shove Derek off of him, not that Derek really needed the push. The last thing he really wants was to be caught by the sheriff, with his pants down, literally. Derek stands there for a second, looking at Stiles urgently. "What are you waiting for?" Stiles whispers loudly.
"Where's my fuckin' shirt, Stiles?"
"I don't know, I'm not the one who took it off. Toss me mine." He orders and Derek obeys, tossing Stiles the item before darting for the window. Stiles has enough time to pull the shirt over his head before his dad enters his room. "Hey, uh, hi, Dad," Stiles stutters, hand brushing over his head as Sheriff Stilinski turns on the light.
"Why are you sitting here in the dark?" His dad questions, and Stiles considers telling the truth, because his dad is a cop and lying to a cop is usually not the best idea. That, and his dad knows how to read him.
"I, just... felt like it," Stiles shrugs and fiddles with the hem of the Henley he's wearing.
The Henley.
"Alright," his dad's eyes dart to the closet, then to the window. "Well, the soup you put on is done. So, whenever you're ready, you can tell Derek to come inside, come on down, and eat."
Stiles laughs, scratches the back of his head and shoots his dad a look. "D-Derek? Uh... what do you mean?"
"Stiles," he sighs, "you don't wear Henleys. And his jacket's on the couch." With that, he leaves, and shuts the door behind him, but not before muttering something about 'damn hormones'.
It's not nearly as bad as Stiles expects it to be, in fact, it seems to go swimmingly. Derek sits beside him, and across from the sheriff, whose eyes flicker from the soup to the two across from him. Stiles' dad takes a spoonful of soup and swallows it before clearing his throat.
"Mr. Hale."
"May I apologize, sir?"
"For what," his dad asks and Stiles elbows Derek in the side, just low enough so that the sheriff doesn't see it. The sheriff shrugs when Derek doesn't directly respond. "Stiles says you want to meet me, so hello, Mr. Hale."
"Sheriff," Derek nods. "You have a very special son, sir."
The sheriff's spoon nearly clatters on the edge of the bowl. "He's very smart, he's like his mom." He gets quiet for a moment, staring off at Stiles with a small, warm smile before looking back at Derek. "Did you help him make the soup, Derek?"
"Yes, sir. Uh, we were waiting for it to finish cooking when you got home."
"The roof is a strange place to wait," Stiles' dad states, and Stiles feels like he's about ready to dash outside and find a nice rock to live under. He flicks his gaze onto Derek, finding amusement in the familiar shade of pink that's seeped into Derek's complexion. "You seem to have taken a pretty low profile since you were cleared." Stiles eyes drop to glower at his dad, who shrugs in response. "And there's an age difference of how many years between you and Stiles?"
"Uh, six, sir." Derek responds and Stiles is taken aback by how calm and collected Derek is. "About six."
"He's helping me study, Dad," Stiles intervenes.
"And he's been reading to me, sir," Derek adds, "He's uh, reading me fairy tales in German. My mom used to read them to me and my siblings before we'd go to bed. She'd read them in English, but it's pretty nice to hear them in a different language. It makes me feel like I'm home again, and like my parents aren't really gone, and that things are going to be alright," Derek finishes, and Stiles looks at him with a little bit of a slack-jaw. Stiles isn't aware of this, and Derek drops his gaze to his bowl and clears his throat, as if embarrassed after sharing such personal details. Sheriff Stilinski nods and drops the subject.
"You two did a fantastic job on the soup, by the way. But, just so we're all on the same page, I'm aware Stiles is legally an adult now, so nothing I can say could really stop you two from doing anything. And I'm not absolutely thrilled about my son running around with the used-to-be most wanted in the state, besides, telling Stiles not to do something is the most sure fire way to get him to do something, so I'm just going to head on over to the couch and catch up on some baseball," Stiles' dad says, gets up and scoots in his chair. On his way to the living room, he tosses Derek's jacket to him and grabs the newspaper.
Stiles sends Derek a look, and he's not entirely sure why his dad's so calm about the entire situation, but he's not about to press his luck. Sliding his hand into Derek's, he gently pulls Derek towards the stairs and the two return to Stiles' bedroom.
"I, uh, I didn't know about the reading thing," Stiles says softly, massaging his neck with his hand. "About your mom."
"It's nothing," Derek shrugs it off, but Stiles isn't letting go of his hand. Stiles can hear it in his voice, see the expressions in his eyes, and he's not going to let it go unnoticed. "I don't think your dad likes me very much."
"You'll eventually win him over. He's not that hard to impress." Stiles sits on his floor, just beneath the windowsill, and pats the space beside him, beckoning Derek to join him. He does and lies down, resting his head in Stiles' lap. "He's also never that punctual."
Derek barely chuckles, but his lips quirk upwards and it eases Stiles' tension a bit. Stiles slips a hand into Derek's hair, running his hand through the locks and massaging Derek's scalp. "Laura would've loved you, Stiles. Sure, you'd probably annoy the hell out of her, but she'd have loved you."
"You think so?"
"You're warm, bright, energetic, she would've liked that. She would've loved your eyes, the way you smell—hated the Old Spice—,"
"Hey, what's wrong with Old Spice?" Stiles asks, gesturing to his clothing. "I smell like a stallion."
"Stiles, everything is wrong with Old Spice," Derek replies coolly, laces his fingers together across his stomach and drums his thumbs against his body. "She would've loved your laugh, the stupid, corny jokes you tell. The way you make me feel... she would've picked up on that, and it would've made her happy to know that her brother found somebody that made him happy."
"I, uh, I make you happy, eh?"
"Yes," Derek nods once and shuts his eyes, leaning in slightly to Stiles' touch.
"If I scratch behind your ear, will your leg start to thump?"
"Stiles," Derek warns. "If I knock your head against the wall, will it hurt?"
"Noted," Stiles says, looking down at Derek. "I think my mom would've liked you too. A-And not just because you said Laura would've liked me. I mean, pushing all the criminal activity aside, she would've found you charming. She'd probably be glad I gave up that silly little thing I had for Lydia, probably love your eyes because you have very pretty eyes, Derek, and I probably just crossed a line calling you pretty, but, fuck it, you're handsome, Derek. She'd be happy to meet you, meet the guy her little boy's been swooning over. Would've made peach cobbler, because that's my favorite and it's her specialty," Stiles clears his throat to swallow the lump that's been edging its way up his throat.
And they sit there for a long while, talking and sharing stories of their families and Stiles is relieved that Derek trusts him enough with this information, to allow himself to tell Stiles things. They spend the time thinking, laughing when the time is right, and nodding.
"Hey, Stiles?" Derek coughs and flicks his gaze towards Stiles' eyes. "Can you do something for me? I haven't... read, or heard a story yet, one that means the most to me."
Stiles knows, he remembers, and he shuts his eyes for a moment. "Of course, Derek." He reaches up and snatches the bundle of packets from his desk and shuffles them until he finds the one he's looking for.
"Schneewittchen," Stiles begins.
"Snow White. It was Laura's favorite."
Stiles leans down and kissed Derek's forehead, "I know." And he begins to read, watching Derek's face out of the corner of his eye as he goes. "Bald darauf bekam sie ein Töchterlein, das war so weiß wie Schnee, so rot wie Blut und so schwarzhaarig wie Ebenholz und ward darum Schneewittchen genannt."
"As white as snow, as red as blood, and hair as black as..."
"Ebony," Stiles finishes. "So, the queen named her Snow White." He continues on with the story, and when he finishes, he looks down to find Derek asleep and snoring softly. A soft chuckle escapes his throat and he smooths back Derek's hair. He just hopes he stays asleep. Stiles stays there and watches Derek for a little bit, trying not to stir as to not wake him. The last thing he remembers is glancing at the clock at midnight.
When Derek wakes up, it's nine in the morning, and Sheriff Stilinski's calling them down to breakfast. Derek groans, rubs his eyes, and taps Stiles on the chest.
"Mrmm," Stiles mumbles, startling slightly before he opens his eyes. "Derek," he grins sleepily, folding forward to kiss him. "What's up?"
"Stiles, what time did I fall asleep?"
"Don't know," Stiles stretches his arms with a yawn. "Last time I checked, you were out at eleven-thirty. Why?"
Derek's lips quirk into a smile, a full-fledged smile, and Stiles is beginning to think that something must be wrong. "It worked."