A/N: I don't even know. The Pack (as I would like to imagine it) eat waffles and then go look at a college like a bunch of responsible people?
Derek rises at six in the morning and makes Belgian waffles because he likes them. He doesn't feel like the dad or anything, just – he just likes them.
Isaac is the first one to stumble downstairs, pajama pants practically falling off him and he blindly grasps somewhere in the vicinity of the coffee pot.
"Mph," he says.
Derek hands him a mug.
"What – what is that?" Isaac asks, once he's poured about a gallon of milk into his mug. "Is that – are you making waffles?"
Derek absolutely fails in masking the scarlet blooming onto his cheeks. "I – it's no big deal. It's breakfast."
Isaac leans over the counter, eyeing the contraption with skepticism. "Is this new? Did you like, go out to Walmart and buy this?" he gives Derek the eye, like he can't believe he actually went out into public and walked through aisles, normal people things.
"Yes," Derek snarls, reaching for his own coffee.
"And you know how to make them?"
"Make what?" a voice asks from the stairs.
"Oh, hey Jackson," Isaac says, like, fancy meeting you here, "So Derek's making waffles."
Jackson's entire expression morphs into something heinous. "I'm not eating them."
"They're fine!" Derek protests. "Ican cook things!"
Isaac settles in at the table, which has been set with the mismatched plastic cups and plates that had been at the loft when Derek moved in. "Yeah, like that time with the chicken pot pie?"
"That was a mistake – I forgot to preheat the oven."
"And in the process broke the entire thing!"
"You only eat shit out of the microwave, anyway."
Jackson peers over at the waffle maker, where Derek sets out the one that's been cooking the past few minutes and pours in the batter for another. He looks at it pointedly and then at the two teenagers.
Jackson looks at Isaac. "Dude, you're the one that lives here. You eat it."
Isaac lowers his voice to a whisper, sneaking a quick glance at Derek. "Man, what if I get food poisoning?"
Derek regrets his initial plan of getting a couple dozen donuts from Krispy Kreme. He'd sidled right on by the place. He could have Caramel Chocolate Chip bliss right now.
"There's sugar and flour in this," he grouses, pulling out a carton of strawberries and whipped cream. "Not cyanide."
"Cyanide? Are we plotting murders already?" and yup, here's Stiles, plaid pajamas and all. He practically skips over to the coffee pot. "I'm all for traditionalism but in my experience it's a tad messy…"
Three pairs of eyes land on him.
"In my Wikipedia experience," he says hastily. "Totally through search engines, not …"
"Yeah, whatever shut up and eat Derek's poisoned waffles." Jackson says from where he has wrapped his arms around his head as a makeshift pillow.
A corner of Stiles's mouth quirks up. "Poisoned? Waffles?"
Derek's arm gestures to the smorgasbord of food around them. "Yes, welcome to the inevitable doom I have constructed for you all," he said, voice dripping sarcasm.
"Ah, snark at 7AM, that's what I love about you," Stiles gives his boyfriend a quick kiss before hefting his plate up onto his lap. He perches himself up onto the counter and starts piling whipped cream onto the waffle.
After a moment of deliberation, Stiles tilts his head up to the ceiling. "Y'know, this isn't that bad."
Scott, Allison and Lydia scramble in then, evidently having smelled breakfast.
"You're making something?" Scott asks incredulously.
"The next person who asks that is going to walk to this college tour," Derek threatens.
Lydia sniffs. "I like poached eggs."
About half an hour later, after everyone has been astounded by the fact that Derek knows how to make something other than brooding expressions and heaving sighs, the eating commences.
Jackson tosses a waffle into Scott's face, which results in some suspicious glowering over a glass of orange juice and then there are hands intervening and Erica grumbling, "What does a girl have to do to get seconds around here," and Derek, at the end of the table, smiles.
Behind a newspaper, of course.
Baby steps.
And then of course there is the bustling around of getting ready – there are only two bathrooms in the loft, which – that's more than Derek ever thought he'd ever even need but still there are hair dryers and makeup and Jackson bitching about the hot water and Lydia primly responding something about cold showers and "what is necessary" before he pinks and storms off.
Derek of course, showered before everyone else and impatiently waits by the door with a John Grisham novel and a cooler full of water bottles and sandwiches.
Stiles, toting a bag of Bugles, plops down next to him. "Erica is doing Allison's hair; they should be ready in a few minutes."
Derek peers over at him before grumbling and moving for Stiles to sit in his lap. "How are you eating right now? Didn't you just have breakfast?"
"I'm storing energy," Stiles says, mouth full. "All that walking. Gonna need it."
"You fought against a kanima. Your best friend is a werewolf, and walking will tire you out?"
Stiles's eyelashes flutter as if Derek has said something truly romantic. "Derek, I am an extremely complex person."
Derek snorts.
They pile in two different cars, Stiles loudly claiming territory in the passenger seat of Derek's Toyota (he put the Camaro in storage, he's not like some soccer mom – orange slices are healthy for the wolves, they're growing). Lydia settles in the backseat with about twenty glossy magazines and Jackson looks out the window, pretends he hadn't been admiring a Hugo Boss ad.
Miraculously, they survive to the first rest stop. There's a gathering around the vending machines, Twizzlers sticking out of places Derek wishes he never would have been introduced to and then a firm demanding for everyone to go to the bathroom, "even if you don't feel like you have to go, just try."
Jackson vehemently refuses and ten minutes into being back on the road, complains loudly of a full bladder.
Derek wants to slam on the breaks but then Stiles starts in on him.
"Oh man, Jackson, are you sure you don't want a water bottle? I mean, it's getting hot out. Don't you just love some good 'ol H20?"
"Stilinksi, I swear to God,"
"Is that a yes on the…water?"
Jackson kicks the back of his seat, Derek growls and then there is about five minutes of uncomfortable silence before Jackson caves, pleading to just let me piss in the woods, for Christ's sake, I'm practically leaking here.
Lydia snapped a picture of him crouching behind a tree and it goes up on Instagram.
(She gets six new followers).
At the college, everyone gets lanyards and Scott winds his around his head twice before following the rest of the group.
Derek immediately loses sight of Erica and Boyd, who both insisted they wanted to get a glimpse of "the library".
He wonders if he will have to give them a "cover that puppy up speech" or if the nurse still gives out free condoms to shifty-looking students.
Stiles is the one at the head of the crowd, asking the tour guide questions about the dining hall and 9AM classes and Derek huffs, rolling his eyes, holding fort at the back where Scott and Allison are paying more attention to each other than the surrounding campus. Isaac is somewhere in the middle, chatting up a girl who keeps mentioning that he looks like someone off Doctor Who.
By the time they break for lunch, Derek's got a hold on who gets what – their sandwiches are labeled for strict purposes only – someone could have an allergy or, Jackson could end up with ham with rye instead of turkey and wheat, like the time with the amusement park –
Derek could write babysitter of irrational, often unfathomable teenagers on his resume but then he supposes he wouldn't get the job.
Stiles swings his legs up onto Derek's lap and says, with a mouthful of…something and says, "Hey, did you see those dorms?"
"My eyes are still recovering," Jackson says beneath a copy of GQ.
"Oh, please, I saw you practically drooling in the weight room," Allison takes the soda out of Scott's hand and sips.
"And didn't you drop a comment about the lacrosse team?" Erica, who has mysteriously reappeared with Boyd and is now gleefully munching on Cheetos, asks.
"Like I'd want to go to the same school as any of you," Jackson snipes.
Lydia pats him sympathetically on the shoulder.
It's dusk by the time they're done, piling back into the cars, Scott and Stiles loudly singing "just a small town girl," while Erica and Issac finish, "living in a lonely world!"
Derek tries to tune them out with some horrible country station but they just sing louder.
He doesn't smile.
He doesn't.
Stiles's hand grasps his from the passenger seat, later on, when Lydia, Jackson and Boyd have fallen asleep.
"We raised these kids pretty well, I'd say," golden-brown eyes twinkling.
"Yeah," Derek snorts, looking in the rearview mirror, Lydia leaning on Jackson's shoulder, Jackson's sneakers on Boyd's knees.
"I'd say so."