rubykatewriting: (Teen Wolf: Stiles Smooth Criminal)
[personal profile] rubykatewriting
Author: [livejournal.com profile] rubykatewriting
Title: The Strong Scent of Evergreen
Pairing: Derek/Girl!Stiles
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Derek and Stiles start something new. "I am, you know," she whispers against his mouth, and he tilts his head in question. "Yours."
Spoilers/Warnings: Can be found here.
Notes: Title comes from the song "Passenger Seat" by Death Cab for Cutie.
Disclaimer: Not mine. So not mine. No harm intended.



There are several things about Derek that makes Stiles feel like her skin is too tight and too warm. Watching him cook ranks in the top five, and it’s all the better when she gets to do it in her own kitchen. It was one of the surprising facts about him she discovered while he stayed at her house during his brief run as most wanted. Even better: he was really good at it. In her mind, she imagined him spending long hours in motels or those extended stay type of places and staying on the Food Network channel for days. Thinking of him picking up tips from the likes of Ina Garten or Giada DeLaurentis was joy in and of itself, but that first skeptical bite she took was probably the moment made remember the home, the dinners, before her mom passed. Without a second thought her head beyond “more” and “always,” she had looked at him, completely serious: “You should move in. This should be a permanent thing.”

She sits on the counter and watches, mug of hot coffee warming her freezing hands. Her body is relaxed if a bit twinge-y when she moves a certain way, and even though she hasn’t had her dose this morning, her mind doesn’t feel like a five year old hopped up on sugar and loosed on a playground.

“About the babies thing…”

Derek glances over his shoulder at her, rolling his eyes. “Stiles, we’re mated,” he says it like that explains everything. He’s quiet for so long that she starts to wonder if that’s the end of the conversation. “But I feel like your father would be more accepting of the situation if you were over eighteen.”

She is not internally flailing. She just isn’t, and she hides her grin by taking a long sip of coffee. It’s stupid. Forever and a shared future should make the whole baby question a foregone conclusion, but in the short time she’s known him, he’s nearly died three times. He’s lost his entire family. That could make even the most baby-crazy person on the planet rethink the idea of parenthood. For her, though, it’s always been something she knew would happen one day.

“I meant what I said, Stiles –” He adjusts the heat on the burner where he’s got the poached eggs cooking before he moves between her knees. He takes her mug, sets it on the counter by her hip, and then lets his hands rest on her thighs. “It’s as innate for werewolves to have children as it is to mate. We can make werewolves, but the desire to produce offspring with our mates is damn near impossible to deny. There is no other choice, which can be unfortunate considering our frequent circumstances, but it’s too strong.”

She feels more than slightly stupid for asking, but she’s always wondered: “But what about gay werewolves?”

He shrugs. “Born wolves aren’t gay. They’re not straight either. Their mate could be either sex. It’s a matter of who is their best match. But it’s like with gay couples. They adopt. Surrogacy. Donation. Just because they can’t go about it the way heterosexual couples do, were or otherwise, doesn’t mean the desire isn’t just as strong.”

“So if I were a boy, this would still be happening?” she asks, and he rolls his eyes at her. Sometimes Stiles wonders how she survived the first few months of their acquaintance because she really never knows when to shut up.

“Yes,” he replies, drawing the word out. “The essentials of who you are and what you mean to me would be the same, regardless of your sex.”

“So did anyone in your family take a same-sex mate?”

He looks down and fiddles with the seam of her jeans. “Peter. David was one of the humans who died in the fire.”

“What?” She can’t quite remember the mechanics of breathing for a full five seconds, just stares at the top of Derek’s head and tries to process this new data. She wonders that Peter was ever able to breathe again, to eat, to drink, to do anything beyond curling up and dying on the spot. It’s hard to reconcile the person she met with this other man, who had made a home with someone, a life, and yet she can. The ten year old she was is not such a distant memory that she can’t understand the drive that saved Peter, no matter how mangled or scarred it left him.

Derek finally meets her eyes. “He truly lost everything in that fire,” Derek admits softly, and maybe it’s the time that has passed that has tempered his anger or an understanding borne out of what he has made with her since. “David was a lot like my dad, quiet and calm, and he had this deliberate way about him. He was careful in every way, except when it came to my uncle. They met in college.” He clears his throat and blinks, leaning into her touch when she rests her forehead against his. “I wish you could have known them, could have met Peter before.”

“I’ll never understand Laura,” she whispers, and she’s not quite sure why she’s crying, “what he did to her, to become Alpha, but the rest… Peter took it to a fucking eleven, and yet I get it. I get that anger, that rage.” She takes one of Derek’s hands in both of hers, raises it to her mouth, and kisses each knuckle. “I have never known anger like I felt after my mom died and it was an accident. If I lost my dad, too, and it was intentional?” She shudders, hugging his entire arm to her chest to dispel the chill that runs through her at the thought.

“You won’t, Stiles. I promise to do everything in my power not to let that happen.” He grabs her face, their noses bumping, and it’s just this side of rough in his eagerness to comfort her, reassure her that he’ll somehow do what no one truly can: save her from any grief or pain, but she can’t blame him because she is going to do her damndest to return the favor. His mouth is even rougher as it comes down on hers, and it’s tongue and teeth and spit and heat. She answers it greedily, taking and giving back, her legs locking around his waist. She wishes for so much: a happy, uneventful life for them, and yet she knows as surely as she draws breath, there will be another crisis, sooner rather than later. The best thing she can give him is her choice, and that she will always choose him.

He jerks away, ears going up, and he looks at her. “He’s turned onto your street. Are you still sure about this?”

“He may not appreciate the morning ambush, especially coming off a double, but after last night, it seems stupid for him to not know.”

His eyebrow kicks up slightly, but then he’s making that Derek face she knows so well by now. All passive and remote, but his green eyes move over her, taking all of her in. That stare used to intimidate the hell out of her and inspire more than a little fear, but now it’s like being truly seen. His fingers move to her hair, loose and wavy around her shoulders and still slightly damp from their shower when they got here. His other hand cups the side of her face, and he leans closer, gentle now, pressing a kiss to each of her eyes. “I disagree about one thing. I think they should have your eyes.”

She knows she must have the stupidest, biggest grin plastered on her face, but the sound of the front door opening and closing puts a pause on that conversation for the moment. Derek checks the eggs, and she hops down to start the toast.

Never let it be said that her father cannot roll with the punches after sixteen-plus years with her as his child. He barely skips a beat when he walks into their kitchen to find her setting the table while Derek carefully scoops the eggs out of the water. There’s a slight hitch in his step, but that’s it, something only visible to those who can read him. He shrugs out of his uniform jacket, draping it over his chair, and for a brief moment, he’s close, mouth pressing a kiss hello to her hair.

“Morning, Dad,” she says. “Coffee?”

“Always.”

She crosses to the cupboard where they store all of the mugs and grabs one. The creamer is still out from when she made her cup, and she adds a dash of the raw sugar her dad likes before pouring in a liberal amount of the half-and-half. It used to be a joke between her parents: the ex-FBI agent-turned-overworked-town-sheriff took his coffee with sugar and enough cream turn it a pale caramel while the dainty school psychologist liked it black and strong enough to strip paint. She hands him the mug just as the first two slices of toast pop up.

For expediency’s sake, or to put off the awkward introductions for as long as possible, her father and Derek don’t say a word to each other as they all move about the kitchen. It isn’t until everyone is seated at the table, plates of food in front of them, and then Derek clears his throat. “Hello, sir,” Derek says, holding his hand out across the table.

Her father glances at the hand before he shakes it, a wry smile on his face. “It seems my daughter planned this well,” he says ruefully; “She knows I can’t pass up eggs and butter.” For a long second, he holds onto Derek’s hand longer than decorum would say is polite, his eyes locked with Derek’s, but whatever he sees there is answer enough. He releases his hand. “It’s good to finally meet you, Derek.”

Stiles grins down at her plate, hoping her hair hides it, before she grabs the butter dish away from her father, whose eggs are now swimming in a butter bath. “Jesus, Dad,” she mutters. “Enjoy this because the rest of the week’s dinners involve salad, chicken, fish, and various steamed vegetables.”

He grimaces, and she catches a look of distaste flit across Derek’s face before he notices she’s looking. She points at him with her fork. “For that, you’re invited every night.”

-

She drives Derek home well after dark. The windows are down and cool night air blows in, ruffling his hair and making the ends of hers dance. When he glances at her, he looks as relaxed as she’s ever seen him, and she reaches out, cups his face.

The road is clear ahead.
The End

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