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It's christmas eve when Stiles' dad, just, casually invites Derek over for dinner. His dad cited needing to get to know the Pack's Alpha, but considering the glint in the sheriff's eye and the fact that Stiles and Derek have, essentially, been sneaking around since the very instant Stiles turned eighteen—yeah, he isn't buying it.
By the look on Derek's face when Stiles opens the door for him, the sheer nervousness rolling off of him in waves, Stiles has a feeling he isn't buying it either. Still, he drags the man in, fingers digging into his elbow, and tries to reassure, "Don't worry, he won't bite, he's probably just worried about how my training's going, since I still come back home sporting bruises more often than not."
Derek raises an eyebrow at him as Stiles leads him- arm looped through Derek's, an overly familiar touch, but one he can't seem to restrain himself from- to the dining room, and most of the tension seems to have evaporated from his tumultuous tsunami eyes by now, which, as far as Stiles is concerned, is a win.
"Yes, yes, I know, what're you supposed to do with an insubordinate Mage who never listens to you, and throws themselves headfirst into the line of danger without even an ounce of thought for their own self-preservation—I could recite this conversation in my sleep we've had it so many times."
Derek raises his eyebrows, points out, "You could try being a little more careful," but his tone is light, and his eyes are glimmering, now, all exasperated affection instead of wary stress, so Stiles just grins at him, feeling satisfied, before letting go of his hold on the man's arm to nudge him toward a chair, sitting to the one directly beside it.
"Meh," he intones, shrugging. "I think I'd rather keep my perfect track-record of saving your ass."
"Well, I'd like to keep my perfect track-record of not having that heart attack you keep predicting for me," the sheriff cuts in, as he swans through the kitchen's archway with a few platters of delicious-smelling food. "So, it'd be nice if you started coming back to me in one piece more often."
"He will, sir," Derek says, without prompting, back straight, entire demeanor having done a complete 180. Stiles wonders if it's his dad's station, the fact that he's Stiles' dad, or the fact that he's a dad, in general, either way...
"Huh. It usually takes a lot more for him to engage in conversation."
Derek sighs, heavily, like he doesn't know why he puts up with this shit.
"Uh, sorry. Shitty brain-to-mouth filter, which... really didn't need to be explained, did it?"
His dad pinches the bridge of his nose with a groan, before sharing a vaguely commiserating look with Derek that immediately has Stiles on his toes because no. The very thought of his boyfriend and his dad becoming besties, and somehow conspiring against him to lock him away until he can't get so much as a papercut is a horrifying, and strangely realistic, idea.
Then, as the dishes get served, his dad says, mischevious glint in his eye, "It's a lot easier using the front door, isn't it?" And, oh, god, he knows, he knows.
This is what he gets, for having someone notoriously allergic to doors as his boyfriend, he knew, he knew, that one of their nosy ass neighbors was going to see Derek climbing out of his window one of these days and go running straight to his dad with the juicy gossip.
"He has every little old lady in this town on his payroll," Stiles had told Derek once, naked and sweaty and splayed out, content, on his sheets, to the tune of an exaggerated eye roll and a disbelieving snort. "They're all spies, I swear," he'd said. "Cheek-pinching, cookie baking, grandmotherly spies."
Derek had just finished slipping on his shoes, kissed Stiles on the temple, and promptly parkoured out of the window like a fucking ninja, not believing him for even a second.
Stiles pierces him with his best I told you so glare, now.
Derek does a strange canting eyebrow shrugging move that vaguely translates to, Well, what the hell are we supposed to do about it now?
Stiles makes a waving gesture with his hand and his chin that he hopes Derek will take to mean, Roll with the punches.
Derek sighs and flashes a Stiles' dad a bright, hopeful, Please, god, I hope I'm making a good impression sort of smile.
There's an odd sort of wistful fondness in the smile his dad offers in turn, it's the same kind of smile he wears when he talks about Stiles' mom, about burnt pancakes and forgotten anniversaries and the night she finally got that positive pregnancy test and ran toward the bed to start bouncing on it, screaming like a chimpanzee, not at all minding the fact that it was barely two in the morning and her husband was still trying to sleep. Stiles wonders what, exactly, wove that smile into being.
Maybe it's just the general spirit of christmas?
He gets an answer to his unasked question when his dad murmurs, "You two remind me of me and Claudia," before tucking into his meal, which is just as well, since it gives them a moment to get over their shock.
Stiles tries not to sputter.
Derek tries not to gape.
He has a feeling they both fail.
All in all, the dinner ends up being less awkward and stress-inducing than more than half the parties involved thought it was going to be, right up until the end, when his dad shakes Derek's hand and says, by way of goodbye, "If you hurt my son, I will kill you." A short, cutting, deadly pause, before he clarifies, "Slowly."
Derek's swallow is audible, and Stiles' cheeks are burning so bright he's pretty sure he could beat rudolph in a contest right now, if he tried. Still, his dad already knows, and it's christmas fucking eve, so Stiles pulls Derek in before he can leave entirely, kisses his eyelids, his cheeks, his nose, his lips, says, "I love you, idiot," and, "he'll also kill you if you don't get me an awesome present," to which his father provides amused, but loyal, support, and, "drive safe."
After Derek is gone, Stiles' dad asks, "Does he make you happy?"
And Stiles rambles in the vehement affirmative until his father envelops him in his arms and says, "Okay," like that was all he needed.
The next day, Stiles finds out that his dad now has Derek's phone number, and they're almost certainly finding comfort in each other, ranting about Stiles' crazy. He also finds out that the Stilinski house is going to host the Pack's christmas party, and that his dad's gotten presents for every single member of the Pack, which is...
Honestly, after everything they've been through to get to this point, after all the struggle it had taken to get the sheriff comfortable around all this supernatural stuff in the first place? well, this is five hundred miles in the right direction.
The way Derek turns into a puddle of sunshine-goo whenever his dad calls him son is just the cherry on top.
So is the key to Derek's loft, tied in a crimson, snowflake embroidered, bow.
"At least I know how to use the front door," Stiles teases laughingly, but only manages to love his Sourwolf all the more the next time he ends up leaning out of the window, watching the man scale down his house and blow a jaunty kiss before running off into the distance.
Oh, well; we all have our things.
Let the old ladies gossip.