Chapter Text
One
Stiles woke up thirty minutes before his alarm went off, Caleb’s loose fists holding onto his Batman shirt. He’d worn that shirt clubbing once—Scott’s birthday six years ago, a Friday night Stiles barely remembered—but after so many washes the black had faded to grey, the yellow to a sad shade of cream. It was a memory of good days long gone.
He held Caleb closer, rubbing warmth into his small back, and went through his mental To-Do list. Make breakfast, go grocery shopping, work on his book while Caleb watched Paw Patrol, make lunch, call—
“Daddy?”
Stiles waited, breath stuck in his throat, but Caleb only cuddled closer. It was going to be one of those days then.
“Are you hungry, love?”
Caleb didn’t reply right away. He played with Stiles’ shirt instead, tracing the bat logo clumsily with his pudgy fingers. Then, in a low voice: “Pancakes?”
“I don’t think we have enough time for that today. We have to go to the store, remember?”
“Oh.”
Stiles hesitated. Dr. Jenkins said it was important to encourage Caleb’s speech, to make him feel like his thoughts and opinions mattered. Making pancakes from scratch would take them over half an hour, given Stiles’ cooking skills. It would be easier to give Caleb some juice and cookies, maybe a fruit. But Stiles had to make an effort.
Effort. That was one of Dr. Jenkins’ favorite words.
“Okay,” Stiles said, gently pushing Caleb’s hair away from his face. “We’ll make some pancakes, but because we haven’t gone to the store yet there aren’t any chocolate chips left. We’ll have to eat them with some syrup. Is that alright with you?”
Caleb gave him a smile, tiny teeth on display. “Yes, daddy.”
Stiles kissed his forehead and stayed there, breathing in the scent of his baby shampoo, the one that everyone said smelled like apples but to Stiles would always smell like cinnamon and baby powder. Caleb, ever the octopus, let himself be nuzzled without complaint, cuddling closer and closer until his arms were around Stiles’ neck.
It was impossible to cook with Caleb on his hip. He was obedient and quiet, but there were only so many things Stiles could get done with only one free arm. Setting him down on the counter was a hassle, but at last, Stiles managed.
“We’re gonna make at least ninety-nine pancakes. How do you feel about trying to make some of them dog-shaped? I’m not a great artist but I think I’ve watched enough Paw Patrol episodes to know exactly what Chase looks like.” Stiles cracked the eggs into the bowl he’d just pulled out. When that was done, he took the flour package from Caleb, who had been holding onto it with alarming solemnity. Hating the quiet, Stiles babbled on, “Did you know Grandpa can’t cook pancakes? He always, always burns them. One time when I was a bit older than you, Grandpa tried to make me some Nutella waffles and accidentally left the mix—fuck.”
Caleb sniffed the air. There was disgust in his voice when he spoke again. “Daddy, it smells like—like bitter.”
Stiles stared at the quickly blackening pancake before him. Wasn’t there a saying about how the first pancake was never the best? Was this just Stiles’ luck? He tried to scoop up the mess from the pan and start his second attempt, but just as he was turning around his elbow grazed the bowl and tipped it over.
There was pancake mix dribbling down to the floor, a sticky pale mess already spreading all over the wooden boards.
Stiles took a deep breath, let it out. Some things were just not meant to be.
“If you could have anything but pancakes for breakfast,” Stiles said, picking Caleb up from the counter, “what would you choose?”
Caleb’s frown disappeared. He wasn’t looking at the mess in the kitchen, but at Stiles’ face. Big green eyes that weren’t sad or happy, just concerned, bored into Stiles’.
“Donuts?”
“Dunkin’ or Krispy?”
Caleb leaned in and tucked his head under Stiles’ chin. He murmured something that sounded a lot like daddy pick and relaxed, body going a bit limp by the time Stiles had finally made up his mind.
It was definitely one of those days.
*
“—before last month,” Mrs. Anderson said, “but I don’t know how long it’ll take the Sheriff to catch those boys. If you have any tips, you should—”
“Tell my father,” Stiles finished for her. He usually didn’t go out of his way to talk to seventy-year-olds, but Mrs. Anderson had cornered him and Caleb in the soup aisle to rant about loitering. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but my son is…”
The words died on Stiles' tongue. He turned around, his heart trying to climb up his throat, only to find that Caleb wasn’t looking at the cereal boxes or the protein bars like he usually did on the rare occasions when he wandered away from Stiles. Caleb was gone.
When had he let go of Stiles’ hand?
Mrs. Anderson’s voice came from far away as if Stiles was underwater. “Dear? You look a little pale.”
Letting go of the shopping cart without a second thought, Stiles walked into the next aisle. Empty. “Caleb? Caleb, where—”
Stiles could feel the start of a panic attack coming. There was a tightness in his stomach and a weight on his chest that threatened to take away his voice, and any other time Stiles would have let them. But not now, not when he needed to call Caleb’s name, call the police and the fire department and Missing Children.
He was running down the soda aisle and about to turn left when he heard Caleb’s voice. It did nothing to ease his anxiety, but it cleared his mind enough to track the sound. Two aisles to the right, next to the colorful bags of chips.
And then Stiles stopped, his blood too hot under his skin, bubbling, because there was a man holding his son.
“—find him, pup,” the stranger said, his back to Stiles. “What’s his name?”
Caleb saw Stiles first, over the man’s shoulder. He gave a smile that was all happiness, a strange contrast to the painful beating of Stiles’ heart, and started squirming.
“Daddy!”
“I know you call him that, but I’m sure he has a name.”
“Stiles Stilinski.”
The man turned around fast at Stiles’ words, his grip on Caleb only faltering when the boy started making grabby hands at Stiles to pick him up. Now that Stiles knew where Caleb was, that he was safe, his mind started to supply him with questions.
Stiles knew everyone in Beacon Hills. It was a small town, one Stiles hadn’t left in a really long time, and his dad was usually notified every time someone new moved in. Which did not happen often.
So who was this man? He certainly didn’t look like he belonged in Stiles’ hometown, not with the way his muscles moved under his t-shirt, not with how his beard was trimmed to perfection. The closer to him Stiles got, the more intense the smell of pinecones became.
“Who are you?” Stiles said.
“Derek.”
“Derek what? What were you doing with my kid?”
“Your kid,” Derek said slowly, “came running up to me . Tried to nuzzle a hole into my calf.”
Stiles let out a laugh. It sounded bitter. “Caleb wouldn’t just leave my side like that. Did you call his name?”
“I’m not a—”
“A child predator? That’s exactly what a child predator would say, Derek.”
Caleb touched Stiles’ neck, his clammy fingers only inches away from the dotted scar Stiles used to agonize over. It made Stiles tense up involuntarily.
“I smelled sugar,” Caleb said, a poor attempt at a whisper. “Daddy, he smells like sugar. I had to—to see.”
Without subtlety, Stiles sniffed the air. Derek raised an eyebrow at him.
There was a sweet smell in the air, but Stiles doubted it was coming from Derek. It wouldn’t be the first time Caleb’s itchy nose tricked him, something that had only gotten worse after his third birthday. Maybe someone had opened a bar of chocolate nearby and Caleb had gotten confused.
Stiles forced his voice to harden. “You can’t run off like that, Caleb. That’s dangerous and you know better. How many times has Grandpa told you about mean strangers in the street?”
“But he smelled—”
“I don’t care what you thought you smelled on him,” Stiles said. “You can’t let go of my hand and walk away from me, baby. Mrs. Anderson is a boring lady, but sometimes you have to put up with boring people.”
Caleb said nothing, his eyes on Derek. He looked fascinated in a way that made Stiles ache.
“Apologize to Derek.”
Derek shook his head, tense. “That’s not necessary. He wasn’t any trouble.”
“He needs to learn he can’t treat strangers like that.”
“You called me a child predator,” Derek said. He leaned forward slightly, just enough to be on eye-level with Caleb, who was starting to fidget in Stiles’ arms. “Maybe your daddy should be the one apologizing. What do you think, Caleb?”
“Yes, daddy,” Caleb said very solemnly. “Say sorry.”
Stiles’ head was starting to throb. He really, really needed to get home so he could finish cleaning the kitchen and work on his book. He said, “We’re both sorry, Derek. Thank you for—” What was the right thing to say? Thank you for not being a child predator? “Entertaining my kid.”
Derek looked like a man in pain. “No problem, Stiles.”
“How do you know my name?”
“You told him, daddy,” Caleb whispered.
God. Could this day get any fucking worse? Stiles felt his embarrassment like a solid weight on his chest, dragging him down. He hid his face for a second in Caleb’s hair, taking in a few deep breaths, and when he looked up again Derek was gone.
Once he’d found his shopping cart, Stiles plucked out the carton of chocolate ice-cream he was going to buy for Caleb. Punishment was important for discipline, or so all the books Stiles had read on how to raise kids claimed.
Caleb did not even protest. In fact, it did not look like he cared about the ice-cream at all, but rather about why Derek had smelled the way he had and when they were going to see him again.
“I don’t know,” Stiles said, strapping him into the car seat. He was still out of breath from carrying all those grocery bags to the trunk. “Maybe soon.”
Caleb tilted his head to the side, exactly how Stiles’ dad did sometimes when he was watching TV. “How soon, daddy?”
“Soon.”
“But—”
“Next time we come to the store,” Stiles blurted out.
He didn’t like lying to Caleb—Santa and The Tooth Fairy were exceptions—but his head was throbbing so badly he could not think straight. All he wanted was a bit of quiet, and quiet he got; Caleb was so pleased by the answer he did not talk again for the whole ride, smiling to himself.
*
you owe me 2 months thomas
and his bday present
I’ll send you some money next month.
you always say that
child support isn’t fucking optional buddy
hello????
???
fuck you
*
The next time it happened wasn’t at the store but at Scott and Kira’s house. Stiles had prepared a paste for Kira’s lower back pain—something darkmagicforfools.com recommended fervently—and was dropping it off. It was supposed to only take five minutes, which is why he brought Caleb with him. Afterward, they were going to the park.
Stiles killed the engine. “I’ll be back in a second, okay? You can watch me through the window.”
Caleb nodded once and went back to playing with his Flash action figure. He seemed calm until Stiles opened the door of the car and started to get out.
“Daddy—”
“Only a second,” Stiles said, trying not to groan. “Just watch me and wait.”
Caleb frowned. He tossed his toy away and reached out for Stiles. Another whine was coming, Stiles could tell, and so Stiles did what he had been taught to do: set a limit.
Closing the door softly, Stiles walked away from the car and up the steps of Scott’s front porch. He couldn’t hear any crying coming from the driveway, a good sign indeed.
“Hi, Stiles,” Kira said as she opened the door. “Do you want to come in? I was just about to start making lunch.”
Stiles handed her the bag. “Can’t. Caleb’s waiting in the car. You know how he gets.”
Kira looked over Stiles’ shoulder, her hand already raised and waving, and then she stopped. “Stiles.”
“Oh God,” Stiles said, rubbing a hand over his face. “Don’t tell me he’s banging his fists against the window.”
“No, Stiles, he’s—”
There was an urgency to Kira’s words Stiles wasn’t used to hearing. He whipped around so fast his stomach threatened to expel the scrambled eggs he’d had for breakfast, and it only tightened when he saw the car door was open wide and Caleb wasn’t in his seat.
“Oh my fucking—Caleb? Caleb?”
Before Stiles’ soul could leave his body, there was a voice to his right, a mile or so away from the parked car. It was Derek’s.
“He’s here,” Derek said in a strained voice. Again, like an exact replica of their first encounter, he was holding Caleb to his chest, approaching Stiles and Kira with an expression that said he would rather be eating glass. “I was running and he just—appeared.”
Derek was wearing running gear, which included a sweaty t-shirt and loose shorts, both black. He didn’t even sound agitated, which made Stiles’ already boiling blood grow hotter. Who the hell looked hot while exercising?
The second Derek set Caleb on the ground, Stiles went down to his knees and grabbed his son’s shoulders with enough force to make him whine.
“Caleb,” Stile said, sounding murderous even to his own ears, “did you open the car door?”
“Daddy, I—”
“You were strapped to your seat. Did you—God, how many times have I told you not to go where I can’t see you? I told you to stay in the car.”
Caleb’s pout was shaky. He tried to rub at his eyes but the angle was too awkward, Stiles’ hands were in the way. “I smelled Derek.”
“You smelled—you know what? I’m not indulging this behavior, kid. We’re going straight home. No park for you today.”
“Stiles,” Kira said, “maybe you should come in and have a glass of water. You look—”
It was Derek who cut her off. “I’d like to talk to you for a second. Alone.”
Great, Stiles thought bitterly. He was going to get a lecture on how to raise his own kid. Or worse, he was going to get rightfully told off for bothering a hot stranger twice in the same week.
“Go with Aunt Kira,” Stiles told Caleb, already herding him inside the house where Kira was waiting for him. “Just a second and I’ll be out of your hair, Kira.”
Kira shook her head, taking Caleb’s hand and closing the door softly, her footsteps barely heard over Stiles’ hammering heart.
He turned to face Derek. “I’m—”
“Your son is a werewolf.”
Stiles choked on his apology. Still sputtering, he said, “Excuse me?”
“You’re human,” Derek said, “but I guess the boy’s mother isn’t. He’s a little older than three, isn’t he? That’s when it starts manifesting.”
“Uh, buddy, I don’t think—”
“I’m only telling you this because he needs help. The reason he found me in that store the other day is that he’s desperate for a pack.”
An ache spread across Stiles’ chest. “He has a pack, dumbass. Why are you talking to me like I don’t know what my kid is? My best friend is a werewolf and—”
Derek did not look surprised. Or ashamed. “Bitten or born?”
“Bitten. What does that—”
“And he’s not Caleb’s mother.”
That comment pushed Stiles over the edge. Like hot lava, the words started to flow out of him, unstoppable and angry and careless. “Caleb doesn’t have a mother. I carried him. I’m so fucking sick of people assuming only women can be Omegas. Isn’t there a law against omega discrimination in this state? And by the way, miss me with your heteronormative bullshit. I swear to God I’m always having to deal with fucking—”
“Was his other parent a bitten wolf?” Derek said, ignoring everything Stiles just spat at him. “If they were born, it means Caleb’s instincts are stronger than what your bitten friend might be used to. Caleb needs an Alpha, not just a found family acting as a pack.”
Stiles did not know what to say to that. He’d thought he had things under control. He’d thought he was doing enough—bringing Caleb over on Sundays so he could spend time with the whole pack, letting him be scented from time to time—but maybe…
“Is that why you smell like sugar to him?” Stiles demanded. “Because you're a born Alpha werewolf?”
Something flashed across Derek’s face. It was gone a second later, too fast for Stiles to even begin trying to figure out what it meant. With a stoic look, Derek said, “Yes.”
Stiles thought of Caleb’s clinginess, of all the nights he’d woken up at four A.M only to find his son had sneaked into his bed because he did not want to sleep alone. Stiles thought of Scott’s seminars and how often he was away for those weird pet-lover meetings. He thought of how the pack had basically dissolved over the last two years—Lydia had moved away, Jackson too, and Liam, and Hayden. He thought of Caleb’s face after meeting Derek at the grocery store, how soundly he’d slept that night, how big his smile had been.
“Give me your phone,” Stiles said, voice a moment away from cracking. “I’ll put my number in.”