Derek Hale sometimes wondered how in the hell did he get himself into these situations.
By situations, he didn’t mean the life and death ones that happened when they were dealing with a supernatural problem that cropped up occasionally.
He meant situations like the time Lyra asked him what a cock was a few weeks ago.
Situations like the incident with Scott about a year ago.
Situations like the time he was late to his own wedding because of a convenience store robbery gone wrong because Isaac just had to forget his wallet in the sketchiest part of town.
Those kinds of situations that made him think he was in some sort of twisted rom-com or a family sitcom that’d been blown all sorts of sideways.
Whenever his mind cataloged all of the incidents and he tried to find the common denominator, he made it a habit to look down at his left hand and see the shining band of metal that composed his wedding ring.
“It’s the one ring!” Stiles had said jokingly when he had slid it on Derek’s finger in front of all of their friends and family. His eyes had been suspiciously bright and his smile so wide that Derek couldn’t help but return it.
Thinking of that moment and seeing his ring instantly reminded him that being married to a powerful spark, being an Alpha of a pack of misfits, and having a daughter who was a mixture of he and Stiles meant that things like this were bound to happen.
Which was why, when the words, “Stilinski! What the fuck did you do?” rang throughout their house, all Derek could feel was resignation and a bit of indignation that those were the first words that greeted Derek Hale’s ears on an early Christmas Eve morning.
Not Stiles’ mouth coaxing his own open for good morning kisses that lead to good morning sex.
Not their five year old daughter, Lyra, pile driving the two of them and asking for breakfast.
Not his cell phone ringing with a call from the pack or work.
Instead he was awoken at- he cracked his eyes opened and saw the bright red digits glaring at him, five oh nine in the damn morning!
It wasn’t even time for the sun to be up and the coffee machine definitely wouldn’t be percolating right now.
This was his life.
He let out a groan, before stopping as his nose caught a whiff of his bed partner.
Stiles’ scent was a mixture of crisp apples, vanilla, and the sharp scent of mint that came from the supernatural research lab that Stiles worked in. His husband’s scent was also splashed with the smell of Derek and their daughter Lyra, who smelled like the fresh greenery of a forest after it rained and the scented laundry sheets and fabric softener that Stiles washed her laundry with.
Neither of those scents clung to whoever was lying down next to him.
The scent of fresh ink still drying from crisp, just printed paper mixed with expensive designer cologne filled his nose and he jerked up in confusion when he recognized who it belonged to.
Jackson Whittemore was in his bed.
And Stiles was slamming open the bedroom door with an angry vengeance that Derek hadn't seen since Angela Perkins had tried to bad-touch him at Lyra's Pee Wee football game.
“Stilinski! I repeat, what the fuck did you do!” Amber eyes lit with fury locked on to the grumbling figure slowly sitting up next to Derek.
It was Stiles’ body standing in the doorway alright.
Derek took in the slim limbs that had been wrapped around his body so many times, the pink full mouth that’d always moaned so nicely in his ear, the moles that Derek’s traced with his tongue thousands of times, and the pale skin that Derek’s fingers had just been massaging over five hours ago. It was even Stiles’ voice that had spoken.
But to Derek’s ears it was all wrong.
The harsh emphasis on the vowels and the sharp, clipped way each word was spoken wasn’t Stiles’ way of speaking. That sort of diction belonged to Jackson.
Jackson, whose physical body was right next to Derek while Stiles’ physical body was standing in the doorway.
Next to Derek, Jackson let out a jaw breaking yawn and stretched languidly. His muscled body moved awkwardly as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.
It was such a typical Stiles move that it made Derek’s breath catch in his throat at the pieces his mind started putting together.
There was no way they’d pissed someone off enough to have something like this happen.
“Ever heard of knocking asshole? And for the last time Whittemore, my last name is H-” the sentence was cut off as Not-Jackson’s blue eyes met Not-Stiles’ amber ones.
Not-Jackson looked at his hands, slowly.
His eyes blinked a few times in bewilderment as he started to catalog each part of his new body. Finally, his lips thinned in resignation before he calmly lifted his head up to look at Not-Stiles in the doorway. Not-Stiles was panting heavily, as if to control the freak out that was slowly mounting. Derek knew, that on the inside both of the Nots were freaking out.
He could even admit a part of him was freaking the hell out.
He opened his mouth to try to think of something calming to say.
Something Alpha-like and husband-like.
The two words that came out of his mouth weren’t exactly what he was aiming for, but he figured they summed up the situation entirely.
"Well shit is right." Not-Jackson grumbled as he pushed the thick bed comforter away from his newly acquired larger body. His feet made a louder thunk than he was used to as they landed on the smooth hardwood of the bedroom floor. Derek noticed belatedly that Not-Jackson was wearing the clothes that had been on his proper husband's body the night before. The fabric of the thin Lion King shirt was stretched tight over the expanse of Not-Jackson's wide torso. The mismatched pajama pants weren't faring any better. Not-Jackson must have thought the same.
"Damnit Jackson, didn't Lydia tell you to stop ordering your work lunches from that fancy ass restaurant? My shirt is ruined." Not-Jackson shifted around on the edge of the bed and readjusted the drawstring of his pants. "Good thing you gave me more room in the crotch area or my pants would be fucking finished."
An inhumane snarl ripped through Not-Stiles' throat, and the sound of it coming from those vocal chords caught Derek so off guard, he didn't noticed the crackle of lightening surrounding Not-Stiles' body.
It wasn't until Not-Jackson shoved him off of the bed after they'd both been hit that he managed to suffer through the aftershocks with some dignity right before Not-Stiles' smaller frame dove at Not-Jackson.
The fighting didn't last long once Not-Stiles realized he'd be bruising his own face, even if it was temporary, and Not-Jackson realized that all of his spark was still in his body.
Derek would like to think that his roar of irritation that even woke his cub up had something to do with the cease and desist, but with the way the Nots were glaring at each other, he knew this had to end. Soon.
Two hours and a scorched bed later, Not-Jackson and Not-Stiles were muttering angrily to each other in the family room.
Derek was sitting at the rarely used dining room table in the rarely used formal dining room, writing a list of all of the packs that they knew of that had witches in their arsenal. Lyra, who was morning person by no fault of her parents, was happily shoveling Lucky Charms into her mouth with gusto while she sat in the chair to his right.
Her dark, shoulder length sleep mussed hair and rumpled Thor pajamas were a contradiction to her alert hazel eyes, and Derek couldn’t resist the urge to stop writing for a moment to run a hand through her soft hair before tapping her freckled covered nose in affection.
“Love you daddy!” she chirped around a mouthful of cereal, and Derek winced as splotches of milk and chewed marshmallows hit the table cloth and the collar of her shirt.
“Love you too cub. Are you sure you’re okay with going over to your Grandpa’s for the day?”
An enthusiastic nod was her response. “Yup! I can help him organize his records!”
Over in the next room, Derek heard the angry muttering pause.
Lyra, no doubt could hear the pause in conversation too. Her hazel eyes widened slightly and she hastily pushed her bowl of cereal away before scrambling out of her chair. Hackles of suspicion rose through him.
Coming between Lyra and Lucky Charms was like trying to come between Stiles and curly fries.
It didn't happen.
“Lyra, sit down.” He ordered in what Stiles called his “Daddy voice.”
“Daddy voice” kept her from taking off at parks and in grocery stores.
“Daddy voice” let her know when it was time to stop playing with her food and when to apologize for sassing an ignorant teacher who told her unicorns weren’t real.
Stiles had sassed that teacher enough for the both of them.
“Daddy voice” also made her sullenly sit down and rest her chin on her forearms. Cupid’s bow lips that looked like Stiles’ pouted when Not-Jackson and Not-Stiles walked in.
“The only good thing about me being in Jackson’s body is the super-hearing,” Not-Jackson said loftily. “And one thing I know for sure is that you hate helping Grandpa organize records little lady. Why the rush to leave?”
Lyra bit her lip and Derek put down the pen he’d been using to write and crossed his arms. Silence descended over the room and he knew the implied accusation would start to eat at her.
No matter how much of the “Daddy voice” Derek used, Stiles’ method of “Mommy Silence” always worked the best.
It would just take a few more moments and-
“Alright! Alright! I did it okay?”
And there it was.
“Lyra, what is ‘it’ exactly?” Not-Jackson asked sternly and Derek had to admit it was sort of comical seeing Stiles’ reprimanding parental face plastered on Jackson’s face.
“I was going to tell you all about it tonight! I didn’t know it was actually going to happen so soon! Daddy, you said Santa delivered presents and wishes the night before Christmas!” Her hazel eyes looked at him accusingly.
Of course this just had to be his fault too. In typical Stiles fashion she rambled on. “Mommy told me to write my list for Santa when we went to Mr. Deaton’s, but Mommy forgot to give me paper and a pen so I had to borrow stuff from Mr. Deaton’s desk drawer.”
Not-Stiles groaned. “Little Stilinski, didn’t anyone ever teach you not to go through the drawer of a man who has magical items everywhere?”
For once, Derek couldn’t disagree with something Jackson had said.
They had actually taught Lyra that, but then again the Sheriff had taught Stiles not to wander in the woods at night.
Werewolf friends, werewolf husband, and a werewolf daughter were proof on how that warning had turned out.
“Lyra, what exactly did you use from Deaton’s drawer?” he asked her and picked the pen back up, prepared to write a list.
“Well, I used the weird orange pen in there and there was some wrinkly yellow paper.” Her nose scrunched in distaste at touching the no-doubt ancient items and Derek stifled the laugh that wanted to bubble up at her child-like disgust for Deaton’s supplies.
“There was also some weird powder stuff and it was sparkly so I used it as glitter to go on my letter before I put it in an envelope for Mommy to mail off to Santa! Auntie Erica says glitter always helps.” She supplied.
“Your Auntie Erica also thinks wearing leather corsets to a company ball is acceptable.” Not-Stiles grumbled.
Lyra glared at him in reply. Out of all of the women in pack, she was fiercely close to Erica.
She had even clawed a woman’s purse who had tittered disapprovingly at Erica’s attire at a carnival once. Derek didn’t doubt Not-Stiles had probably just messed up the chance of being fixed immediately.
Lyra stuffing a mouthful of soggy Lucky Charms, crossing her arms stubbornly, and looking so much like Laura that it made his heart ache for a moment proved his theory.
“Go get dressed in the clothes I set out for you cub. We’re leaving in fifteen.” Derek ordered. Lyra swallowed her last mouthful of cereal and slid out of the dining room chair. As she shuffled out of the room, her gait could be compared to an inmate that knew it was guilty.
“I’m sorry Mommy. I was just trying to make one of you and Daddy’s wishes come true. I wrote your wishes down on my list to Santa.” She mumbled. Her eyes were bright and Derek knew she honestly did feel bad about how upset everyone was.
“What wishes baby?” Not-Jackson asked gently. Derek tried not to let on how creepy it was to see that expression of tenderness directed towards his child on Jackson’s face.
“The wish that Uncle Jackson could walk a mile in your shoes and understand the stuff you go through. Daddy had wished that you two would get along.”
Derek raked his brain to try to figure out when had this conversation taken place. There hadn’t been much of a problem that was pack-related in a few months. However, Stiles and Jackson had gotten into an argument last week about Jackson turning down helping Stiles with some sort of fund-raiser. They’d had the discussion right before bed.
“He thinks it’s always about money!” Stiles exclaimed as he dragged the fluffy blue towel through his hair furiously.
“If you rub any harder your hair is going to fall out.” Derek pointed out, trying to lighten the mood.
The small scowl he got in return let him know to wisely keep his counsel to himself if he still wanted to get laid tonight.
“Whatever Der. I asked him to help run the booth his company is setting up at the indoor Christmas Carnival, and do you know what he does? He makes his secretary sign up to do it instead!” The slimmer man threw the damp towel in the hamper and yanked on a pair of Superman boxers. “He thinks he can just throw money at something and it’s okay to do whatever he wants! The point of the fundraiser is to meet and greet people from the outer counties!”
“Right.” Derek agreed. When Stiles was this upset, agreeing was all that he could do.
Well that, making him breakfast in bed, and blow jobs seemed to work best.
He waited until Stiles got closer to him before he settled his hands on his slim hips, making sure to thumb the etched lines of Stiles’ hips.
“He tried to say that he was too busy with Micah and Lydia to help! Micah and Lydia are going to be in Milan with Lydia’s parents! Besides, it’s not like I have a lot of time on my hands either, but I’m still going to be there! It’s the fucking holidays! You’re supposed to be giving.” Stiles huffed, but his stomach quivered under Derek’s touch.
“Giving, right.” Derek murmured in assent before leaning forward to suck a deep purple bruise right above Stiles’ belly button.
Stiles gasped. “Som-Sometimes I wished Jackson could walk a mile in my shoes and understand the stuff I have to go through to make shit work.”
Derek circled his tongue in Stiles’ belly button, laving up the water that still resided there. “I wish you guys could get along, sure. But, I’d rather you understand the stuff that's about to happen right now.”
Stiles’ fingers threaded through the strands of Derek’s hair and made him shiver when he tugged.
“Oh, I understand what’s about to happen Alpha Hale.”
Derek slid the boxers down to Stiles’ thighs and licked his lips hungrily at the delicious site in front of him. He wrapped a sure hand around the flushed skin of Stiles' cock and gave it a smooth tug before leaning down to lap at the pre-cum beading at the tip.
Stiles bit his lip and moaned and Derek smirked.
“Good. Now it’s time for me to give you my donation. All in the holiday spirit of giving of course.”
“Baby, that discussion happened when you were supposed to be asleep. What’d we tell you about that?” Not-Jackson asked.
Lyra huffed in irritation, as if Not-Jackson was the one in trouble. “I know Mommy. It won’t happen again.”
Not-Stiles snorted. “That’s what she said with Scott.”
Derek winced at the lethal glare Not-Jackson shot at Not-Stiles.
They never brought up the incident with Scott.
Hell, if looks could kill, Not-Stiles would be in the deepest parts of the underworld right now. Derek would probably let that happen with how frustrated he was with the situation.
After, he got his husband back into his own body.
“Okay everyone. Lyra, go get dressed. Now.” The five year old nodded and promptly exited.
He turned to the Nots next. “Stiles, call Deaton and tell him what’s going on. Jackson, call Lydia and ask her to meet us at the clinic. I’m sure Erica and Boyd will watch Micah.” Derek pinched the bridge of his nose. “And Jackson? When this is done, you will help Stiles with the fundraiser. That’s an order.”
He let his fangs grow and the red bleed into his eyes to emphasize his point. Not-Stiles blinked in disbelief before letting out a grumbling assent. They both broke away to get to work and Derek headed upstairs to make sure Lyra was actually putting on the clothes he had set out for her. Whenever he didn't double check, she always ended up in rain boots and whatever else struck her fancy. Sure enough, a peek into her room showed she was pulling the bright rain boots from her closet. He tapped a claw on the door and raised a warning brow at her. With a huff, she shoved the boots back in the closet before grabbing the clothes he'd assembled for her and strut into her bathroom.
This was shaping up to be a long day.
Many hours later, when Lyra is actually asleep in her bed, and Derek and the real Stiles are sure she won’t wake up, Derek will lock the master bedroom door. He will then pin his “fully-restored back into his own body “ husband to the sheets that Stiles thinks are unnecessarily expensive, but likes to rub against when he thinks Derek isn’t paying attention.
“Who would have thought that coupled with Deaton’s unicorn powder, my spark and your Alpha power meant that our daughter had enough unleashed magic to make some items on her list to Santa come true?” Stiles will whisper and lock his arms around Derek’s neck.
“It’s a good thing everything else on her list were material things the pack has already gotten her.” Derek will nuzzle into the crook of Stiles’ neck before nipping at the skin there.
Stiles will squirm before twining his legs with Derek and letting out a thoughtful hum. “Well, almost everything.”
“What else did she want?” Derek will ask before peppering kisses on to the moles on Stiles’ face.
Stiles will cup Derek’s face in his hands and use his tongue to lick along the seam of Derek’s lips. “She did write that she wanted an early acceptance letter to Hogwarts.”
Derek won’t even get to fully start to laugh incredulously before an obnoxious pecking will start at their bedroom window and the hoot of an owl will shortly follow it.
Stiles will snigger at the look of shock and surprise on Derek’s face before slowly trailing a hand down Derek’s body.
“You can open the window after I give you my donation.” Stiles will purr and Derek will wholeheartedly agree.
After all, the Hales were definitely into the spirit of giving.