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The sign at the Phoenix read "One Night Only -- Dingoes Ate My Baby," and Stiles had to push his way through a decent-sized crowd to get to a small table back by the bar. Scott and Allison had come along, humoring him -- Stiles was probably one of the few kids in town who had heard of the band before, but it didn't really matter in a small town like this; pretty much any live music could get a good turnout. Stiles was too young to have seen them on the last tour before their long hiatus, but he'd found one of their albums a couple years ago in a rack of West Coast indie bands and had fallen in love with their sound. He couldn't believe they were actually in Beacon Hills now.

The band trouped out with their instruments and began their opening number without much fanfare, and it was so good and loud with the bass cranked up hard enough that Stiles could feel the beat thumping in his chest, way better than just listening to a CD. And once they started playing one of their more raucous songs, there were plenty of kids who decided to take advantage of an excuse to flail around and crash into each other in the dancing and mosh pit type area that the Phoenix cleared of tables for nights like this. Stiles hung back with Scott and Allison through the first couple of songs, but eventually threw himself into dancing, because good music in Beacon Hills was almost as rare as a Sasquatch sighting. Which was rare, because Sasquatch? Apparently a nice dude, but allergic to werewolves, if Derek with his straight face and the Unflinching Eyebrows of Solemnity were to be believed, which they probably weren't. But either way, awesome, danceable music was not a joy to be wasted. He lost himself in it for a while, and only came to when Dingoes finished their set and the usual background mix of pop rock hits started getting piped through the Phoenix’s speakers.

At some point during the set, Derek had appeared and was now lounging over by the pool table, watching the band and their techs break down and stow their gear. He had abandoned his leather jacket in the heat of the club, and was wearing a t-shirt that was tight enough to belong in Stiles’ wardrobe instead of Derek’s. In fact, it looked just like one of the shirts he'd had him try on for Danny. It probably was. Stiles took a moment to be annoyed at Derek's shirt-stealing ways, but then decided that the guy didn't really have that many shirts and besides, the shirt looked better on him than it did on Stiles. He looked good, ridiculously good, even more than usual with all that tightness showing off all the chiseled amazingness underneath, and Stiles took a deep, calming breath and rolled his eyes at himself because it really sucked so much when the object of your unrequited affection could apparently smell desire. (He really wished he could wipe from his brain forever Scott's explanation of how obvious Allison smelled when she wanted to jump his bones. He shouldn't ever have to hear about anyone wanting to jump Scott's bones. Ever. It was just bad. And wrong.)

Stiles decided that the reek of teen spirit from the dance floor combined with the amount of sweat that was currently dripping off of him would likely cover any hey-am-I-attractive-to-werewolf-guys pheromones he was giving off, so he decided to brave Derek's usual broody aura and went over to lean on the pool table next to him. Derek gave him a nod, all frowns as normal, and Stiles turned back to join him in watching everyone breakdown the stage.

“They were great, right?” Stiles asked him.

Derek didn’t look away from the stage. “I don’t know,” he said absently. Stiles gaped at him until Derek looked back at him, face impassive, and added, “They’re all right.”

“All right? They’re my favorite band, they’ve reunited after about a million years, and they happened to decide to come to our backwater, boring town out of all the other towns they could have chosen, which by the way makes them kind and generous in addition to being awesome, and all you can say is that they’re all right?”

Derek gave a half shrug, and then Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin because the band’s guitarist, a short, wiry guy with spiky hair, was suddenly right up in Derek’s space, a hand gripping Derek’s arm firmly – an act that would normally end up with someone getting shoved into a wall – and saying, “Hey, Big D, how’s it going?”

Stiles watched in amazement as Derek’s mouth twitched up at one corner before he pulled the guitarist in for a hug – granted, a one-armed, back-slapping, we’re-bros kind of hug, but still, a hug – and said, “Hey, Oz, good to see you.”

Oz slung an arm around Derek in return, then stepped back to look at Stiles, then back at Derek with a small quirk to his eyebrow.

Derek sighed. “Oz, this is Stiles.”

Oz held out a hand to shake. “Hey, Stiles.”

Stiles squeaked. Then somehow coordinated his limbs enough to hold out his hand too, and shake Oz’s, and say, “Hey there, nice to meet you. You guys were amazing tonight, thanks for coming here, it was awesome, you guys were amazing, seriously,” before he managed to stop talking, because he was seriously having some kind of fan boy moment here.

Derek growled a little bit.

“Right,” Stiles said. “Shutting up now.”

“Thanks, man,” Oz said, unfazed. His nostrils flared, and then he took a step back towards the stage. “Later?” he asked Derek. Derek gave a little nod, and Oz headed off backstage.

“Dude.” Stiles could hear his blood pounding in his ears. “Dude. How do you know Oz from Dingoes Ate My Baby?” His brain ticked into full gear. “Do you guys know each other from um. I mean. Are they old friends of yours?” Stiles was perfectly good at keeping secrets. He just still hadn’t come up with enough witty and amusing ways to not say “werewolves” in public.

Derek turned towards Stiles with an expression somewhere between annoyance and I-will-shove-you-against-a-hard-surface-momentarily, so Stiles held up his hands in the universal sign of peacemaking and submission. He tilted his head up, baring his throat just a smidge. He’d been paying attention to Scott, Lydia, and Jackson’s Baby Werewolf Training sessions with Derek: Ways to Calm Your Alpha, 101.

Derek’s brow cleared a bit, but he gave Stiles a little shove towards the door, where Allison and Scott were standing holding their coats. “Curfew,” he said, and then, eyes going dark again, this time with the briefest flash of red, “Just because they’re not a rival pack doesn’t mean there won’t be trouble. Especially if the Argents get wind that they’re in town. You’re going to go home and stay there.”

“But –“

Derek just looked at him and bared some slightly-pointier-than-normal teeth. Stiles went.


Stiles and the rest of the pack made their way over to the Hale house after school the next day as usual to find an unfamiliar motorcycle parked out front that looked beaten up but well-maintained. Lydia, Jackson, and Scott all scented the air in unison, and Allison and Stiles looked at each other.

“Trouble?” Allison asked.

“I don’t think so,” Lydia said, and then all three sniffed again, and walked as one toward the back of the house. Stiles and Allison followed.

As they rounded the corner, Stiles could hear a scuffle of dead leaves underfoot and then the telltale heaving breaths of – wolves, two massive alphas, teeth bared, ears laid flat, both up on two legs, front paws on each other’s shoulders, grappling as if each was trying to wrangle the other to the ground. Lydia, Scott, and Jackson each bared their teeth, fangs coming out, as Stiles yelled, “Allison, your bow!”

“But which one of them’s Derek?” she asked, already reaching into her backpack for her collapsible composite. Stiles hadn’t said a word when she’d started carrying it pretty much everywhere but at school, after the night with Peter and Kate.

“That one, obviously – the one with the mark on his shoulder –“ Stiles started to say, and then stopped as the two alphas, suddenly becoming aware of their surroundings and everyone around them, broke apart, and shook like wet dogs after a long swim – and resolved themselves into Derek and Oz. Looking very human, and very naked.

“Gah!” Stiles quickly looked everywhere but at all the nakedness. “What the hell is going on here?”

“Everything’s fine,” Derek said, sounding completely unfazed to be breaking all public indecency laws, and walked over to a tree stump that held two piles of clothes. He tossed one of them to Oz, and began putting the other set back on. Stiles did not watch except with his peripheral vision, because he was a gentleman. “We were just … there’s no real word for it, it’s a wolf thing.”

“Playing,” Oz offered, pulling his shirt on and buckling his jeans. “Roughhousing? Sometimes the wolf just wants to come out and play.”

“Cool,” Scott said. Stiles rolled his eyes. Scott was so easy. But Lydia had put her fangs away too, and Jackson looked about as relaxed as he ever looked. So apparently everything actually was ok.

“Playtime,” Stiles said, and he was suddenly, bitterly … jealous, yeah, that was jealousy of naked playtime, and man, he hoped that emotion didn’t have a smell. “It didn’t look very playful.”

Derek glared at him, but Oz gave Stiles a steady look, and raised his hands in a placating gesture. “No offense meant.”

“None taken,” Derek said, but Oz didn’t drop his hands until Stiles said, not really understanding why he should be offended, “Yeah, none taken.”

“I’m hungry,” Jackson said. Stiles rolled his eyes, but he knew his duty in this pack, and today it was making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches while the puppies learned how to turn their hands wolfy, one claw at a time, if training was still on schedule with a visiting alpha in town. He headed for the kitchen, but gave Derek a dirty look for good measure. “No more playing without giving us a little warning, big guy.”

If Stiles didn’t know better, he’d think Derek looked almost embarrassed.


It turned out Oz’s pack (made up of the Dingoes, their techs, and a few others, a motley crew of humans and werewolves) spent most of their time somewhere super remote, just north of the Arctic Circle, where they meditated a lot and lived off the land. Some of the pack had started to miss civilization, so the tour had been a good excuse to do some traveling without riling up any of the packs whose territory they’d be coming through, as long as they’d been given advance notice like Derek apparently had. The rest of the pack had already moved on to LA where their next show would be in a few days, but Oz had stayed behind. It turned out he really was old friends with Derek – they’d met on some spiritual walkabout thing back in the day, studying under the same elder to control the wolf.

Derek was easy with Oz in a way Stiles didn’t think he had ever seen Derek with anyone else. They sat together on the stoop, companionably laconic, watching as the rest of Derek’s pack trained, Stiles throwing targets for the werewolves to snag, Allison shooting blunt-tipped arrows for them to dodge. (Blunt arrows still caused damage, but Derek was serious about training. Luckily, Stiles was serious about first aid, and the wolves healed quickly, at least.)

And yes, Stiles was jealous of Oz, but he was also a bit awed that apparently Derek was capable of smiling. And he couldn’t really begrudge Oz anything, because Derek looked almost at ease, almost happy, with him there.


Hide and seek was Stiles’ least favorite training game, mainly because he was never the seeker, and really, it was more like run and seek with some capture the flag thrown in, and Stiles was more a sprinter than a distance runner, and got kind of bored if he had to keep going for long. Derek always found him first anyway, no matter how much Stiles zigged and zagged and tried to be deviously unpredictable. He took Stiles’ flag as a trophy with nothing but a raised eyebrow and a smirk before trotting off to track Allison, presumably. By the rules, Stiles should have kept running to make the others work, but he decided to pull over at the nearest handy log to sit and nurse the stitch in his side.

Oz wasn’t far behind Derek, but just nodded when he saw Stiles’ flag was already gone. “Derek found you first?” he asked, then said, confusingly, “That’s good.” He gave Stiles a quick appraising look, up and down, and then leaned slightly towards him, and sniffed. Stiles, reasonably comfortable with all kinds of weird werewolf behavior at this point, held still.

Oz nodded, apparently to himself, and said, apropos of nothing, “Hey, congratulations.”

“For being caught?” Stiles asked.

“No, I mean, on your bond.”

Stiles wasn’t sure what Oz was smelling – he was wearing three-day old jeans, and a shirt of Derek’s because his own had gotten completely drenched in mud in the last round of run and seek when Jackson and Lydia had both tackled him for a flag which Derek had already snagged. But whatever it was, Stiles lost track of it, because Scott showed up with a huge grin, and Allison’s flag wrapped around his wrist. Scott did the dumbest victory dances.


When he got home and found himself still wearing Derek’s shirt, he remembered the conversation with Oz and spent some quality time googling werewolf bonds and pack bonds. He found quite a bit of werewolf erotica, which wasn’t particularly useful, but picking through research on wolf packs revealed some interesting things. The whole “alpha male” concept apparently wasn’t entirely scientifically sound, at least in terms of wolf packs being led by one dominant male; wolf packs were in fact built around an alpha pair, with the other wolves in the packs being the offspring of the alpha pair. The alphas were equals and shared responsibility for their cubs and the well-being of the pack. Did things work the same way with werewolves? Oz was the first alpha Stiles had seen besides Derek since Peter Hale. It sounded like in the werewolf world, alphas were rare. Was Oz here trying to recruit an alpha as his mate, to come help lead his pack?

This thought left Stiles with a strange, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He tried to convince himself that this was because if Derek went to Canada, Scott would likely follow his pack leader, but as he ran a finger over the frayed hem of Derek’s shirt, he knew that wasn’t really the issue.

There was a knock on his door, and his dad was poking his head in almost before Stiles had a chance to pull up an essay draft on Moby Dick and minimize a tab showing video of a pack of small, fuzzy gray wolf cubs, swarming all over each other in an adorable puppy pile. (Stiles felt cuteness could be a key part of understanding this whole pack bond thing.)

“Hey,” his dad said, eyeing the computer screen skeptically, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something. You’ve been spending a lot of time out in the woods lately. At the old Hale estate.”

Stiles braced himself for the old don’t-go-messing-around-in-the-woods-after-dark speech, or the don’t-spend-too-much-time-with-suspected-felons-who-have-since-been-proven-innocent speech, but instead his dad said, “Why don’t you ask Derek over for dinner some time? I bet he hasn’t had a home-cooked meal in a while. Does that house even have electricity?”

“Sort of. We’re working on the wiring, and there’s a generator for the TV, but no fridge yet,” Stiles started, then rewound and replayed what his dad was asking. “You want Derek to come over for dinner? You don’t like Derek. Like, at all. You think he’s a creepy potentially murderous dude who lives in the creepy woods. Like a creeper.” Once again, Stiles experienced the familiar pain of wishing he was able to control what words came out of his mouth.

“But you like him,” his dad sighed, and then continued, before Stiles could make any feeble attempt at protesting this. “So I’ll make an effort. I bet he’d like your lasagna. Ask him to come by sometime next week,” he added, in a tone that brooked no argument, and closed the door behind him.

Stiles groaned and let his head thud against his desk once, lamenting the weirdness that was his life, and then turned back to the wolf puppy pile video. It was important research material.


On Friday, they all ended up spending the night, making the usual round robin call of excuses to parents of who was at who’s house – certainly no one was spending the night at a burnt out abandoned house in the middle of the woods – and they stayed up watching terrible horror movies until the small hours of the morning, sprawled out on the floor and on the two banged up couches Stiles had managed to convince Derek to haul in from the thrift store. Stiles woke sometime before dawn with his head pillowed on Derek’s lap, Derek and Oz sharing some kind of silent communication above him primarily involving the movement of eyebrows. Eventually Derek looked down at Stiles and huffed out a breath, shifting him up and pushing him to the nearest bedroom, which was Derek’s. Derek ensured he landed on the bed, and the last thing Stiles remembered before falling asleep again was Derek gently tugging off his shoes for him.

Stiles woke in the morning to an empty room and the sound of birds chirping cheerily, strangely close overhead (they were probably nesting on the second floor somewhere). His stomach grumbled; it was definitely breakfast time, and in the Hale house, this meant either more peanut butter and jelly, or Stiles would have to put some effort in. He decided Saturday morning warranted effort, so he stumbled out to the kitchen in stocking feet to survey the options. Sometime since he’d last voiced loud and vigorous complaints about the sad state of the Hale residence’s pantry, Derek had stockpiled a somewhat serious amount of Stiles’ favorite brand of pancake mix, and had even invested in a frying pan and mixing bowl from the thrift store, so Stiles set to work mixing the batter with water and oil (better than nothing, and there was even some fake syrupy stuff for on top) and was soon frying up a satisfyingly fluffy batch of pancakes.

The side door to the yard slammed open with a bang. Oz came in, rucksack in hand, followed by Derek, both of them clothed but damp with leaves, and breathing hard.

“Go for a run?” Stiles asked, and tried to sound like a normal, friendly guy who was just here making pancakes, not at all caring what kind of sexy-times shenanigans they’d been up to in the woods. But some pissiness probably crept in, because he couldn’t help but be jealous. Oz was awesome, and Stiles could totally see why Derek wanted to and clearly had hit that, had hit that this morning, rolling in the leaves outside the house.

“Not a run. A chase.” Oz winked at Stiles and took a pancake, holding it up in a little salute before downing it in two bites.

“I won.” Derek grinned with a little extra tooth.

Oz grinned back at him and snagged another pancake. “For the road.”

Stiles blinked at him. “You’re leaving?”

“Yeah, we’ve got our next show in LA tomorrow.” Oz pulled Derek in for a big, back-slapping hug. “It’s been great seeing you.” He pulled back and gestured to Stiles. “And getting to meet your mate.”

Stiles felt himself freeze, and saw Derek’s whole body tense.

“I’m really happy for you guys.” Oz slapped Stiles on the arm. “Convince him to bring the pack for a visit sometime, ok? Check for us in Tuktoyaktuk, up in the Northwest Territories – my buddy’s a Mountie there, he can point you in the right direction.” And then he was slinging his pack over one shoulder and was out the door.

Which left Stiles with his mouth hanging open, staring at Derek. He took a breath, and then another, and then asked, weakly, “Mate?”

Derek scowled, and then the door into the living room swung open.

“Oh, hey, pancakes,” Jackson crowed, and the room was suddenly too full of people. They crowded around the plate stacked high with pancakes, and then Scott and Allison were both playing keep away with Stiles’ frying pan, and the laughter and noise almost drowned out what was suddenly and definitely a very low, very cranky growl, coming from Derek.

Lydia noticed first. “Uh oh. Daddy and Papa need some alone time, guys,” she said, yanking the plate out of Jackson’s hands and making a break for it. The other three followed, and Stiles was left with only a spatula in hand, and no helpful new things to add to his earlier question.

“Am I – I mean, are we—“ He pointed the spatula at Derek, then at himself. Derek looked at Stiles, then at the spatula, and then incredibly, his cheeks turned pink, and he aimed his gaze fixedly at some point on the wall behind Stiles, and Stiles found himself babbling to fill the increasingly awkward silence. “Ok, I can see why he would think that we were bonded or mates, or whatever, right, because we spend a lot of time together, we share clothes sometimes, so we smell like each other. And you always find me first when we play run and seek, and I think my dad thinks we’re dating, and I fell asleep in your lap, and sometimes I sleep in your bed, and I probably smell turned on every time I’m around you and — oh my god, I’m going to stop talking now.”

Somewhere during Stiles’ horribly embarrassing monologue, Derek had turned back to Stiles, eyes serious. He said, voice low and rough, “You hold the pack together, you train them by my side, and you watch over them. You tend to their wounds and you feed them when they’re hungry. Even though you’re human, you understand the way of the pack. You plan and think like pack. Like a pack leader. You would be an ideal alpha mate, to share leadership of the pack with, even if I didn’t want you as you are, for myself.” He paused, then added, voice unsure, “If you would have me.”

“Oh.” Stiles felt like someone had knocked all of the breath out of him. And then somehow the most salient point caught up with him. “You want me?”

One corner of Derek’s mouth quirked up into a shadow of a smile, and he nodded.

“Well,” Stiles said, and licked his lips. Derek’s eyes followed the motion. “I … want you too. And all those other things, the alpha mate thing, that’s fine, I guess, since it basically sounds like what I’m already doing, right? I mean - ”

Then he lost his train of thought completely as Derek strode across the kitchen, pulled Stiles into his arms, spatula and all, and pressed their mouths together. Derek’s lips were surprisingly soft, and his tongue slipped into Stiles’ mouth, and then Stiles’ brain shorted out completely because Derek was pressing him up against the counter, their hips flush together, and Derek smelled amazing, and his hands were everywhere but not enough places all at once and holy fuck. Stiles’ life was kind of incredibly awesome.

“Hey, so,” Stiles pulled back, breathless. “Does this mean I have to like, pre-chew Scott’s food for him, because he’s still a puppy? Because that would be disgusting. But hilarious.”

Derek huffed out a laugh, then kissed his way down Stiles’ throat, teeth nipping gently here and there.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Stiles gasped, then moaned, and shifted his weight against the counter so he could wrap both legs around Derek’s waist, and that was when their cubs burst in, demanding that Stiles make more pancakes, and hey, get a room, and Derek was ordering them out into the yard to get shot at by Allison, and Stiles felt himself grinning like a complete idiot, and everything was so, so right.



“So, Derek,” Sheriff Stilinski said, using a knife that was significantly larger and sharper than necessary to cut a square of Stiles’ prime lasagna. “Stiles tells me you’ve been working on some repairs to your family’s estate.”

“Yes, sir,” Derek replied, and Stiles almost laughed at Derek’s formality, and the tense line of his shoulders - Derek was nervous! Who would have thought that Derek could ever be nervous? - but appreciated the way his dad’s stern face softened minutely at it. “We’ve gotten some of the wiring done, and the gas stove is functional now.”

Stiles’ dad frowned, handing over their plates. “I hope you’re being safe,” he said, and Stiles felt the tips of his ears heat up, before he added, “that kind of work can be dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Yes, sir,” Derek agreed. “But I’ve spent some time apprenticed to an electrician, and I have experience with this kind of thing, and doing general contracting work.”

“Just make sure you’re careful,” Stiles’ dad said, this time more to Stiles than to Derek, but Derek nodded seriously. Apparently satisfied, and hopefully not planning on giving Stiles another heart attack that this conversation might devolve into The Sex Talk, Stiles’ dad dug into his meal, grimacing as Stiles heaped a massive spoonful of steamed broccoli onto his plate next to the lasagna.

“No seconds until you finish your vegetables,” Stiles said.

Derek took his first bite of lasagna, and his eyes opened wide as he turned to Stiles. “You made this?”

Stiles beamed. “I know. I’m amazing, right?” He made the best lasagna in Beacon Hills, bar none. Deputy Pearson had nothing on him.

“Yes,” Derek said, quiet but earnest, and took another bite, glancing at Stiles before looking away and clearing his throat. Stiles felt his entire face turning pink as his dad looked between the two of them, frown smoothing away to be replaced by some combination of understanding and, quite possibly, approval.

“I can give you the name of a good electrician who owes me a favor,” he said. “Might be willing to give you a chance to continue that apprenticeship, if you’re interested.”

Derek looked up at him, and his face broke into an uncertain half-smile. “Thank you, sir. I’d appreciate that.”

“Please,” Stiles’ dad said, “call me John.”

Derek’s smile increased a notch, and he said, “Thank you, John.”

“Now, speaking of safety - ” Stiles’ dad began, looking like he was stealing himself for a particularly unpleasant conversation.

“Oh my god,” Stiles groaned, and covered his ears with his hands, singing a terrible rendition of the latest Nicki Minaj hit at top volume. Anything to not have to hear The Talk. Derek and his dad just stared at him with matching fondly exasperated looks, before his dad turned to Derek and imparted what were probably some scarring life lessons, while Derek nodded carefully and with great attention, before eventually kicking Stiles under the table and saying, “We’re done. Now you eat your broccoli.”

Stiles heaved a sigh of relief, and rebelliously served himself another helping of lasagna; a just dessert for having survived that unscathed.

The rest of the meal went surprisingly well, and ended with Stiles’ dad shaking Derek’s hand warmly and saying, “I’m glad you came by, Derek.”

Derek’s answering smile was more relaxed and open than Stiles had seen before, except in private. “It was my pleasure, sir.”

Stiles’ dad waved them out onto the porch and closed the door firmly behind them. Stiles exhaled a breath that he realized he’d been half holding since Derek had arrived. “That went well,” he said.

“Yes,” Derek agreed, then wrapped his hands around Stiles’ hips and pulled him in to kiss him. “And I’ve learned that you’ve been withholding some of your skills from the benefit of the pack. Your talents are clearly wasted on pancakes and peanut butter and jelly.”

Stiles felt a laugh bubbling up. “Right, the way to a werewolf pack’s heart is through their stomachs.”

“Yes,” Derek said, tilting Stiles’ head up and nipping a line of soft bites and kisses along his jaw. “Tomorrow, we're getting a refrigerator.”

“I love it when you talk dirty to me,” Stiles grinned, and nipped back, before pulling back to add, “He really liked you. I mean, sorry for the all the over-protective stuff and everything, but... in case it wasn’t clear, he liked you.”

Derek ducked his head, but looked pleased. “He's a good man,” he said. “I'm glad he's only forbidden you from doing any more work with anything that could combust or explode.”

“What?” Stiles yelped.

“He spoke very firmly about home improvement safety, and made it very clear that you were not to be involved, except in a supervisory capacity. And no power tools.”

“But I - ” Stiles sputtered. “And you agreed?”

“You were very busy singing. I had to answer for us both.” Derek's grin was toothy. “So no more assisting Lydia with Molotov cocktails. Luckily, we didn't get into the acceptability of spending time with arrows and wolves.” Stiles snorted.

“And he did also ask if we were being safe.” Stiles groaned in embarrassment, but Derek's face turned no nonsense again. “I told him that I would always do my best to keep you safe. And I will.” He planted a gentle kiss on Stiles' forehead and stepped back, adding with a parting smile, “Especially if that means keeping you away from live wires and power tools,” before jogging off down the street.

Stiles watched until Derek had disappeared into the darkness, and just basked a little in the glow of the porch light, grinning so hard his face hurt. He had his pack, and his mate, and his dad basically approved, even if he didn't know some of the nitty gritty details, like how his boyfriend liked to howl at the moon occasionally. This was going to be all right. Just as soon as he could figure out how to get his hands on Derek's table saw. No point in having a refrigerator if you didn't have a table to serve meals on, and Stiles was pretty sure he could manage four legs stuck to a slab of wood. This was going to be more than all right. This was going to be awesome.