Stiles stands frozen, unable to take his eyes off the scene in the kitchen. When he regains the use of his limbs, he backs away carefully, making no sound on his stockinged feet, back to the bedroom.
‘Braeden,’ Stiles hisses in her ear and pokes her in her side.
He should know better. He should know better than to startle awake a US Marshall turned supernatural bounty hunter. Braeden slams her forearm against his chest, pushing Stiles into the mattress, then swings one leg over his waist so she’s straddling him. In the flurry of movement she even manages to get hold of Stiles’ wrists and pins them over his head.
‘Morning, babe,’ Stiles grins up at her. She hates it when he calls her that.
Braeden rolls her eyes, but still presses a quick kiss to his forehead. ‘Why are you waking me up at—’ she squints at the clock ’—eight in the morning on a Saturday? Damn it, Stiles!’
‘It’s not my fault! Derek is freaking me out,’ Stiles protests.
Braeden only now seems to notice that their boyfriend is missing from the bed. She lets go of Stiles, jumping off him and out of bed. Stiles scrambles after her, then grabs her wrist to pull her to the kitchen.
Braeden goes completely still when she sees what is happening in the kitchen.
Derek is dancing. To a song. On the radio. It doesn’t end there, though, he’s singing and whistling along to it.
‘What do you want from me. I'm not America's sweetheart. But you love me anyway.’
‘What’s he doing?’ Braeden whispers, pulling Stiles out of hearing distance from Derek.
‘I think he’s making breakfast muffins.’
‘Hmm.’ Braeden sneaks forward again to watch Derek. Stiles is right behind her, pressing himself against her back to look over her shoulder.
‘My kind of medicine is whiskey straight. I got a mouth to put you in your place, and they. They said I'll never be the poster type. But they don't make posters of my kind of life.’
Stiles watches in fascination as Derek sways his hips from side to side in time with the music. He always knew Derek would have moves.
‘So kick out the jams, kick up the soul.’
Derek places the tray with the muffins in the oven, and kicks the door shut. He presses start, then turns to look directly at Stiles and Braeden, raising his eyebrows.
‘Pour another glass of that rock and roll. Turn up the band, fire in the hole. Gonna lose control tonight.’
Waggling his eyebrows, Derek dances towards them. Stiles can’t help smiling at the ridiculous sight. Braeden huffs out a fond laugh. When he reaches them, Derek grabs one hand from each of them, pulls them into the kitchen, and twirls them. Braeden easily spins underneath Derek’s arm, but Stiles is too tall and has to hunch to avoid hitting Derek’s arm with his head. Stiles can’t hold in his laughter.
And just like that, Stiles gets it. He gets why Derek is like this, right now, because Stiles is feeling the same, almost overwhelming, happiness. It makes him feel light, and safe, and giddy
On the next twirl, Stiles trips over his own feet and crashes into Derek’s chest. Derek fumbles to keep them upright. Braeden’s loud laughter fills the kitchen, when she is the one that ends up holding them both up.
‘So how long until those muffins are done?’ Braeden asks, as Stiles and Derek find their footing again.
‘Twenty five minutes. And then they have to cool down for a bit before we can eat them.’
‘Then we can dance a little longer,’ Braeden grins. She pulls Derek against her chest, grabbing Stiles’ t-shirt to pull him against her back, with her other hand.
Stiles immediately nuzzles into her hair. She smells nice, like sleep and the fresh sheets they had to put on last night. When he lifts his head, Braeden quickly turns her head to plant a kiss against his cheek. Stiles catches Derek’s eye, and the other man looks so soft, hair still sleep mussed and a smile on his face, that Stiles’ heart stumbles.
They’re not swaying to the music, really. It’s just a slow, private sway, disconnected from anything else in the universe. It’s just for them.
‘You love me anyway. You love me anyway. I’m not America’s sweetheart.’