Silver Dragon Press

“Stiles,” Ted says as he rounds the front of the car. His eyes flick to Derek, and then to James, and there’s an indefinable change in his face that has Stiles’ shoulders tightening and he takes a long, slow breath, the better to take careful hold of his temper, because there are consequences for everything he says and does now, and he’s not a sixteen year old smartass anymore.

So now it’s a beautiful crisp morning and the house is full of family. They’ve shredded their way through a half-ton of brightly colored wrapping paper and Ellie’s squeals have attained a pitch Derek didn’t know human throats could reach.

“C’mon,” Stiles whines, half-turning. “You can’t drag me into your lap and then expect me not to want to hit that.”

Mark dies a little at ever having heard that phrase come from his son’s mouth, let alone directed at an older, leather-jacket-wearing accused murderer with seemingly permanent three day growth.

Derek watches that sharp brain come fully online.
“Oh God,” Stiles says, and now he smells of embarrassment. “Fuck. I just- did I just have a fucking panic attack in front of Jackson?”
“It’s okay,” he says simply.
“Really. Is it.” Stiles sighs without looking up. “Well. At least I wasn’t naked.”