nothing’s worse for a mutant power in the xmen universe then ‘can do everything and you can’t stop them’, and, boy howdy, you do see that a LOT in the more recent creations
Stiles stumbled down the stairs, bypassed the siren call of the coffee machine and headed towards the sound that he thought had likely woken him up.
He’d not been at home on a Sunday morning since… He couldn't remember. It had been a long standing tradition between him and his dad to do the father/son bonding thing after their late shift on Saturday nights; they drank a little, watched old movies or sports, and got up late and had pancakes and bacon at the diner halfway between Casa Stilinski and House de Hale.
But, John Stilinski had finally decided, after several years of pestering and a whole heap of encouragement from his deputies and the pack alike, to take a vacation. Stiles, Derek, and everyone else that was in the Sheriff’s phone had been getting photo updates and badly punctuated messages for the last week.
Stiles rubbed his eyes and then squished them closed as he opened the door to the outside world. The May sun was bright at nine at the morning. He walked down the steps from the front porch, over the paved driveway and towards the shed that Derek liked to tinker in.
At least Stiles thought that’s what Derek liked to do. Stiles had the computer room upstairs—Derek always knocked, never entered—and Derek had the shed or barn or whatever the hell it was. On Valentine’s Stiles had scored a really cool looking made-of-old-computer-parts statue thingy that Derek had made out here, so, yeah. Derek tinkered.
Stiles rounded the cute looking flower bed that was actually full of medicinal aconite and held his hand up in the air a moment before knocking. Whatever Derek was doing sounded suspiciously like revving the Jeep.
Stiles shook his head, he hadn’t moved his old car for years, just like Derek hadn’t touched the Camaro.
He knocked, and there were a few moments before Derek opened the door a ways. Stiles hadn’t had a plan for what he was going to say or do once he got here. He hoped it wasn’t too painfully apparent when he said, “Hey. Have you had breakfast?”
Derek smiled the smile that said he knew exactly what was going on in Stiles’ head. Stiles wrinkled his nose and tried not to make it obvious that he was both embarrassed at his own predictability and comforted by Derek’s knowing him so well.
“I’ll be finished in about ten or fifteen? I can make you something, or I’ll shout you at the place where you usually eat with your dad?”
Stiles thought both ideas sounded good, the first especially, but. He could kinda see over Derek’s shoulder and he really, really wanted to—
Derek shifted to the side a little and Stiles couldn’t see anymore. He tried not to pout.
“I’ll tell you what, I’ll shout you at the diner if you let me take a peek at what you’re doing in there.” Never let it be said that Stiles Stilinski wasn’t a nosy bastard. “Before, it sounded a lot like—”
“It sounds a lot like you wanting into my space,” Derek snarked with a smile on his face. “The only way you’re getting through this door is with a pinky-promise that the next time I need help with something on my laptop that I can walk into your sacred cyber-domain instead of standing like a fool in our upstairs hallway.”
There wasn’t actually ever a discussion about their separate spaces. It had just happened that way. A ten year habit was a hard one to break, though.
Stiles leaned forward and pressed a kiss under Derek’s eye, then one in front of his ear. He pressed his face against Derek’s for a moment and pulled back just enough to lift his hand up with his smallest finger extended. He let it spark a couple of times, ‘cause he could.
Derek lifted his own hand, extended his pinky-claw only ‘cause he could show off too, and curled it around Stiles’.
Stiles snorted, and Derek smiled and kissed him on the cheek, before turning their pinky-embrace into a more comfortable hand-holding. He pushed the door open with his other shoulder and turned to lead Stiles inside.
“Oh.”
It was an involuntary sound, and the wave of shocked joy scent that he was sure came with it was just as much of an exclamation.
The tops of Derek’s ears tinged pink enough for Stiles to notice before he looked back at what was before them.
It was a big shed, that he knew, but he’d never given thought to just how big. It was about six cars wide, thought there were only two just in front of them. He made himself look over them for a moment.
The other end of the building had work benches, electrical and hand tools, and a big open space. They shared some weights and the like in the basement of the house, but out here Derek had a heavy looking punching bag and some kettlebells that Stiles wouldn’t even think about trying to lift.
Stiles let himself focus on the two cars in front of him. They both looked better, newer, than he could ever remember them being. The Camaro was sleek and black and low and the light glinted off the lines up along the hood and down over the tubbed wheels. The Jeep, despite not looking sexy at all, looked the way Stiles imagined it had when it rolled of the production line in 1985. He hadn’t realized that the blue was that bright.
“I wanted to keep the original paint, but there were a couple of panels that were too far gone, I’m sorry.”
Stiles squeezed Derek’s hand, not sure he could form words that would make any real sense. “I…” Yeah, no, he had nothing.
Derek breathed in deeply and squeezed back. “I’m glad you like it.”
Stiles dragged his eyes away from it and instead looked into Derek’s. “It’s amazing. I.” He glanced back at the Jeep, then ran his gaze over the Camaro, but landed his attention back on his husband before he asked, “When did you? I…”
He really wasn’t doing well on the speaking thing.
“It took a while. Every Sunday I take them out for a couple of miles. It keeps the batteries charged, makes sure the brakes don’t seize, and confirms that nothing like oil lines or power-steering pumps are leaking.”
“Could we take one for a drive? Go down to the diner for breakfast in style? Or, you know, in the Jeep.”
Derek actually snorted. It turned into a chuckle as he bent a little and put his head on Stiles’ shoulder. “They’re not registered anymore, unfortunately.”
Damn. And yet. “In that case, I’ll take the second option. Breakfast cooked by my lovely husband. Then, maybe we could try that thing that you would never let us do back then?”
Derek’s growl rumbled into Stile’s chest. “Will we both fit?”
