There are little handprints on the walls. Eli has little hands. Case solved.
Based on the incorrect quote
Read it on AO3, here
Stiles leant against the kitchen counter, dragging his hand down his face as he let out a heavy sigh. A heavy case load and late nights were starting to wear him thin. And even when he wasn’t working late, his mind ran rampant, making sleep near impossible.
He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to wake himself more.
The sound of plastic clattering caught his attention. Stiles turned to look where Eli sat in his booster seat at the table. The food tray on his seat was splattered with toast and jam.
“You okay there, Trouble?” Stiles asked.
Eli giggled as he snatched up one of the pieces of jam-covered toast that he had knocked over and took a bite out of it.
“Yeah,” he chirped through a mouthful of mushed toast.
The nickname that had come from Eli’s comedic timing; Stiles’ dad said something about trouble following wherever Stiles and Derek go, and Eli toddled in after them at that moment, prompting the
Sheriff to say, “And here’s trouble!”
The name stuck. And it proved to be fitting on several occasions.
Stiles slid the coffee pot from the percolator and poured the dark liquid into his mug, heaping in spoonfuls of sugar before walking around the corner of the bench and into the dining room.
“Yummy?” Stiles asked as he walked over to the table and sat down next to Eli’s booster seat.
“Yummy,” Eli replied around another mouthful.
Stiles gave him a soft smile before resting his elbows on the table and letting his heady fall, heavy, into his hands.
“You okay?” Eli asked, his sweet voice coiled with worry.
“I’m okay, bud,” Stiles replied, unable to lift his head. “Just tired.”
He felt something tap his cheek. He lifted his head and turned to see what was poking him.
Eli held out a half-eaten piece of toast for him.
Stiles couldn’t help but smile.
“Thanks, bud,” he said softly, taking the piece of toast offered to him. He ate the toast, dusting the crumbs off his hand before laying his head back in his hands and watching his son eat his breakfast.
He let his mind drift, the world blurring into swirls of colour and movement. His eyes grew heavy as the seductive embrace of sleep crept into the back of his mind. His heavy eyes drifted shut and he sank into the darkness.
“Stiles?” Derek called from the hallway, starling Stiles.
“Hmm?” Stiles hummed questioningly—the most he could muster up.
“Why are there little handprints on the walls?” Derek asked, peering around the open doorframe of the dining room.
Stiles blinked a few times, his mind rattling through the mess of thoughts for an answer. He lifted his head slightly and turned to look at Eli in his high chair.
“Why are there little handprints on the walls?” he whispered.
“Because I have little hands,” Eli answered, holding up his jam-and-crumb-covered hands to show him.
Stiles turned his head to look at Derek.
“Because he has little hands,” he repeated.
Derek let out a soft chuckle, turning back towards the hallway to hide his smile.
It took a moment for Stiles’ brain to catch up with what he said, realisation stirring him enough for him to sit up and drag his hand down his face.
“What is it this time?”
“Markers,” Derek answered. “Thankfully, it’s the washable ones that Lydia got him.”
“I’ll clean it,” he volunteered, pushing back his chair as he tried to summon what little energy he had left.
“No,” Derek said softly. “Trouble and I will clean it after we finish breakfast.”
“I’m Trouble!” Eli said excitedly, perking up at his nickname.
Stiles and Derek couldn’t help but laugh.
“Yes, you are,” Stiles said softly, smiling lovingly as he reached out and gently tousled Eli’s hair.
