Derek gives each member of the pack a leather jacket on their eighteenth birthday. Stiles can’t wait to see what he might get.
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Stiles hardly thinks Derek giving leather jackets as gifts on eighteenth birthdays can be called a ‘tradition’ considering it only started back in September with Boyd, but it’s become a thing that Derek does. An incident, then a coincidence, then a pattern.
Every jacket matches each person’s particular style in a way Stiles is sure means Derek can’t be picking these out himself. Boyd’s had been no-messing-around and straight-zipped, Erica’s a little more risqué with its revealing mesh stripes, the cut of Lydia’s flattering the high waists of her dresses.
They end up looking like some sort of club whenever they’re spotted around town together, like the T-Birds from Grease – or D-Birds as Stiles has taken to calling them, much to Derek’s frustration. Jackson had actually joined him in his mocking, but when his turn had come, he’d yanked his jacket on as soon as he’d torn it out of the wrapping and has barely taken it off since, the traitor.
The problem is, Stiles is the one turning eighteen last, and he’d actually started feeling a bit left out as the jacket-less amongst their number started to dwindle. It had Derek’s frustration turning to smugness, teasing Stiles over how much he actually wants in.
And the day is finally here.
He’s meeting the pack at Macy’s Diner in thirty minutes for shakes and burgers and curly fries and onion rings – and whatever other greasy morsels of heaven he can get his hands on – before they head to the theatre across the street to see the latest Iron Man movie. That makes it a bit of a surprise when a knock comes at his bedroom door and Derek pokes his head in.
“Your dad let me up,” is all he says in explanation.
Stiles’ eyes zero in on the neatly wrapped gift cradled by Derek’s hand, plain navy blue paper, the contents soft. His fingers twitch.
Derek holds the gift out wordlessly and Stiles makes grabby hands as he steps closer to take it, so eager to see what Derek has bought for him.
The girls’ jackets have all been feminine and sleek, the boys’ jackets edgy and so fucking cool – even Scott’s, who should have just looked like a ridiculous little puppy trying to play tough. What has he picked out for Stiles?
He tears one end of the paper open and tips the contents out into his hand, tossing the wrapping aside to unfold the jacket and hold it up in front of him.
He blinks in confusion. Double takes. Because this isn’t a shiny new jacket. It isn’t even an artfully distressed vintage one.
“Gee, thanks, Derek. A hand-me-down. Just what I’ve always wanted,” he says, turning to his usual sarcasm to hide the tiny sting of hurt in his chest that’s growing swiftly bigger.
“It’s mine,” Derek states and Stiles rolls his eyes.
“I know it’s yours. I’ve only seen you wearing it a thousand—” The words die in his throat.
Derek’s stare is intense, great eyebrows furrowed, and his words replay in Stiles’ head, hearing the way he’d said it, like he’s begging Stiles to understand.
And Stiles should have understood this instantly. Derek loves this jacket. He’d never just give it away, and especially not to just anyone, not when his own scent must have soaked so deep into it by this point that it will never wash out. He’s not giving this to Boyd, his Second, or to Scott, bitten the longest, or even Jackson, the first wolf he turned.
He’s giving it to Stiles.
Stiles’ mouth has dropped open but he can’t muster any strength to close it, staring back into Derek’s now hopeful eyes and, oh.
“Oh,” Stiles says, and for the first time in his life, someone has managed to render him completely speechless.
Derek starts to smile then, teasing, and he steps closer, makes to reach for the jacket. “Well, if you don’t want it, I’ll just—”
“No! It’s mine! Mine now!” He jams his arms into the sleeves before Derek can take it from him, tugging it tight around himself like a cocoon that he’s just daring Derek to try and wrestle him out of.
Derek is grinning now, bright as sunlight. He steps closer still and grasps the lapels, adjusting them with a tug in a mockery of that time in Stiles’ bedroom when he’d agreed to harbour Derek’s fugitive ass. And then Derek is kissing him, using those same lapels to drag him forward and up to his lips, soft and stubbly and perfect. Stiles’ eyelids flutter when Derek pulls back, staring at him through hazy eyes.
“Happy Birthday,” Derek whispers.
Stiles’ answering groan is muffled against Derek’s mouth.
