They are mud-spattered, blood-spattered, bruised, and exhausted. Erica is bitching loudly while she waits for the slash in her side to knit back together, and Allison is tiredly pressing a cold pack to the back of her head while Scott hovers beside her.

There's a line for the (crappy) shower in Derek's one-bedroom apartment, and Lydia (first in line, naturally, and already immaculate and gorgeous even with dripping hair and no makeup) is standing by the door with a stopwatch to ensure everyone has at least a little hot water. It might be easier for them all to go to their own houses...but this latest fight had been hard. No one is quite ready to go their separate ways.

Derek is slumped at the breakfast bar, an open bottle of some ridiculous small-batch beer in front on him. He's staring at the condensation beading on the sides of the bottle like they hold the answer to the universe when Stiles collapses into the seat beside him and lets his head thump down on the counter.

"I'm dead," he mutters. His whole body aches, and there is dried mud in places where mud ought not to be. Especially considering how many layers he's wearing. Derek huffs a little.

"You can't be dead. You're still talking."

"I'm a very noisy dead person."

"There's a shocker," Derek says dryly. He grabs the bottle and holds it out to Stiles with a questioning tilt of his eyebrow.

"Not twenty-one, yet, you know."

"Mmhmm, what am I thinking, offering an innocent lamb like you a beer?"

"Damn straight," Stiles says with a sharp nod. Derek snorts in amusement as Stiles grabs the bottle and takes the healthy swig, making a pleased noise in the back of his throat at the flavor. When he puts the bottle down, it takes him a bare second to realize Derek is staring at his mouth.

And Stiles...Stiles is tired of this.

It's been almost three weeks since one of their (still frequent, but never vicious anymore) disagreements had taken a left turn into brand new territory. Since an intense argument over some issue Stiles can't even remember had ended with Derek's hands up his shirt, barest hint of claws pricking his skin, while Stiles clutched at his shoulders hard enough to leave bruises that instantly healed. Since Stiles had stumbled home with a ring of vivid, pleasantly throbbing love bites around his neck. Since the pack had raised a collective eyebrow...and money had exchanged more than a few hands.

They haven't discussed it since. They haven't done anything else since. Derek hasn't been able to quite act the same way around Stiles since.

And Stiles is tired of it.

He doesn't...he doesn't know if he and Derek could be good together. They're friends, these days. For all that Scott has finally accepted his place in Derek's pack, it's Stiles who acts more as Derek's second. They still spark off each other like matches and kerosene, though, and sometimes it feels like the solidarity they're all starting to forge is fragile as tissue paper. He doesn't know if they'd be good together.

He just knows he wants to find out.

Later, after everyone is showered and healed (and bandaged up and dosed with painkillers in Allison and Stiles' cases), after they've ordered and consumed an ungodly amount of pizza, after they have unwound as much as they can-Stiles hangs back when they all start drifting back to their own homes. He waits silently until Boys, Erica, and Isaac have left, making a pretense of gathering up the trash and dirty dishes. Finally, though, it's just him and Derek in the apartment.

And he has some vague idea of sitting down and talking about this like adults. He does. He's eighteen now, that's totally old enough to be doing things the adult way.

"Ask me to stay," he blurts out, a trashbag in one hand, and a pile of dirty plates in the other.

Or, he can just jump in with both feet. That's always worked out pretty well for him.

Occasionally.

Sometimes.

At the sink, where he's washing up the masses of dishes they've used, Derek goes still.

"What?" He doesn't turn around, doesn't look at Stiles. He's still up to his elbows in soapy water.

Stiles presses his lips together, takes a step forward. "Ask me to stay," he says again. "Or don't. I just...look, if you wanna keep ignoring thatnight, okay. You want to keep things the way they are, you know, between us...I'm cool with that." He sets the trash bag down, keeps walking until he's standing next to Derek at the kitchen counter. He sets the plates down carefully. "I'm just saying...if you want more, you can have it. But you have to ask."

He waits a beat, swallowing softly. The tension is radiating off of Derek in waves. Stiles can see where the muscles of his forearms are bunched and tight, as he clenches his fists under the water in the sink. The silence stretches between them, thick and almost oppressive, and after a few moments, Stiles just nods to himself.

"Okay then," he says quietly. He takes a step back from the counter, turning to leave.

Derek's hand shoots out and latches onto his wrist, pulling him back.

"Scrubs...good look for you," Stiles says, wiggling his eyebrows playfully and utterly ignoring the dark look Derek shoots him. It's been years since Stiles has found those glares the least bit intimidating, and even if he still did...it's impossible to be intimidated by a man in a paper hat. Derek pulls uncomfortably at the collar of the blue scrub shirt he's been provided, a paper surgical mask dangling down his chest. Stiles is not exaggerating-sometimes he thinks it'sstupidly unfair how good-looking Derek is.

Then he remembers that he's the one who gets to see Derek naked.

Derek shakes his head and comes over to stand by the bed Stiles is propped up on, reaching down to grip Stiles' hand. There are several scrub techs and nurses rushing around, getting equipment and IV's ready while the final preparations are made in the surgical suite. It's organized chaos around them, and Stiles can't wait for it to be over.

Well, okay, mostly he can't wait for the drugs.

Derek's thumb strokes a nonsensical pattern across the back of his hand, and he shakes his head fondly. "I can't believe you decided to have our kid on Halloween," he says, teasingly. Stiles rolls his eyes.

"I decided? Huh-uh, this one's all on your son, big guy."

"My son, huh?"

Stiles nods decisively. "Yup. He's gonna be mine when he's doing awesome, amazing things that totally save the day. He's gonna be yours when he comes up with-oh my God, where's the anesthesiologist?-terrible ideas that have a snowball's chance in hell of working."

From somewhere near the door, he hears Melissa chuckle.

"Okay guys...they're almost ready down the hall. Dr. Avery will be in in a few minutes to administer your epidural. Stiles, you ready?" Melissa asks.

Stiles nods his head fervently. "So ready. So, so ready. Oh my God, this sucks so bad."

Melissa comes to the side of the bed and ruffles his hair affectionately. "Could be worse. I decided I wanted a 'natural birth' with Scott. Six hours of labor before I cracked and asked for drugs," she laughs.

Derek's eyes get a little wide again.

"This is all your fault!" Stiles screams at the top of his lungs, wrenching the jeep's steering wheel to the left so hard, he's dimly surprised when it doesn't come off in his hands.

Beside him, Derek growls. Well, he tries to growl. What comes out is mostly a wet-sounding gurgle. Hard to get the resonance for a growl when you're pretty much holding your guts in your hands while you try to stuff them back into place.

God, the blood is never coming out of the upholstery.

"My-my fault?" Derek gasps. Somewhere on the road behind them (too close for comfort, far too close for comfort), there is an ear-splitting screech. Stiles bites his lip and stomps down on the accelerator harder.

"Yes, your fault," he snaps. "'Don't insult the Fae' I said. 'This is major mojo' I said. And what do you do? Call out their goddamn Captain of the Guardfor God only knows what! There is a NICHTMARE chasing us, Derek! They are chasing us with monsters that aren't even in English!" He clenches his hands around the steering wheel.

"That doesn't even make sense," Derek mumbles, his voice steadier. He doesn't sound quite like he's choking on his own blood anymore.

"Shut up! You got us into this! I'm allowed to not make sense!"

Derek mutters something under his breath. Stiles jerks his attention away from the road long enough to fix a truly terrifying death-glare on his boyfriend-slash-Alpha.

"What was that?" he asks in a deceptively calm voice. Derek swallows roughly, and ducks his head, avoiding Stiles' eyes.

"I said I didn't like the way he was looking at you."

"Excuse me? Are you serious? We're running for our lives from a nightmare monster that gutted you in three seconds flat because you didn't like the scary-powerful Fae captain checking out myass?!"

"Well of course it sounds stupid when you say it like that that!"

"Because it is! Holy God, I'm not having sex with you for, like, a month! Are you stupid?! You are seriously going to get us killed because you'rejealous?"

"No!" Derek protests, but it's the sullen, petulant tone he uses when he knows he's wrong and someone else is right.

Stiles banks a hard right, squealing onto an access road that will take them deeper into the woods. "What the hell are you even getting jealous for?!"

"I-because-"

"Cause that's crazy! What, you think I'm gonna run off with some fairy and be his flower queen or some shit?"

"No! I just-"

"That's ridiculous! I don't want anyone else...why the hell would you think-"

"Because I love you!" Derek shouts at last, frustration bleeding into his words.

It's the first time Derek has said anything of the sort to him.

Stiles slams his fist onto the steering wheel. "Well I love you, too!" he screams back.

"Fine!"

"Fine!"

"Good!"

"Great!"

"Why are you still yelling at me?!"

"I don't know!"

He coaxes a little more speed out of the jeep's already straining engine. There are a thousand thoughts racing through his head-a hundred different plans trying to form. Some of them actually have promise, if they can just stay ahead of the thing chasing them for a little while longer. First and foremost, though, there is a single, all-important thought that he needs to get out.

"I'm still not sleeping with you this month," he says grimly. Beside him, Derek scoffs.

"I give it two days, tops."

And yeah, he kind of has a point. Stiles sighs, flexing his hands on the steering wheel.

"I'm really pissed at you," he mutters. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Derek nod.

Behind them, the nightmare creature screeches again.

"You're taking me to Midnight Madness at the theater next week. And you're buying me the giant popcorn, and at least five different kids of candy. And we're staying for the double feature."

He doesn't have to look to know that Derek is starting to smile softly to himself. A quick glance downward shows that he's almost finished healing. Stiles can't see anymore intestine, at least.

"I love you." Derek says it quietly, half under his breath, and he sounds surprised. As if he's just realizing it himself.

Stiles grins to himself.

Everything happens fast after they get the epidural set up (and holy shit whoever invented that was a fucking genius, Stiles decides). They wheel him down to the surgical suite, Derek and Melissa walking on either side of the bed. Dr. Evers is still at least another hour away, but if Melissa says this other doctor is good, that's good enough for Stiles.

Before he knows it, he's staring up at the piercingly bright lights, a screen up across his chest. Derek is gripping his had hard enough that it almost hurts, but he's grateful for the grounding familiarity of it. Melissa is on his other side, her hand curled delicately on his shoulder as she quietly narrates everything that is going on for them.

Mostly Derek, admittedly.

Stiles closes his eyes, breathing deeply. Almost over. It's almost over, and he's going to be able to hold his son, soon.

"All right, they're making the cut now...Stiles, this is going to feel weird, like a little pressure, okay?" Melissa says. Stiles just nods, licking his dry lips as best he can.

It's almost over.

And it's about to start.

"So this is what you wanted to show me?" Stiles says, a little doubtfully, surveying the area around them. "Cause...I've been here, before."

Many, many times, in fact. He and Derek are perched on the hood of Derek's car, a bag of takeout from the Thai place that just opened up down the block from Derek's apartment between them. The evening air is pleasantly cool, whispering softly through the tree branches above their heads. Stiles surveys the area directly in front of them as he starts digging into the takeout bag in search of the coconut rice.

There is a large, cordoned off pit where the remains of the Hale house used to be. A backhoe is parked a few yards away from them, and there's a huge pile of clean fill dirt next to the backhoe. Stiles had been aware that the county had finallydone something about the condemned status of the house, that the property was being torn down. They've all been a little hesitant around Derek for the past couple of weeks, unsure if he wants to talk about it or not.

Stiles had gone about his business as usual, secure in the knowledge that Derek would talk when he was ready.

"Yeah...well, no, not this," Derek says, making an expansive gesture towards the giant hole in the ground. "Just..."

Stiles digs into the coconut rice, waiting patiently. Derek rakes his hand back through his hair.

"I want to rebuild it," Derek says finally. He's staring straight ahead at the place where his home used to be, flexing his fingers on the edge of the car hood. "I've been talking to some contractors in town..." He trails off, sighing heavily.

Stiles swallows, stirring the rice around with a plastic fork. "Are you sure that's what you want?" he asks, carefully keeping his voice neutral.

Derek is silent for several minutes, digging through the bag himself and pulling out a container of peanut chicken. Eventually, he nods, a short, jerky motion.

"I want to. I want-I want a place for the pack. For all of you to come back to. I want-"

I want a home again. He doesn't say it. But Stiles knows he's thinking it.

"Then you should do it," Stiles says decisively. "If it'll make you happy, you should do it."

Derek heaves another sigh, the set of his shoulders relaxing slightly. He ducks his head, tucking into the chicken, and Stiles assumes the conversation is over. They eat in companionable silence for several minutes, and Stiles is chasing the last spring roll around the bottom of a container when it becomes clear that the conversation isn't over.

"I want you there, too," Derek says abruptly.

Stiles hums absently, still trying to spear the spring roll. "Of course I'm gonna be there. You guys aren't getting rid of me now."

"No," Derek says, a note of frustration creeping into his voice. "Stiles. I mean I want you there. All the-all the time. I want you live there. Here. With me."

Stiles freezes, the spring roll dangling from the end of his fork. He raises wide eyes to Derek's face. "Did you...Derek, did you just ask me to move in with you?"

Derek nods. His jaw clenches a moment, and he sets the food container he's holding aside.

"Stay," he says quietly. "Say you'll stay."

And there's only one answer he can give to that, isn't there?

"Can we put in a pool?" he asks impishly, and laughs out loud when Derek shoots him a look and shoves him hard enough that he slides off the edge of the car hood. He catches himself, still cackling, and moves to stand in the vee of Derek's legs.

"Yes," he says, because they both know that Derek's not just asking him to move in with him. He winds his arms around Derek's neck, leaning forward until their foreheads are touching. "Yes."

Derek just grins as he hoists Stiles up to straddle his lap.

Xander makes it to a Halloween birthday with five minutes to spare.

It all happens so fast...it seems to Stiles that he has only been in the surgical room for seconds. And then suddenly there is a high, plaintive cry echoing through the room, and Stiles' heart justthuds. Derek gasps, his whole body stiffening, and Stiles isn't surprised when Derek ducks his head, a faint sheen of red showing in his eyes.

Then the nurse is holding their baby up over the screen-a squalling, squirming bundle that looks like something out of a horror movie, covered in blood and other...fluids.

It's the most beautiful sight Stiles has ever seen.

They take Xander away after the briefest glimpse, over to the other side of the room to clean him up, take his vitals. He's still crying, screaming out his displeasure, and Stiles can't help but laugh a little, breathless with pure joy. His own eyes are stinging. Derek is practically vibrating, torn between rushing over to their son, and staying with Stiles.

"Go on," Stiles says, shoving a little at Derek's hip. He swallows roughly, wincing a little as the doctors start tugging at his abdomen. Stitching him up, he realizes. "Go," he says again, his voice dropping to a whisper.

Derek exhales sharply, and leans down to kiss him fiercely, cupping his jaw. Then he joins the small crowd of people around Xander, his eyes shining. Stiles watches, an exhausted smile tugging at his lips.

His family. He has a family.

Derek is waiting for him when they finally wheel him out of recovery and into a regular room. More importantly, so is Xander. Stiles is exhausted, his eyes gritty and dry with fatigue. He's sore in a distant sort of way that promises he'll be in agony tomorrow, and absolutely none of it matters.

"Gimme," he demands, holding out his arms and making grabby hands. Derek laughs, bright and warm and open, and scoops Xander up out of the plastic bassinet.

"Hey," Stiles says softly, reverently, as he finally,finally gets to hold his son. He laughs, the sound coming out a little choked. "Derek, he looks like a monkey."

Xander's face is red and squashed-looking, with a small, button nose that looks a little bit like Stiles', and a thatch of dark, fluffy hair that's sticking up in all directions. He's blinking up at them with hazy eyes that are somewhere between hazel and blue and he looks...yeah, he looks pretty much like a tiny, alien monkey.

He's absolutely beautiful.

Derek gingerly sits down on the bed, next to Stiles' hip. He's just staring at Xander, something thunderstruck in his face as he gently runs the tip of one finger down the baby's cheek. He slides one arm around Stiles' shoulders, and Stiles leans tiredly against his side.

"He's perfect," Derek says, and his voice is just as thunderstruck as his expression.

"Well duh," Stiles replies playfully. "He's my kid."

"Your kid, huh?" Derek leans down, resting his head on top of Stiles'.

"Okay, you helped. A little." Derek's answering chuckle rumbles through his chest, vibrating against Stiles' cheek.

"Thank you," Derek says. Stiles snorts, cuddling Xander closer.

"Eh, okay. You helped a lot."

"No...Stiles, thank you." He's still just staring at Xander. Stiles smiles softly, closing his eyes as he leans more comfortably against Derek.

"We're about to get swarmed, aren't we?" he murmurs.

"Yup. Melissa's stalling them down the hallway. I think there's about to be a riot."

"Heh. Erica?"

"Uh, no. Your dad."

Stiles sighs, and resigns himself to not getting to hold his baby for the foreseeable future.