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Derek comes back with a black eye. By now, Stiles should be accustomed to the battered look Derek always carries--he carried that same look himself for many years--but he isn’t. It takes his breath away, always has; the too-tight shirt, covered in sponsors’ logos, hides the bruises forming on Derek’s torso.

Stiles watched the fight, made Derek buy it for him instead of wasting the tickets on him.

It was...intense. And wrongly scored.

Derek looks at him, defeated. Stiles is aware he’s sprawled across the entire bed, taking up more of Derek’s side than his, but he doesn’t care; a loss is a loss is a loss, and if Derek wants to wallow, he can go to the bar.

But then he says something that chills Stiles to the bone.

“Do you think it’s because there are rumors floating around that I’m gay?” Derek says. His voice is quiet, seeming younger than he has in years.

Stiles sits up, watches his partner collapse on to the edge of the bed, between the V of his legs. He puts his forehead against Derek’s back, feels him lean into it. “God, I hope not.”

“I won that fight.” He grunts. “I could feel it in my skin. I knew.”

“You could try to talk to Dana White.” Stiles suggests, though he already knows Derek’s answer.

“Yeah, right. What’s he going to do? Fix it? Then suddenly the new headline will be ‘UFC is Ready for Fags--But are Fags Ready for UFC?’ instead of the nice one that talks shit about Jacobson getting lucky on the scorecard.” Derek’s teeth are clenched, his knuckles white.

Stiles hates that word.

Faggot: an American slang term, probably from an earlier contemptuous term for an old and unpleasant woman

He, nor Derek, get to retain his masculinity. Despite training in MMA, despite fighting in Bellator and UFC, they are both shrunken down to one word, as if that’s all they are.

After a few minutes, Derek heaves himself up, throws his phone on the bed, and trudges to the bathroom. Hotel bathrooms are Derek’s favorite part of a hotel [Stiles’ is the breakfast], so he’ll be in there awhile. Stiles turns on Derek’s phone.

It’s immediately flooded with messages, an endless series of

you got fucked over, man

great fight! next time!

your time will come, just wait

looking better every fight

And then Laura calls. He considers letting it go to voicemail, but decides he’d rather deal with Derek’s annoyance than Laura’s revenge.

“He’s in the shower.” Stiles opens with.

There’s a sigh. “Abigail is upset.”

Abby: Derek’s niece. She’s six. “You let her stay up until eleven to watch her uncle bleed?”

Laura’s voice is indignant. “One: don’t tell me how to raise my kids. Me and Derek were raised on boxing and we turned out just fine. Two: Derek didn’t bleed this time. Though he did take a nasty hit to the face. How’s his eye?”

“Swollen,” Stiles sighs. He falls back on to the pillows, puts Laura on speaker phone and puts the phone on his stomach. “It’ll probably be purple tomorrow.”

“How’s Derek?” She asks. Her voice gives nothing away, but Stiles knows the Hales like he knows his Dad; she’s worried.

Sad. Defeated. Unsure of himself.

“Frustrated,” Stiles decides.

“With himself?”

“Nah,” now he rolls over to face the window with the perfect view of the Las Vegas lights. The phone falls on to the bed. “I don’t think so.”

“With the system?” She guesses.

Derek’s voice is flat, teasing. “Way to make me sound like a whiny teenager, Laura.”

Stiles, exhausted, can’t bring himself to move. He feels the bed dip as Derek sits, probably drying off his legs before pulling on clean sweatpants. Derek spoons him, grabs the phone and turns the volume on Laura all the way up.

Stiles sighs when he feels lips against the back of his neck, soft and comforting.

“Glad to see you’ve emerged from Bath Time, Derek,” Laura responds, equally as flat. “Your niece would like to talk to you.”

Derek makes a sort of whining noise in the back of his throat. He’s got a soft spot for Abby.

“Put her on,” Stiles tells her.

There’s a bit of shuffling sounds, and then a sleepy six year old voice calls out. “Uncle Derek?”

“Hey sweetie,” Derek says. “Your mom said you wanted to talk to me?”

“I just wanted to say,” she stumbles on her words, but it’s adorable. “That all those judges are stupid-heads. You were the obvi--obvioush--”

Then the sound of Laura pronouncing the word correctly. Abigail continues. “Obvious! You were the obvious winner.”

“Well thank you for saying that,” Derek responds, a smile in his voice. “Watching me fight didn’t scare you?”

“Nuh-uh,” she says smartly. “I know you’re the strongest man on the planet.”

Stiles squawks. “I thought I was the strongest man on the planet!”

Abigail says something to her mother, and then, “Whoever is the biggest loser is the strongest. Since you don’t fight anymore, you can’t be the strongest. Sorry Stiles.”

“It’s okay sweetie pie, I guess I forgive you.” And then he says, “Are you ready for class on Monday? You know you’re gonna be in my class.”

“Yes! I’m super excited!” She’s loud, that kid. Derek winces, huffs a laugh against his shoulder.

“Well you’d better take that excitement to bed before your mother has an aneurism,” Derek says, and Laura’s laugh is loud as she gets back on the line.

“Thanks, Dere. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay,” they say at the same time. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

And then she’s gone.

Stiles waits a moment, and then says, “I know you just had a really disappointing night, but--”

“It bothers you that Abigail doesn’t call you ‘Uncle Stiles’.” Derek finishes. He squeezes his arms around Stiles’ waist in comfort.

“Yes! I don’t understand why Laura doesn’t teach her--”

“You were around for so long before we--”

“Got together, so it doesn’t even cross their mind to change my name. I know.” He sinks back into his partner, trying not to let his emotions get the better of him. “I know. You’re just…”

Derek could cut him off now, probably knows what he wants to say, but he doesn’t. Stiles really loves him. “The Hales and my Dad are the only family I’ve got. I wish I felt like the rest of your family felt the same way.”

“I’m going to tell Scott and Melissa,” Derek teases. He sighs when Stiles doesn’t laugh. “Do you want me to talk to them?”

“No,” Stiles snaps. “I don’t know.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“I’m sorry shitty people are making your favorite past-time so...difficult.”

Derek shrugs. “It’s okay. I don’t know why I expected anything more.”

“Are you still going to officially come out?” He asks.

Derek is quiet for a long moment. “Yeah. I think I have to. If not for myself, for every gay kid that also wants to beat people up for a living.”

Stiles laughs. “You’ve really got a way with words, sweetheart.”

Derek is quiet again. This time, Stiles thinks he’s gone to sleep.

“I love you, so much, Stiles.”

He smiles. “I love you too, Derek.”

“After I come out…”

Stiles holds his breath. Coming out will be a big deal. The press have gotten too nosy for Derek to try to deny it, but having the first openly gay UFC fighter will unlock a whole new world for Mixed Martial Arts. He has no idea how the experience will change Derek--will change their relationship. He might be a little bit terrified.

“After I come out--will you marry me?”

Stiles grins.



Chapter Text

They fight for a long time about how Derek will come out. Not the kind of fighting they’ve trained for, but the kind they try to avoid, because neither of them are very good with their words.

Stiles wants to be at the press conference; to stand by his fiancee with his head held high and glare at anyone who even seems vaguely bothered by his sexual orientation.

Derek wants him to stay home.

“I’m not outing you, too,” Derek argues. “Outing us at the same time is going to cause more unnecessary drama.”

Stiles wants to punch him. “Do you think no one’s going to find out about us? We live together, Derek.”

But that wasn’t a secret. It wasn’t weird for them to live together; they were young, they were bachelors, and they’d known each other since they were kids. The media hadn’t batted an eye at it.

“Yeah and if they ask you about me, you tell them you knew and you support me--neither of which are lies.”

Stiles maybe throws the plate he’s drying. It maybe shatters in the sink. Whatever.

“Derek Steven Hale I swear on my mother’s grave if you don’t let me do with my own life what I want to do--”

Derek, always the more composed on, gives Stiles an exasperated look and shoves him away from the broken glass. He begins to clean it up.

“This isn’t about controlling you,” he finally says. Stiles glares up at the ceiling, fuming. “This is about protecting y--”

“Don’t you dare make it out like I can’t protect myself,” Stiles spits. “Like I’m eleven again and you’re a big bad high schooler teaching me how to protect myself.”

Now Derek wants to let Stiles punch him. “That’s not what I meant!”

Stiles scoffs.

Derek holds up his hands in surrender. “Just hear me out, okay?”

Something in Stiles snaps. “No, you know what? I won’t. I’m so sick of being the younger, inferior one in this relationship. Like you had a more well-rounded life so you’ve got so much more knowledge about how to handle people.

“Derek you couldn’t socialize your way out of a wet paper bag--you wouldn’t be anywhere without me.”

Oh. Fine.

Stiles seems satisfied, waits for the elder’s response, but receives none. Instead, Derek ties the plastic bag filled with glass, and stalks toward the front door.

“Where the hell are you going?” Stiles yells, marching after him.

“I’m taking out the trash,” he growls, wrenching open the front door. Thank God they live in a secluded neighborhood. Before he slams the door behind him, he looks into honey-brown eyes. “And since apparently I’m worth the equivalent of this bag of broken glass, I think I’ll stay out.”

And then he’s gone.

Derek and Stiles are similar in ways they hate to admit.

When they’re stressed, they pace. Stiles is worried he’ll rub the carpet raw, yanking at his hair and glaring at every noise in the house; Derek walks a few blocks, calms down, and then gets angry all over again, his shoes against the sidewalk the only sound in the otherwise quiet neighborhood.

After a while, replaying the event gets worn out, and they start thinking of better things to have said.

“I should’ve mentioned how I’m the one always saving him when we’re at any kind of social event. He doesn’t even know how to be thankful--always telling me what’s best for me instead of realizing that I take care of the both of us.”

“I should’ve guilt tripped him more about the paper bag comment. I’m not worthless! He completely disregards everything I say. He thinks because he stopped fighting he’s somehow more settled than I am.”

Then they start thinking of actually better things to have said.

“I shouldn’t have brought up lying to the media. He should never have to do that. This entire event is about honesty.”

“I shouldn’t have made it out like he’s trying to control my life. I know he respects my independence.”

And then they want to fight.

Stiles wraps his hands in the living room, movements meticulous and sure. His favorite part of fighting has always been the silence of wrapping your hands--the way it clears your head and allows you to focus on the task at hand.

Derek pops the trunk of his car, yanks his wraps out of his gym bag with frustrated motions. He sits on the porch, hardly seeing as he makes familiar motions. He’s still wrapped in his head.

They meet at the door to their basement. Stiles holds out his glove; Derek taps it.

At his prime, Stiles fought as a Lighweight. He doesn’t train the way he used to anymore; hasn’t stepped on a scale in months. With more time and less stress, he’s been able to focus on bulking up, has probably gained muscle mass. Derek fought in the Middleweight when he started, but decided he was a better fighter at Welterweight. The difference isn’t much, and they’re both good enough fighters to be comfortable.

They warm up and stretch together, neither speaking.

Then, in the way they know how--in the way their minds have always been linked--they fight.

Neither one is winning until the fourth round. Grappling has always been Derek’s strong suit, but Stiles has watched Derek fight more times than he can count. If Derek wants to win, he has to be sure about it--has to know Stiles can’t get out of it.

He goes for an Arm Bar. Ankles locked, hips raised, he feels only slight resistance. Stiles is thinking, Derek knows; his lover has a high tolerance for pain, but a broken arm still constitutes a win for Derek. He’s a fighter at heart; he’ll break Stiles’ arm if he has to. Hell, Stiles broke his arm three years before.

Stiles taps.

They untangle, collapse on to the sweat-drenched mat. There’s a cut above Derek’s right eye. Blood drips down his face.

“I hate when we fight,” Stiles finally says. He means argue. They both love fighting.

Derek nods, pants out a reply. “I know...Me too.”

More silence.

Finally, when they’ve both caught their breath, and they’re drinking water in the kitchen, Stiles speaks again.

“Fine,” he grumbles. “I won’t go.” A beat passes.

“But what about a compromise?”

Derek rolls his eyes, but motions for him to continue.

“If they ask--and only if they ask you directly--who you’re with,” Stiles makes sure he’s got Derek’s attention. “Don’t you dare hesitate to say my name.”

He doesn’t like the compromise, but he can agree to it.

Honesty is the name of the game, after all. There’s no lying in fighting.


Chapter Text

Derek is wearing the most expensive suit he could find at Men's Warehouse.

When he walked out of the dressing room, Stiles wrinkled his nose and pointed to a clean, basic tux. "Why not make it more classic?"

"I'll feel more confident knowing I'm richer than all the skeez-balls interested in my sex life," Derek grumbled. And that was that.

When they were in college, Derek was always the one who grumbled in the background while Stiles educated their friends and class mates on the fluidity of gender and sexuality-- "Which, although are totally different, usually have to be explained together in order to break the dichotomy of gender," Stiles claims. Derek couldn't give two fucks about other people's sexuality, or their understanding of his.

That's why Stiles is so impressed with Derek's need to stand up now, and announce his own. Derek, who spent the first three years of their relationship answering his sisters' questions about his love life with a, "I understand about as much as you do, now will you please go have your Big Gay Crisis somewhere else?" has now nominated himself to represent the LGBTQ+ community in a profession dominated by hyper masculinity and misogyny.

"You're about to walk out, don't you want to do some breathing exercises or something?" They're on the phone. Stiles is making a sandwich in their kitchen, the TV muted in the living room, but set to a sports coverage station.

Derek snorts. "I mostly just want to run onstage, scream out "Homo!" and then run away and never come back."

He knows he shouldn't laugh, but Stiles actually drops the phone in hysterics. He imagines Derek, in the fanciest suit he could find, terrified and sprinting away, screaming, "Homo!"

Derek isn't as amused. "Thanks for your comforting words during this terrifying decision in my life."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "We have a very nice savings account exactly for this reason, and you know it. And you have a very pretty collegiate diploma somewhere in the closet that says if everything backfires, at least you can work in a museum or something. You and I are going to be just fine, Derek. Even if UFC isn't."

Derek sighs, looks up at the ceiling and hopes for the best. "Thanks, babe. I love you."

"I love you too, punk. I'll be watching."

It's supposed to sound menacing, like Roz from Monsters Inc, but it sounds more like "I'm here. I'm rooting for you. I'm watching." Which settles Derek's queasiness, if only a little.

When it's time, he walks into the PR room. Somewhere, three thousand miles away, Stiles is laughing at the petrified look in his eyes. Somewhere else, even further away, his mom is making comments about his cauliflower ear. She always kisses his ears when he comes home, Stiles' too: "Maybe if I love you enough, you'll stop volunteering to get beat up."

From the kitchen, Dad usually says something amusing about how she never cared when he got beat up, and wasn't she supposed to love him the most anyway?

Focus, Derek. Focus.

"I asked for this press release today, not to discuss the decision made in my fight against Jacobson, but to address rumors that have been floating around for quite awhile now."

As if people weren't already nosy enough, he's pretty sure the actual ears of the reporters just perked, like dogs. He wonders if their heads will tilt to the side, too.

"I wanted to confirm them," his voice is calm, far calmer than he leaves. Being brave is terrifying, apparently. Who knew? Surely not Derek.

"I am gay."

And then there's an explosion of questions and camera flashes. 


Stiles is holding up the most obnoxious sign Derek has ever seen. It's not really a sign, it's more a small banner: "Derek 'I am gay' Hale, your super hot boyfriend awaits." And yeah, the soccer moms and the old people seem a little disgruntled by it, but nothing about either of their lives would satisfy those demographics, so what's a little more non-conformity going to hurt?

They hug, they kiss, they walk to the car and crank on the AC because it's summer and it's hot goddamnit.

"So how do you feel?" Stiles asks. "Are you a changed man?"

He doesn't mean to, but he smirks. "I guess we'll see."


The GQ edition with his big, stupid face on the front sells faster than any other edition. It appeals to a wide demographic, and also Stiles is hot, so he's also nice to look at.

Stiles was more shocked than Derek was when they said they wanted to interview the retired fighter boyfriend and not the actively fighting recent come-out-er.

"Everyone is going to have heard the same boring spiel Derek gave at the press conference, the same five questions in varying forms over and over. If he wants his own 60 Minutes special, call CBS. We want to give this a fresh perspective."

So, while Derek is in California visiting family, Stiles stays home, shaves, and orders pizza for him and his guests.

They're nice, and they don't really care that he does not have shoes on, or that his jeans are obviously too big (they're Derek's, but whatever). His t-shirt is probably too small--it's from his fighting days--but he offsets it with a gray cardigan. He sits cross-legged on the armchair, diagonal from the interviewer. Being alone helps him to feel strong.

"So how long have you and Derek known each other?"

Working up to the juicy questions, nice. "I've known him my entire life--so twenty-seven years."

Before he can ask more questions, he keeps going. "Our moms were best friends, and I was raised with he and his siblings like they were my family."

Something about the way he says it makes the interviewer smirk, and so he gets straight to the point. "And how long have you been together?"

"Since I was a sophomore in high school," he admits. He doesn't mention his freshman year of college, when things got a little rocky. GQ doesn't need to know everything, after all.

"That's a long time, " it's open-ended, like Stiles is supposed to respond to that somehow. And he's not angry he's doing the interview, but he's not going to do all the work for them. If he has to be uncomfortable, so does the interviewer.

He takes a bite of his pizza, waits for more questions with raised eyebrows.

Dude gets the hint, so he sighs. "Why the decision to come out now? Was it a hard one to make?"

"Yes and no," Stiles admits. "I think we both knew that one of us would do it. It was more about timing, making sure we would be able to handle whatever backlash we received."

"And have you received any?"

He shrugs. "Everybody's pretty much forgotten about me at this point. I'm not still fighting, I'm not the one who came out. Hell, I teach first graders. First graders don't care about sexuality."

If only the rest of the world would catch up to them, he thought.

"Well why didn't you come out when you were fighting? Fear?"

No, he's not going to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. He just shakes his head. "No, but let's be honest--my record was nothing super impressive. I retired with more wins than losses, but I fought for the belt twice and lost both times. My supporters were a smaller group of people. If you're going to advocate or represent a group of people, you have to reach a large audience. He didn't jeopardize his career for himself, after all."

"Then who did he do it for? You?"

Stiles rolls his eyes, almost doesn't justify that with a response, until finally he says, "The cause, if you will."

The interviewer seems confused. "Cause? What cause?"

Stiles meets his eyes, unamused. "You're going to tell me you work for GQ Magazine and you don't understand the idea of someone coming out for something bigger than themself?"

The interviewer, not interested in seeming like an ass, moves on.

And, surprisingly, so does the rest of the world.

Chapter Text

How grossly stereotypical of them, to get married on a damn beach.

“Derek, honey, it’s our wedding--try not to look like you just swallowed a lemon.” Stiles fixes his bow tie in the mirror.

Suits on a beach. How quaint.

Derek’s uncomfortable with how much the voice in his head is starting to sound like Lydia.

“I can’t help it,” Derek grumbles. “It’s just my face.”

At that Stiles barks out a laugh, making eye contact with Derek in the mirror, tracing over his form--stretched out lazily across the deceivingly comfortable-looking couch in their unnecessarily expensive hotel room.

Derek has never been one for luxury, considers a hot bath and a clean rug comfortable enough. Not even his upper class upbringing could make him a beautillion-having twat, though his mother tried.

“Are you reminiscing now? Come back with the lemon look, I prefer it.”

Now Stiles stalks over, hefts Derek up from the couch. Staring into his fiance’s eyes, Stiles speaks forcefully, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Stiles,” Derek practically rolls his eyes into his brain. “I am not getting cold feet. I just wish…”

“Wish it could be more of an ‘us’ type wedding, instead of a Lydia-Laura-Talia type wedding?”

Stiles has always been better with words, and for that Derek is grateful; his original thought had been more along the lines of ‘I just wish this wasn’t about to suck.’

“If it had been an ‘us’ type wedding,” Laura’s peppy voice scares the shit out of both of them, respectively causing a crash of limbs into lamps from each man. “You two would’ve eloped and acted like nothing happened.”

“We’ve basically been married since I was fifteen, Laura,” Stiles drawls as he rights a lampshade. “Nothing has happened--besides the state letting me write Mr. Stiles Stilinski-Hale on all my paperwork and forcing me to get a new driver’s license.”

Derek should probably be offended, but he feels the same way. They’re not meant to be for nothing, it seems.

“Oh shut up,” Laura replies good-naturedly. “Give your dad this, Stiles. Let him see his only child get grossly, adorably married.”

It’s a low blow, calling in the big guns. But it puts a soft smile on Stiles’ face, and it reminds Derek to shut his mouth and be grateful that both of his parents are here for this.

In the front row, in the chair next to where the Sheriff is sitting, a candle is lit for Claudia. And that will have to be enough to get them through the day.


Stiles and Derek do not go on a honeymoon because Stiles is a teacher who loves his job more than his husband.

“Plus there will always be fancy vacations with you, love,” Stiles reasons. “We can go on seven this summer, after I send off my kids.”

Stiles always calls his class “his kids.” It never used to rub Derek the wrong way, until he was suddenly married to this ball of energy. He didn’t believe his mom when she told him that marriage would change everything for Derek. It seemed like, just as Stiles had claimed, nothing had changed for him.

But, for Derek. Well.

He almost got into a fight at a bar last weekend, and he wanted to end it with, “And stay away from my husband!”

And the single teachers who look at Stiles like he’s the golden ticket, well they all get very passive aggressive looks when Derek visits Stiles during lunch.

When Talia said ‘change’, possessive was not what Derek imagined.

He’d never had this problem before. Stiles was always his--he’d never questioned, wondered, or worried.  Not that he was worried about Stiles now. No, he was worried about all the people who wanted Stiles. They wouldn’t just be breaking up a relationship and a childhood friendship if they measled their way into Stiles’ heart; they’d be breaking up a marriage.

And then, among other changes, came the discussion of children.

Well. The lack thereof discussion.

Derek was sure Stiles wanted kids. They’d never talked about it, but Stiles was the family-wanting type. He loved Derek’s big family, sucked people in and created his own, worshipped his father like God himself; Stiles was a family man if Derek ever saw one. He was a first grade teacher for Christ’s sake!

But he hadn’t brought it up. They’d been married a month, and no discussion of kids at all.

It was like the marriage hadn’t meant anything to Stiles, hadn’t changed anything for him.

That’s when Derek gets smacked with a Cheerio to the forehead.

“You look constipated, honey,” Stiles is stretched across the sofa, feet in Derek’s lap, dressed in sweatpants and one of Derek’s t-shirts. It’s a Saturday, which means Stiles isn’t leaving the couch unless it’s to piss or eat. They have a ritual in that kind of way. Derek likes it, finds comfort in the time to take care of his significant other. Derek likes feeling needed.

“Still just my face, dear,” he replies dryly, nose still in the newspaper. He’s the kind of pretentious who still reads newspaper; Stiles gives him endless shit about it.

“It’s a beautiful face that doesn’t normally look that way--which means something is bothering you. And I don’t like when something bothers you because then your food tastes sad.”

“Sad food? Really?”

Stiles glares at him, “Will you just tell me what the hell is wrong with you?”

“How do you feel about kids?”

Stiles seems surprised, but shrugs. “I’m a teacher, I’m morally required to have overall positive feelings about children, Derek.”

That’s not really an answer, but it’s enough of a not-answer to shut down Derek’s hopes of having a stupidly large family. He tries not to look disappointed, sticks his nose back in his newspaper, and rubs Stiles’ ankle so he knows he’s not upset.

Stiles gets it four hours later, from across the house.

Derek’s in the kitchen making chicken alfredo when all of a sudden there’s a shout from the general direction of the bathroom. When they first moved in together, Derek ran every time Stiles screamed. Then he learned that Stiles screams if he drops the mop handle and is afraid it’s going to hit the wall. Plus he doesn’t want to burn his sauce.

His husband comes sprinting into the kitchen a moment later, towel haphazardly wrapped around his soapy waist.

“You want to have kids!” Stiles says it accusingly, eyes wide, one finger pointing at Derek like he took the cookie from the cookie jar.

“Yes,” Derek replies plainly. The calm to Stiles’ storm: that’s Derek. “Of course I want to have kids.”

“You want to have kids now !”

Derek doesn’t really have a good response for that, so he just stares until Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Der,” he starts. “You got to start using your words, babe. I’m dense.”

And Derek doesn’t want to get his hopes up for what that means, so he stirs his sauce and hums noncommittally.

“Derek Steven Hale, you useless twat!”

Whoa there, big guns, full name. Not cool.

Derek turns around to tell him such, but stops when he sees Stiles’ eye glistening. Derek gapes.

“Of course I want to have kids with you, you idiot.”

And then Derek grins. Because Stiles, his husband, his best friend, his everything--Stiles wants to have a family with him.

Of course he does.