Chapter Text
It was a rare moment in the Hale house, when Chris Argent had the kitchen to himself. None of his children were hanging on him or demanding food, no nieces or nephew standing around, no (clingy) husband pestering him. He loved his family with his heart and soul, but he also liked to breathe in peace for a few minutes here and there.
He knew the silence wouldn’t last long, though, because he was cooking. Specifically with bacon, which was a favorite among the Hale family. The downside to living with werewolves: there was absolutely no chance of cooking anything without them noticing and showing up for their share.
A knock at the door interrupted his peaceful morning. He was about to set the mixing bowl full of eggs down on the counter to answer it, but then the door swung open and the two people let themselves in without bothering to wait for permission. Chris didn’t even need to turn around and check who it was--the only people who knew they had full access to a house full of werewolves and were brave enough to just waltz in after a warning knock were Noah Stilinksi and his son Stiles. If Claudia was with them, she would have made them wait for someone to answer, which is how Chris knew it was just the two of them that morning.
“How nice of you to cook me breakfast, Chris,” Noah said in lieu of a greeting. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw him grab a mug out of the cabinet and help himself to some of the coffee in the still-steaming pot. “And Coffee, too...you spoil me.”
“Only for you, Dear,” Chris teased, sending a playful wink at his best friend. The contents of the bowl were poured into the pan and the loud sound of the sizzling eggs filled the kitchen. Chris looked over at Stiles, who had seemingly distracted himself with staring intently at the wood grains of the table. “What’s so awesome about the table, Kiddo?”
“The marks in it look like little people with swirly heads and no arms,” Stiles answered thoughtfully.
“Hm...I hadn’t noticed.”
He took the plate of diced green bell peppers and bacon bits and dumped the contents into the eggs, before taking the time to actually look at what Stiles was wearing. He had on a pair of bright orange shorts, a green t-shirt, and a red flannel that was buttoned extremely unevenly and mostly open at the top and bottom. He bit back a laugh, then said, “I see your daddy got you dressed this morning?”
“No, I did it myself!” Stiles exclaimed proudly, beaming like it was the biggest accomplishment he would ever make.
Chris hoped to the Gods that it was not, but he knew he'd love the kid regardless.
“Really?” Chris feigned surprise. “You look just as put-together as he did when we were younger. Very nice, Stiles.”
Stiles didn’t catch onto what he was saying, but Noah definitely had, judging by the rolled up newspaper he had smacked Chris in the back of the head with.
“Yeah, just like how your daughter looks so put-together with all those leaves and sticks in her hair all the time.”
“Malia is Peter’s daughter when she has leaves and sticks in her hair.” Chris waved him off. "His genes."
Chris was almost startled by Derek walking into the room and sitting at the table.
“Well, you’re up early,” Noah commented, equally as surprised by his presence. “I never see you down here for breakfast.”
“Yeah, you usually sleep right through to lunch,” Chris added. “Special occasion?”
Derek just shook his head and looked around at the three of them. His eyes landed on Stiles and flickered down to his clothing for a moment, before he said, “Your flannel is wrong.”
“What?” Stiles squeaked, looking down at the article of clothing. “Darn it!"
“Derek, leave him alone,” Chris said, knowing that Stiles was proud of his wardrobe disaster. It wasn’t even eight o’ clock yet--the kid didn’t need to have his confidence shattered so early in the day.
“C’mere, Stiles, I’ll help you,” Noah said, sitting at the table and reaching for his son.
“I’ll do it!” Stiles said sternly, putting his hands over the buttons and turning away from him with his eyebrows lowered. “I don’t need any help. I can do it by myself.”
The little boy unbuttoned the flannel until it hung open, so that he could attempt it again from the beginning while it was properly lined-up. He took the two bottom pieces of the flannel in his hands and fastened two buttons correctly, before he had somehow skipped a hole and began buttoning them incorrectly again.
Derek let out a short sigh, then reached out and grabbed onto Stiles’ arm. He pulled him closer to his chair and swatted his hands away from the fabric so that he could fix the unaligned buttons for him. Stiles watched him without argument, despite having been very against help a moment prior.
Since when did Derek ever help anyone with things like buttons? It was so uncharacteristic that Chris couldn't help but just stare at the interaction. Sure, Stiles was likely his anchor, but that shouldn't have made fixing his buttons necessary.
“Good morning, Mieczysław,” Peter said cheerfully as he waltzed into the kitchen, then ran his hand through Stiles’ hair and down the back of his neck as soon as he was in arm’s reach. Stiles smiled brightly and leaned into the touch, but didn’t bother greeting him verbally, as his attention was still transfixed on watching Derek finish buttoning up his flannel. “How are you, Noah?”
Chris noticed the way Derek’s shoulders stiffened when Peter scented Stiles, which was odd, because Peter always scented Stiles--it was normal for adult wolves to scent pups they saw as their pack as a way of fondly acknowledging them. Peter even did it to Derek frequently, but he’d never seen the older boy look bothered by it before. Maybe he was jealous that Peter had scented Stiles and not him?
“I’ll be better when your husband makes me some of those eggs.”
“Ooh, with the peppers and bacon?”
“Don’t act like you couldn’t smell them from our bedroom and hurried yourself down here for the sole purpose of stealing my breakfast,” Chris accused.
“I take offence to that, Christopher. I hurried down here because I was eager to spend breakfast with my favorite nephew and godson. Oh, and this old man sitting at the table, too,” Peter said as he took a seat beside Noah.
“You can’t call me old when we’re the same age, Peter.”
“Don’t remind me of my age, Noah, it’s rude.”
“Should I go get Allie and Cora and Malia?” Stiles asked, shifting from side to side and looking towards the entryway.
“Could you also get Jackson?” Chris asked him.
Stiles scrunched up his nose in annoyance and wondered, “Do I have to?”
“Go, Miecz,” Peter laughed, pushing him lightly towards the entryway. Chris could have sworn that he saw Derek tense again for a moment.
“Fine. Thanks for helping with my buttons, Der,” Stiles said, before running off to find the pups. Derek didn't bother answering beyond an uninterested grunt.
“Let me tell you guys...I love my son. I do. He’s so smart and so capable...but the kid can not get the hang of buttons,” Noah snickered quietly. “Am I awful for thinking it’s hilarious?”
“We can start meeting on Tuesdays to have buttoning parties? Everyone can bring dress shirts, flannels, and wine,” Peter offered, humor evident in his tone. “He’ll learn and we’ll get drunk--it seems like a good idea to me.”
“There’s always zippers, if the buttoning parties don’t work,” Chris noted with a chuckle.
“Buttons are tough,” Derek spoke, his voice sharp and almost defensive. “He just...needs to slow down.”
“What?” Chris asked, unsure of why Derek was acting so odd today. He’d never had problems before when they would all joke about the pups.
“He thinks a lot...his fingers can’t focus on the buttons," Derek explained. "He’s trying to be fast, so he can do something else.”
“I think you’re right, Nephew,” Peter agreed. “That child thinks a mile a minute on his slow days.”