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On his way home for break, Stiles stops at the grocery store and picks up the biggest turkey he can find—it’s a twenty pounder, and it baffles him that turkeys can be so big, but he also knows that it probably still isn’t big enough.
He considers getting another but figures, whatever, the wolves can deal.
He throws a couple boxes of stuffing mix in the cart, grabs some bags of cranberries before swapping them out for the canned stuff (because let’s be real, he is not patient enough to make actual cranberry sauce). Chicken stock, green beans, potatoes, corn, some of that weird cream of onion soup, rolls.
When he goes to check out, he realizes something is missing, so he runs back to the bakery section and picks up a couple pies.
His dad steps out onto the porch when he gets home, blinks at all the bags. “Stiles?” he says. “Last time I checked, it’s just the two of us, unless…”
“Don’t worry, I’m not pregnant,” Stiles says, grinning at his dad and giving him an awkward hug around all the grocery bags. The turkey knocks against his dad’s hip.
“Oh, good, I was so worried,” his dad says, pulling back to raise an eyebrow at Stiles. “But seriously, what’s with all the groceries?”
Stiles smirks and starts carrying the bags up the porch steps. His dad grabs the laundry basket from the back seat of the Jeep and follows him. “Thanksgiving is in two days,” Stiles says. “And I figure, we haven’t really done a big Thanksgiving since—in a long time, and, well, I thought maybe we could have the pack over?”
His dad dumps the laundry at the foot the stairs and closes the front door behind him. “I’m not cooking,” he says.
“That is A-okay,” Stiles says. “I picked things that seemed more or less foolproof, except the turkey, but I figure Derek can do that, right, he’s a werewolf, they probably know intuitively how to cook meat.”
His dad shrugs. “There’s a game on,” he says.
“Okay, cool, so you and Derek can bond over it, be manly men, whatever,” Stiles says as he throws away all his dad’s ice cream to make room for the turkey.
“Hey, I wasn’t done with that,” his dad says.
“I mean, if you want to eat all five pints right now, be my guest,” Stiles says. “If I get rid of you now, I won’t have to put any effort into making you like Derek. It would make my life easier, actually.”
His dad rolls his eyes and sits down at the kitchen table, which is covered with case files held down by tumblers. Stiles can’t tell if there was ever whisky in them, but he chooses to believe they were just convenient paperweights.
When he sees Stiles looking at the tumblers, he picks them up and shuffles over to the sink, dumps a few in and puts the rest back in the cupboard. He quirks up one side of his mouth and says, out of the blue, “Your mom always made the best pumpkin pie.”
--
“My dad taught me,” Derek says in answer to Stiles’ question. “Except we always fried ours and the year he taught me, the turkey exploded.”
“So you don’t actually know how to cook a turkey,” Stiles says.
“No, I do, but I don’t know how to keep it from exploding.” Derek shrugs and looks like he might say more, but then Boyd comes into the kitchen and frowns at Stiles.
“Stiles,” he says. “Stuffing from a box? Really? Canned cranberry sauce?”
“What, can you do better?” Stiles says, propping his hands on his hips and rolling his eyes.
Which is how Stiles finds himself sitting in the living room with his dad and Derek, drinking a beer and asking his dad annoying questions about football while Boyd starts the turkey and sends Erica out to buy more stuff.
“So what are the white lines?” he says to the room in general.
Derek just reaches over and grabs his beer, saying, “Stop it, you’re nineteen.” Before Stiles can put up a good fight, Derek drains the bottle and hands it back to him. “Also, shut up.”
Stiles huffs out a sigh and crosses his arms. Then he says, “So, who’re you guys rooting for?”
“Detroit,” they both say. His dad blinks a few times, like he’s surprised Derek Hale and he agree on something.
“I hate Texas,” Derek says, shrugging.
“Damn straight,” Stiles’ dad says, still looking shocked.
“What have I done,” Stiles groans, burying his face in his hands. He no longer knows why he thought it was a good idea for his dad and boyfriend to get along. They’ll probably start ganging up on him and, maybe he should run away, join the circus.
“Hey, Stiles,” Boyd says, poking his head out of the kitchen. “Do you have a hand mixer?”
“Do I—what?” Stiles says, staring.
“I’ll take that as a no,” Boyd says. “What about a meat thermometer? Rolling pin?”
Isaac appears in the doorway and starts pushing Boyd back into the kitchen, saying, “You’re scaring him, stop it. Why don’t you explain pie crust to me again?”
Then Erica bursts in the front door carrying a few bags. She grins wildly at Stiles and his dad, then hooks her finger at Derek, saying, “I have a question for you. Kitchen, now.” Derek frowns a bit, but he goes.
“So,” Stiles’ dad says. “You don’t know anything about football.”
“I mean, “Stiles says, staring at the screen. His foremost thought is that all these guys have really enormous thighs. “Not really.”
Then Isaac squawks “Erica!” in this really offended way, and Stiles is saved from his dad explaining football when Derek stomps back in and yells, “You were my biggest mistake,” which would be really mean except he actually looks kind of amused.
“I just think you would look really hot with a turkey on your head,” Erica yells back, loud enough that the neighbors can probably hear.
Stiles glances over at his dad, who, yup, is resolutely staring at the TV, making his “what have I got myself into” face. “Don’t worry, Dad,” he says. “They’ll grow on you.”
--
Scott shows up during the halftime show and eats Stiles’ store-bought cherry pie—the whole thing—because he’s depressed that Allison brought her new boyfriend home for Thanksgiving, never mind the fact that it’s been like three years since she and Scott actually dated. Stiles kind of thinks Scott will never get over her, will someday go to her wedding and cry because he still loves her.
Scott’s mom shows up a little after, carrying a giant bowl of apple salad and a few gallons of iced tea. Stiles figures his dad invited her, which is totally awesome, Melissa McCall is probably one of the coolest moms he’s ever known.
He goes into the kitchen a few times to offer his help, but the betas seem to have it pretty much under control. Erica is manning the stove, Isaac is chopping stuff, and Boyd, having successfully got the turkey baking, is making pies. It’s incredibly impressive and kind of adorable how well they work together.
“Get out,” Boyd says the fourth time he wanders in. “You’re in the way.”
“How come I’m in the way, but Scott isn’t?” He jerks his thumb at Scott, who is sitting on the counter by Isaac, eating leftover pie dough.
“Dude, not cool,” Scott says. “Also, I am totally helping. I’m keeping them entertained by telling them all about the anatomy of a cockatoo.”
Erica looks at Stiles, wide-eyed, and mouths “Save me.”
“Do you have any idea how weird cloacas are?” Scott says, looking about ready to launch into a lecture.
Stiles leaves then because, really, there are just some things he can’t handle on Thanksgiving.
“It’s totally relevant, dude, we’re about to eat a turkey, at least I’m educated about this stuff,” Scott calls after him.
Stiles blocks him out and goes to sit next to Derek again. “So, who’s winning?” he says. Derek elbows him in the ribs and leans forward, because obviously getting closer to the TV will make it a better experience. He lets out a whoop when his team—or at least, Stiles assumes it’s his team—scores. Stiles stares at him and then goes out to the porch because he’s not sure he can deal with Derek being so emotional about a dumb sport.
So he calls Lydia, who picks up the phone and says, “Not interested,” before hanging up.
So he texts her, saying are you sure you don’t want to come to a Very Werewolf Thanksgiving? and almost immediately gets her reply, which is EXTREMELY NOT INTERESTED.
He stays on the porch for a while, shivering in his buttondown. He waves at his neighbors as they drive by. After a while, he hears the front door open but doesn’t look up until Derek drops down beside him, his arm pressing along the length of Stiles’.
“You’re missing the game,” Stiles says.
“Your dad will catch me up,” Derek says, brushing his thumb over the back of Stiles’ wrist, coming so close to holding his hand but not quite. “Boyd says dinner will be ready in an hour.”
“Why did I never know he’s a master chef?” Stiles says, nudging his wrist up into Derek’s touch.
“Probably because the warehouse doesn’t have a kitchen,” Derek says.
Stiles makes a face—he honestly can’t believe Derek has the pack living in a warehouse, what the hell—and says, “You have a point.” Then he shivers again and doesn’t say anything when Derek shrugs out of his jacket and tucks it around his shoulders.
Eventually, he lets his head sag down to rest on Derek’s shoulder, which is so solid and warm and finally his, after all those years of wanting without knowing he wanted so much. “Is Boyd making cherry pie? Scott ate all of mine.”
Derek wraps an arm around his waist. “Cherry and pumpkin.”
Stiles grins. “My favorite.”
--
Peter shows up just as Boyd’s switching out the turkey for the pies. Peter doesn’t bring any food, just a huge Macy’s bag full of table cloths and napkins and table settings. He also presents a bouquet of chrysanthemums to Ms. McCall, who looks less than impressed.
“He really takes advantage of that employee discount,” Erica mutters, taking the homemade cranberry sauce out of the fridge.
Stiles’ dad starts out carving the turkey, but reluctantly hands over the knife to Derek when he burns his hand on the meat. Derek cuts slowly, looking really distracted by the way that Isaac is prancing around the table, taking in all the good smells.
“I am so excited,” Isaac says. “I haven’t had Thanksgiving in forever.” He wraps his long arms around Erica, Boyd, and Scott, twirling them around. Boyd looks really annoyed, but he tolerates it.
Peter finishes setting the table while Derek carves the turkey. By the time they’re both finished, Stiles’ table is covered in a red tablecloth and glistening white dishes, shiny silverware, crystal goblets, and the entire house smells like turkey. Peter picks up Ms. McCall’s bouquet from where she left it on her chair and slaps it in a stylish gold vase.
“Shall we?” Peter says. He puts his hands on the back of a chair. Derek shoves him out of the way and takes the chair, saying, “I’m hungry.”
Everybody sits at the table, which has expanded so much that Stiles’ isn’t one hundred percent sure it’s even the same old table. Scott makes grabby hands for the turkey, but before anybody can hand it to him, Stiles says, “Whoa there, hold on, aren’t we forgetting something?”
Erica blinks and says, “Oh, shit, the cranberry sauce.” She gets up and goes to the kitchen.
“No, I—well, yes, that, but also, we should go around and say what we’re thankful for,” Stiles says, grinning around at the pack. They all look blankly at him, but whatever, it’s Thanksgiving, he can afford to be a cheesy bastard. “I’ll go first.” He clears his throat. “I’m thankful for all of you guys. I’m also thankful that Boyd knows how to cook because I was really looking forward to that pie, thank you very much,” he says to Scott.
“You would do the same thing if Derek brought someone new home,” Scott mutters.
“That will never happen,” Stiles says, mostly joking but also kind of serious in a way that scares him. He elbows Isaac. “Your turn.”
“I’m thankful for Pack,” Isaac says. “Also vet school. Also turkey.” He looks thoughtful. “And lint rollers.”
Erica, next in line, rolls her eyes and says, “Birth control.”
Boyd chokes and they decide to come back to him at the end.
“Ummm,” Scott says, frowning. “I’m thankful for Danny for introducing me to Armani aftershave. Thankful every day.”
Ms. McCall snorts and says, “I’m thankful I have such a great son.” She reaches over and untangles one of Scott’s curls.
Stiles’ dad smiles and says, “I’m just thankful my son is finally letting me eat carbs again.”
“Not for long,” Stiles says, smirking. He waves a hand at Peter, next to his dad.
“Mostly I’m thankful for Lydia,” Peter says, grinning wolfily.
“Ew,” Scott says.
Stiles rolls his eyes and elbows Derek. “It’s you or Boyd now, time to decide.”
“Poptarts,” Boyd says. “I’m thankful for Poptarts.”
Everybody turns to stare at Derek. He shifts a bit in his seat and then says, “I’m thankful I got the radio in my car fixed. Driving was getting boring.”
Stiles rolls his eyes because he figures that’s probably the best he’s going to get. “So, dig in,” he says. As he’s reaching for the mashed potatoes, Derek’s hand brushes against his leg and then rests on his thigh. Stiles smiles softly, not even looking over.
Derek may not say a lot sometimes, but Stiles is getting much better at understanding what he does say. He puts his hand over Derek’s for a brief moment before passing on the mashed potatoes to Isaac.