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“You know, buying your first car is very important,” Stiles says, slinging his arm around his son as they walk down the street. They’re on their way to a dinner at Scott and Kira’s to welcome Al back home from college for the summer. It was sweet of them to throw a party, really. Derek had refused to go point-blank, but Stiles knew that he’d start to feel guilty soon and show up an hour late with a casserole and a heavy sulk. He loved the man, but sometimes being married to him was trying.
“Yeah, yeah, Dad,” Al says, shrugging him off, “It’s a mark of who you are as a man, it will affect how people think of you for the rest of your life, blah blah blah. You’ve been giving me this speech since I was in diapers.”
“Now a Jeep,” Stiles says, choosing to ignore his offspring’s flippancy, as it was an inherited trait, “is a solid, reliable vehicle. Mine lasted me through many a life and death situation. Didn’t give out on me until I was in my late twenties. Amazing car.”
“Dad…”
Stiles barrels on, unstoppable in his quest to impart his deep wisdom. “A Jeep is a very unassuming vehicle. Built for durability, not showiness. It’s humble. Your dad’s going to try to tell you that it’s ugly, and that you should get a sports car, etcetera, etcetera, macho bullshit, cologne, sideburns. But people will just think you’re a dick. I mean, I know that’s what I thought of your dad at first. Still think that, actually.”
Stiles hears Al sigh and knows he’s resigned himself to Stiles blathering on indefinitely. He’s learned the hard way.
“Don’t get a Jeep,” Stiles hears Derek say. He rushes to the rescue.
“Come on, Der, let the kid choose his own car. He’s an adult,” Stiles says, running his fingers through his husband’s hair.
Derek leans into the touch gratefully, but then he repeats, traitorously, “Don’t get a Jeep. People will think you’re a loser. Just ask Stiles.” A wry smile tugs up the corners of his lips.
“Hey, I resent that.” Stiles throws himself down on the couch beside Derek, slinging his legs over Derek’s lap, making it incredibly difficult for him to continue reading the newspaper he’s holding. Derek growls.
“Oh, hush, sourwolf,” Stiles says, kissing him lightly. Derek lifts his paper in front of Stiles’s legs and continues reading.
Stiles catches Al’s eye and winks. He tries to send a nonverbal message to his son. Maybe they’ve got some sort of father-son telepathic bond. Stiles squints really hard and focuses on Al’s shaggy mop of hair, thinking, “buy a Jeep,” over and over, to no avail.
Ah well. Worth a try.
A few weeks later, Stiles and Derek are standing together on their front porch, waiting for Al to pull up in his new car. He hadn’t disclosed his final decision, so they had started a little bet between themselves. If he bought a Jeep, Derek does the laundry for a month. If he bought a sports car, Stiles has to wear a demeaning apron with hearts on it, a joke gift from Scott for their wedding, every time he vacuums for the next two months.
“Ready to get your ass kicked?” Stiles asks, turning to face Derek.
Derek smiles down at him, placing his hands on Stiles’s hips. Stiles brushes his fingers over Derek’s crow’s feet, his greying temples.
“I love you,” Stiles reminds him.
Derek hums in acknowledgment, then says, “He’s not going to buy a Jeep.”
His head suddenly head whips around, looking past the end of the street.
“Did you hear something? Did I win?” Stiles asks excitedly.
“Oh no,” Derek groans.
A white car becomes visible in the distance, and Stiles suddenly feels sick. This is worse than he ever could have imagined, worse than a Camaro by far.
“Hold me, I may cry,” Stiles says dramatically, swooning and falling limply into Derek’s arms.
As Al parks the car in front of the house and gets out, whistling happily, Stiles speaks in a horrified whisper so that only Derek can hear.
“He bought a Prius. God save us.” He crosses himself jokingly.
Derek just smiles and kisses him, saying, “We just didn’t raise him right.”
“Nothing we can do now,” Stiles agrees, and glances with disgust at the car one last time before following his husband inside.
At least he doesn’t have to wear the apron.