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“I’ll get her,” Scott grunts, exhausted. Stiles waves him off.
“You got her la - last time,” he interrupts himself with a yawn. “S’my turn.”
He trudges through the house, willing himself awake despite having only managed about forty-five minutes of sleep. In the nursery, Rowan squalls mightily for the fifth time since ten o’clock. Her cries seem to echo through the little cottage they rent not far from Scott’s practice, in part due to the truly excessive number of baby monitors Scott has placed throughout the house.
“I’m coming,” Stiles says loudly, and for a moment Rowan stops crying, but the peace is short-lived. As soon as she realizes “coming” is not “here,” she starts up again.
“Told him we should have put her next to our room,” Stiles grumbles. As soon as his tired feet bring him to Rowan’s room she stops crying, silence blanketing the house except for the creak of the floorboards.
“What’s the matter Ro?” he asks, lifting the infant from her crib. Her little face is red under her mop of dark curls, and her hands are balled up in angry fists that she pushes against him with. “Teeth driving you crazy?”
Rowan makes no response except a high, soft whimper when Stiles prods at her mouth, feeling the tender gums with one fingertip. He smooths some numbing gel on them, talking to her quietly all the while.
“You know the more you talk the more awake she’s going to be,” Scott says, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He holds out both hands for her, a warm bottle tucked between one arm, and his chest.
“Seems like she’s going to be awake no matter what I do babe,” Stiles says, trying to laugh but yawning instead as he hands Rowan over. The clock on the dresser blinks 2:09 at them in a bright neon display.
“You’re probably right.” Scott settles in the glider with her, a comfortable padded thing they found on sale just for this purpose but rarely use. Rowan’s a good sleeper when she isn’t being tortured by teething. “Go on back to bed. You’ve got to work tomorrow.”
“So do you, sweetheart,” Stiles says, drawing forward a chair from the wall and sitting next to them. Scott pops the bottle into Rowan’s mouth and rocks her gently. Her eyes instantly go half-lidded, even as she sucks noisily.
“I’m going to move my morning appointment,” Scott admits, sounding a little shamed. “Mrs. O’Malley’s cat can wait until one. Kira already said she and Malia could take Rowan in the morning.”
“That - sounds like a plan,” Stiles nods. He rests his head against the high back of the chair, eyes drifting closed as he listens to Rowan’s soft eating noises, Scott’s even breathing.
“Go back to bed, Stiles,” is the last thing he hears.
⋆★⋆
“God I’ve missed you,” Stiles says. Scott’s straddling his hips, tugging at his shirt. It’s been - well, it’s been way too long, is how long it’s been, but nothing’s going to keep Stiles from his goal tonight. He pulls Scott down into a long, hot kiss, hands sliding up the smooth skin of his torso under his shirt. He’s been thinking about this all day, about coming home and getting Scott into bed. They had a bottle of wine over dinner, just enough to loosen everything up a little, and now -
“Daddy?”
Stiles stills. Above him, Scott sits up cautiously, turning toward the doorway.
“What’s wrong Ro?” he asks, voice soft.
“Daddy, I -” her little voice gets broken off as stormy sobs overtake her, and in an instant Scott’s off the bed and scooping her up in his arms. Stiles scoots over to make room for them both.
“What’s the matter baby girl?” Stiles asks, brushing Rowan’s curls back from her face. They’re lighter than they used to be, burnished golden brown with hints of red throughout, but they’re just as curly as when she was a baby. She’s grown so big now at four years old, it’s hard to remember when she fit in just one of Stiles’ arms.
“There was a monster, and he - and he was eatin’ you, and - and you couldn’t get away and -”
“Just a bad dream,” Scott assures her, but he looks near to tears himself. It always pains him to see Rowan upset, tugs at his heartstrings the way nothing else could.
Rowan isn’t comforted by his words, but instead turns into Stiles’ chest and sobs that much harder, little body wracked with every cry. Stiles just holds her close, petting her hair and her back and making soft shushing noises to calm her.
“What makes bad dreams?” Rowan asks when she runs out of tears, voice accusatory, like she’s blaming some unseen entity for invading her dreamscape and offering her this subpar fantasy.
“Were you upset about anything today?” Scott asks quietly, rubbing her back with one hand.
“I don’t think so…” Rowan says, thinking hard, and then, “Well, maybe a little. I don’t like to eat peas.”
“And we had peas at supper,” Scott says, voice so soft Stiles can barely hear him. “And Daddy made you eat your peas, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” Rowan says, sulky. “And I didn’t like that.”
“Did you go to bed still upset?” Scott’s not accusing, just patient as he talks her through it, like he almost always is - patient and sweet and so kind it almost hurts to watch.
“A little,” Ro says sadly. “I didn’t want you to get eaten by a monster though Daddy I promise.”
“That’s okay,” Stiles smiles. “I know you didn’t honey. Sometimes we dream bad things when we’re upset, but that doesn’t mean we want them to happen.”
“It just means we need to try not to go to bed upset,” Scott finishes for him. Stiles presses a kiss to Rowan’s forehead, and then one to Scott’s.
“Do you feel better now?” Stiles asks after a moment of quiet. Rowan gives no answer except a soft snore.
“Sorry,” Scott says, smiling apologetically. Stiles shrugs.
“There’ll be other nights,” he says. “Goodnight Scotty.”
“Goodnight Stiles.”
⋆★⋆
Stiles drags in, exhaustion leadening every muscle in his body. He moves like an eighty year old man, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. After a three day chase with only a few stolen moments of sleep here and there, and much of it on his feet, he’s not even sure he’ll make it to his bed. He might just pass out right here in the floor. The case had been a rough one - serial killer, one they’d been tracking for months, and Stiles finally brought him in. Nothing supernatural about the guy, just a regular old human villain that had taken too long to bring in.
It’s a herculean effort, but he manages to go to the bathroom, brush his teeth and wash his face and hands. He showered yesterday at the office, and he’d be happier if he could take another, but he knows there’s no way he’ll stay standing for the whole thing. He strips out of his uniform shirt as he makes his way toward the bedroom, one button at a time in fumbling fingers. He pushes the door open slowly, careful not to wake Scott - and finds his bed full of not just his husband, but also their six year old, sprawled out over his side of the bed. Their dark heads are pressed close, but Scott sleeps curled up on his side, while Rowan is curved into an odd question mark shape, her back bent at an angle that could only be comfortable for a child. There’s a sliver of room at the edge of the bed, but Stiles knows better than to think he could fit - it’s been a long time since they could all three fit together comfortably. He thinks, not for the first time, We really need a king sized bed.
He pulls on some pajamas as quietly as he can and kneels next to Scott’s side of the bed. At the first touch of his hand through Scott’s hair, Scott blinks awake.
“You’re home,” he says, voice rough with sleep but so relieved.
“I’m home,” Stiles agrees. “Gonna go crash on the couch. Just wanted to tell you that I love you.”
“We can make room,” Scott tries to argue, but Stiles silences him with a kiss.
“I’ll be here in the morning when you wake up,” he promises. “Go back to sleep.”
Scott does. Stiles is.