Derek's Still a Werewolf
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Scott grins, “Stiles found a Firefly.”
“They're these old-style ships from before the Wars, they'll stay in the sky forever if you have an even halfway decent mechanic and they're some of the fastest non-military models from that era. They're... they're freaking sweet and one finally came into the 'yard today and, well,” Stiles takes a deep breath and moves in front of Allison, clasping both her hands in his and looking deeply into her eyes, as serious as he can be with all this adrenaline running through him, and asks: “Allison Michelle Argent, would you do me the honor of being my Captain?”
He’s just tired. Not of Derek, though, never of Derek. Derek’s actually sort of amazing when you look past his Forrest-Gump style beard and his white Jesus toga, and his stupid, Tom flats that he refuses to take off (“Dude,” Stiles had said when he had first seen them, “You don’t even go outside, how do you have Toms?” And Derek had simply stared at him, long and hard before whispering, quite passionately. “Internet.”).