The whole thing starts with Stiles really, really craving a meatball sub from the place across the street.
“God, someone shut him up,” Erica groans. They’re all kind of at their breaking point by now; they’ve been camped out in this meeting room all day, brainstorming. “He’s been talking about the same goddamn sandwich for seven and a half minutes now, and it’s making me hungry.”
“If only our ad campaign were about sandwiches, Stilinski would have it in the bag and we could all go home,” Isaac sighs.
From across the table, Derek rises abruptly to his feet and storms out. (Or maybe it’s just that Stiles always interprets everything Derek does as stormy. With those eyebrows, it’s hard not to.)
Stiles assumes he’s just gotten so fed up with them all that it’s either storm out or kill someone, and he’s just grateful Derek chose Door Number 1. It’s a good day not to get killed by Derek Hale.
Only, fifteen minutes later he comes back in. With a paper bag from the deli.
As soon as he gets within grabbing distance, Stiles practically collapses across the table in his haste to reach for it. “Oh my god, is that what I think it is?”
Derek holds it up over his head. “Who says this is for you? Maybe all your talk inspired me to go get a meatball sub of my own.”
“Oh, please. Like anyone with your abs eats meatball subs.” Stiles leaps to his feet on his swivel chair—because screw safety, Derek will catch him if he starts to topple over—and snatches the bag out of Derek’s grip. Derek doesn’t fight him for it very hard.
“Why don’t I get a meatball sub?” Erica whines, thumping her head down on her notebook. “Doesn’t anyone love me?”
Derek shrugs and takes his seat again. “You didn’t ask.”
“You just like Stilinski better,” she grumbles, and Derek just shrugs again.
Meanwhile, Stiles rips into the bag and takes a huge bite out of the gloriousness that is this sandwich. He can’t help throwing in a few theatrical moans just to taunt Erica, and she suitably rewards him with a glare of death across the table.
“Mmm,” Stiles says. “Derek, I love you so much, dude. Marry me.”
Instead of the grumpy eyebrows he expects, Derek meets his eye, leans back smugly in his chair, and says, “Okay.”
Stiles blinks at him, sandwich held halfway to his mouth. “Okay?”
“God,” Erica interrupts, “as riveting as this conversation is, I’m going to get my own meatball sub. See you losers later.”
Stiles mostly forgets about it. That is, until Derek is surprisingly awesome again, this time with coffee when they have an impromptu team meeting at 8:30 in the fucking morning two weeks later.
“Dude, it’s official, we’re having a June wedding,” Stiles groans between sips of hazelnut latte goodness.
The weirdest, most delightful thing is that Derek fucking goes along with it. “June? How cliché. I vote April or May.”
“Okay, sure,” Stiles smirks. “It’s gonna be on April Fool’s Day or not at all.”
Derek clutches his chest. “Why, so everyone will think our love is a joke? I’m wounded, babe.”
“Shut up, both of you,” Isaac groans, stealing the to-go cup right out of Stiles’ hands and taking a huge sip, and Stiles is suitably distracted chasing him around the room and yelling barely-workplace-appropriate insults to tell Derek exactly why they need to have an April wedding.
He tells him later, though. He doesn’t forget. They compromise on mid-April.
It kinda becomes a thing, after that. Seriously. Stiles has a thing with Derek Hale. A gay chicken thing, except with weddings. And it’s awesome.
“It’s gonna be a small, intimate gathering—”
“—of all our two thousand one hundred and eighty combined Facebook friends. Perfect. I was thinking the same thing, babe.”
“You’re paying to feed them all, then.”
“I’ll buy two cakes, since we probably aren’t going to agree on cake flavors at all.”
“Mine better be German chocolate with buttercream frosting.”
“Wait, seriously? That’s what I was going to pick. Okay, I’ll make my cake be coconut. Ooh, we could do a tropical theme! We’re gonna have flowers everywhere.”
“Only if you want me to sneeze all over you all day.”
“Derek, it’s a spring wedding, we’ve gotta have flowers. But we can get fake ones. And balloons! I fucking love balloons. Also, who says we’re gonna get married in the daytime? What if I want to get married at night?”
“An evening wedding, then. The reception can be at night.”
“Only if you let me hire the DJ.”
“Absolutely not. You would pick something totally tacky for our first dance, like ‘Cotton Eye Joe’ or the Chicken Dance.”
“While that would be hilarious, I was actually thinking ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love.’”
“That’s… actually not bad. Huh.”
“I do have good taste sometimes, boo.” Stiles even throws in a wink. “After all, I like you enough to marry you.”
It turns out Derek isn’t stormy and grumpy all the time, and he actually has a really nice smile. Especially when he’s blushing.
Erica, probably looking for an excuse to party and/or laugh at them, throws them a surprise fake-engagement party one Friday. The whole office shows up, probably lured in by the free food.
It actually ends up being fun. There’s chocolate cake and sparkling grape juice, and Stiles manages to get Derek to take a selfie with him while wearing a flower crown and not looking even a little bit murderous. Stiles immediately sets it as his new phone background just to see Derek pretend (badly) not to like it.
“Aw, is that your boyfriend?” a client asks one day, leaning over his shoulder, because Stiles never quite got around to changing out that photo on his phone.
And… Stiles shouldn’t. It’s probably crossing so many lines.
But he does.
He smiles widely and says, “We’re engaged, actually.”
The weird thing is, it’s supposed to be a joke, but Stiles actually really likes the sound of it, and before he can second-guess it, he’s off inventing a whole story about their wild office romance and how it all started with an innocent meatball sub.
The client gets actual tears in her eyes by the end of it.
Stiles should be a professional actor. He’s obviously missed his life’s calling.
“Stiles,” Derek growls the next morning, “why did Wanda just call me to congratulate me on my engagement to you?”
“Uh, because we are engaged?” Stiles tries. “We’re having a spring wedding with two flavors of cake, or did you forget? By the way, you still need to buy me a ring.”
Deflection successful—Derek crosses his arms and demands, “Why am I the one buying the rings in this scenario? You’re the one who proposed to me.”
“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure you have more money. I make too many impulse decisions regarding video games, and books, and concert tickets, and… yeah. I have no concept of budgeting.”
Derek sighs and shakes his head and totally forgets about the whole “Stiles told someone we were getting hitched” thing.
It just keeps going. Stiles gets in the habit of calling Derek “babe” or “boo” sarcastically, just to see Derek flip him off or roll his eyes or blush, and if anyone around the office says something like, “I dunno, ask your boyfriend,” or, “Tell your boyfriend good job on that presentation,” Stiles knows exactly who they’re talking about.
He’s pretty sure there are a few people around the office who actually think Derek is Stiles’ fiancé at this point, which amuses Stiles to no end.
One day he even catches Derek actually reading a wedding magazine on his break.
It’s not exactly weird when Derek drifts to a stop by Stiles’ desk at the end of the day one evening, grey messenger bag slung over his shoulder and hands in his pockets. They walk out to their cars a lot together, these days.
It’s also not that weird that Derek opens with, “Do you like sushi?”
“I thought we agreed we were just having cake at the reception,” Stiles says absently, chewing on a pen. He’s come up with ten different slogans in the past hour for this brand of dish soap, but they’re all puns, and the client probably isn’t going to go for it.
“Right, we are,” Derek says, and Stiles finally does look up, because Derek sounds nervous. Usually when they talk about the wedding there’s a lot more smirking and fake-outrage involved, and a lot less hand-twisting and lip-biting. “I was just thinking… wondering… if you liked sushi. There’s this new place a couple blocks from here, if, um.”
The pen falls out of Stiles’ mouth and clatters on the floor.
“Forget it,” Derek says, half-turning away.
That’s about as far as he gets before Stiles bursts out of his chair and tries to grab Derek’s arm but ends up with a fistful of his shirt instead. It gets Derek to stop and look at him again, though, so there. “Dude, are you asking me out right now?”
Derek says, “Let go of my shirt, Stiles,” which isn’t a no.
“Please tell me this isn’t a gay marriage chicken thing,” Stiles says, after he lets go of the shirt.
Derek swallows. “It isn’t a gay marriage chicken thing.”
“In that case,” Stiles says, “I love sushi.”
When they do get married for real a year later, they’re totally prepared.