“Oh shit, oh crap,” Stiles says, trying to squeeze in between Scott and the shelves of candy and disappear, somehow, even though it’s 3 am on a Sunday and pretty much the only people in the CVS are Scott, Stiles and the douchebag that Stiles used to date until Stiles caught him cheating and punched him in the face.
The punch had been pretty satisfying, actually, but Tommy’d had that skank to comfort him and Stiles had gone home and cried for three days afterward, so—so it’s been two months and Stiles has no desire to see Tommy after she’s been up all night eating tacos and peanut butter cups and playing video games with Scott. She’s pretty sure there are grease stains all over her t-shirt and there’s a ninety-five percent chance she’s wearing Scott’s Batman boxers as shorts.
It’s not her finest moment.
They were only supposed to grab a couple bags of M&Ms and a twelve pack of Mountain Dew and then head back to her house for Summer CoD Smackdown Part 2, so she’s not, like, prepared for company. There is a possibility that she still has rubber bands all over her head from when Scott tried to braid her hair.
“Oh crap,” Scott says when he spots him, too, and turns sideways and raises his arms and tries to block her body by dint of being a huge dork.
God, Stiles loves him.
It doesn’t actually help, though, because he’s basically made their corner of the store an even bigger freak show by accidentally knocking all the Twizzlers packs all over the floor; it’s like a candy landslide, and Tommy glances their way immediately.
“Stiles?” Tommy says. A smarmy grin blooms across his face and Stiles’s fingers itch to scratch out his eyeballs.
“Tomson, howdy!” she says instead. She sidesteps out from behind Scott and wishes desperately that she’d thought to wear a bra. Is there jiggling? There may be jiggling, she needs to stop waving her hand at Tommy, but it’s either that or cross her arms and stuff her hands up under her armpits and that’s, like, a classic I’m-ashamed-of-my-Stud-Muffin-t-shirt stance and Stiles is in no way ashamed of her t-shirt, despite the fact that there may or may not be hot sauce all over her left boob.
“How…are you?” Tommy says. He’s moving closer to them, and Stiles wants to melt into the floor and cover herself with the mountain of candy at their feet.
“Fine! Great, even, Scotty, you remember—this guy?” Stiles says. She’s waving again, oh god, what the fuck.
Tommy looks down at her boobs and she has to fight the almost overwhelming urge to clutch at them.
Tommy says, “You look—” He cuts himself off, and his eyes are bright with amusement and Stiles wants to die.
She darts a look at Scott and Scott has his jaw clenched, like he’s a hairsbreadth away from growling and flashing his eyes at him. Stiles places a hand on his arm and tries to figure out how to get out of this without accidental bloodshed and unexplainable fangs and claws. Scott’s a bro, but he’s seen Stiles raccoon-eyed and practically horking up tears out of her lungs over Tommy, there’s a very thin line between Scott and his wolf when it comes to Stiles’s mental and physical health.
And then Derek freaking Hale shows up at the end of the aisle, one eyebrow arched at them, and Stiles doesn’t even know why this is happening, because it’s not like she wants Derek to see her in all her gamer-binge glory, either, but she panics and says, “Derek!” and, “Hey, Tommy, it’s Derek!” and, “Hey, Derek, come meet my douchebag ex who cheated on me and called me an un-datable spaz.”
Derek says, “He said what?”
Tommy’s eyes go wide and Stiles says, “Uh, well, maybe not in so many words?” because color-her-surprised but Derek looks pissed. Huh.
Derek is stupidly hot, Stiles has always thought this, it’s just super unfortunate that Derek always acts like he’s barely tolerating her. Like she’s a toothache that just won’t go away, that Derek has learned to live with.
In the grand scheme of things, Stiles and Derek get along okay, though. Not great, maybe, but Stiles understands that Derek has problems with women. He tends to either trust them implicitly for no logical reason whatsoever or he instantly likens them to the devil just because they, uh, talk too much or accuse him of murder or whatever.
For instance, Derek pretty much hated Stiles since the beginning, since he old-man yelled at Scott and her to get off his front lawn. Stiles has, time and time again, proven to be a perfectly good ally, and usually the most she gets from Derek is a grudging nod of acknowledgement.
But then he goes ahead and fucks Ms. Blake within a week of meeting her, and they all know how well that turned out.
Maybe it’s the damsel in distress bit—Stiles may be 120 pounds of fragile skin and bones, but she’s the one who held Derek’s fat-ass up in the pool for two hours. There is only a tiny little bit of distressed damsel in her life, and that’s mostly from when she’d thought the most dangerous thing in the preserve was a harmless little man-eating cougar.
That doesn’t explain Braeden, of course. Or Kate. Or that asshole he dated the last couple months who kept calling him Babers and Honeycakes and Stiles had wanted to punch her in the throat, like, twenty-four seven.
Although, Braeden, for the record, was awesome.
Scary as fuck, but Stiles had a fear-born lady boner for her for the entire six month period she decided to hang around.
But anyway, Derek normally has incredibly bad taste in women, so of course he’s never been able to see the awesomeness that is Stiles.
Maybe this anger now is like a only I get to make fun of Stiles pack-type thing, which is—still kind of insulting, actually, but Stiles gets a little warm and fuzzy feeling about it anyway. Ugh.
Tommy backs up into a shelf as Derek stalks down the aisle toward them, scowling, and Tommy says, “I didn’t—what the hell, man?” when Derek twists the front of his shirt in a fist and drags him up into his face.
“What did you say?” he growls.
Stiles says, “Derek, it’s totally okay,” and scrambles back with a meep when Derek throws his glare her way.
Tommy says, “Dude! I didn’t say anything!” palms up and out.
Derek points a finger nearly to his nose and says, “Stay away from her,” Christ, that shouldn’t be so hot, right? Stiles doesn’t need Derek standing up for her. She doesn’t need anyone standing up for, and if she ever did need anyone standing up, which she doesn’t, it’d totally be Scott, despite his tendency to wolf out at inopportune moments.
“I’m not even—”
Derek cuts Tommy off with a violent shake.
“Fine!” Tommy yells. “Jesus, Stiles, tell your boyfriend to back off, okay?”
Stiles says, “He’s not my—” only to be silenced with another growl from Derek, holy god, she throws up her hands in disgust and only belated realizes that she forgot, yet again, that the ladies aren’t strapped in for this kind of ride.
Derek simultaneous releases Tommy—who goes running down the aisle and out of the store like his pants are on fire—and stares at Stiles’s chest.
“What?” Stiles says, and she makes herself thrust out her boobs, putting them on display, taco stains and all, and only regrets it a little when Derek’s eyes go impossibly wide. Actually, she doesn’t regret it at all, what is this? Her heartbeat starts going a little crazy when Derek takes a step closer to her.
Scott pointedly clears his throat and says, “Uh, guys?” and Stiles is almost tempted to ignore him. Derek’s ears are turning a fascinating shade of pink.
Stiles says, “Right, uh. Thanks for the save? Although, you know, I totally had it in hand.”
Derek’s expression goes from wide-eyed wonder to smirky asshole in three point two seconds. “Sure,” he says. “That’s why you practically flagged me down.”
“Hey! That was for Scott, I was afraid he was gonna go all alpha wolfy on Tommy’s ass.” Stiles reaches out and grabs what is possibly an industrial-sized bag of M&Ms, she’s going to need enough chocolate to feed a small army to get over this entire embarrassing situation.
Scott grumbles, “I was fine,” and Stiles throws him a look: right. Scott adds, low, “I wasn’t going to eat him,” and Stiles gives him a there-there pat on his shoulder.
Derek says, “So,” and gestures back to where he’d left his plastic shopping basket at the end of the aisle to come beat up her ex-boyfriend, god, Stiles still isn’t sure that actually just happened.
“Right,” Stiles says.
Derek drops his gaze to the floor, looks over at Scott and then back to her again. “I guess I’ll just see you, then?”
“Right,” Stiles says again. Derek looks—what is happening? It feels like something is happening, she rocks back on her heels and hums under her breath.
“Oh my god,” Scott suddenly says, and then he takes off. He just walks right off with five bags of Twizzlers and disappears around the corner and Stiles stares after him, puzzled.
“Do you want to—”
Stiles looks over at Derek again. “What?”
“Uh, nothing,” Derek says, and then Stiles can hear Scott yell, “Oh my god!” again from the next aisle over.
Stiles self-consciously rubs a hand over the back of her neck. Her fingers snag on a rubber band—yep, she is definitely in fine form this morning.
Stiles says, “So this has been fun.” She hooks a thumb over her shoulder. “I’m just gonna—go die of embarrassment somewhere more private.” She nods and then starts walking away, hugging her candy to her belly. Sweet, sweet candy, she thinks, you never fail me.
“Stiles,” Derek says.
Stiles slowly turns back to him. He’s smiling again, only it’s slightly less snarky.
He says, “Do you, uh, want to go grab some breakfast?”
Stiles looks down at her huge bag M&Ms.
“Actual breakfast?” Derek clarifies. He looks—earnest. Like he really wants to give her a nutritious meal at—she glances at her phone—3:30 in the morning. Weird.
Scott yells, “Say yes!” because he’s a dirty rotten eavesdropper.
“Like, actual date breakfast?” Stiles says before she can help herself. And then she immediately turns bright red, because of course he doesn’t mean actual date breakfast, that would be—
“Uh.” Stiles feels like someone tore out her heart and then stuffed it in her mouth and made her swallow it—there’s pounding all the way up her throat, it roars in her ears. This is crazy.
Derek doesn’t ask out weird, skinny girls with occasional acne problems and zero brain-to-mouth filters. Derek usually stares at her like she’s an alien, like he doesn’t know how she exists—and he’s the werewolf.
She should say yes, though, right?
“Is this because I’m not wearing a bra?” Stiles asks. There’s a surreal wee-small-hours-of-the-morning cast to this whole conversation.
Derek rolls his eyes. “No, Stiles.”
Stiles doesn’t see how this can’t be about the no-bra thing, that’s the only thing that’s changed from how they normally interact. Just last week, Derek totally and fully ignored her on pack movie night, there had been flinching involved when they both reached for the popcorn at the same time.
Stiles squares her shoulders and says, “Then why?”
Derek sighs. He sighs, deep and painful, a silent why me? but then says, “I thought—you never told me you broke up with him.”
“Dude,” Stiles says, “I didn’t think I had to?” Since when does Stiles have to tell Derek anything, right? They don’t exactly have weekly heart-to-hearts. And then the full implication of Derek’s words sink in and she—she thinks about how she’d been dating Tommy when Derek was dating his last asshole, and Stiles had totally talked about how much she hated her all the time, odds are Derek heard her ranting at least once, and—“Did you break up with that asshole for me?”
Derek clenches his jaw and stares up at the ceiling and finally bites out, “Yes.”
Scott yells, “Ha!”
Stiles says, “Oh my god.”
Derek deflates and says, “Yes or no, Stiles,” and Stiles says, “Yes! A thousand times yes!” and feels absolutely zero shame because Derek Hale wants to bone her—he broke up with a big-boobed ex-boat-show-model-slash-tennis-instructor asshole for her and then quietly pined when he thought she was still dating Tommy, that is possibly the cutest thing ever.
Pink floods in from Derek’s ears to cover his whole scruffy face, but he’s smiling down at her, and there’s this odd pressure in her chest that is still equal parts disbelief and some unknown quantity that may be giddy happiness—or, like, gas or whatever, she did eat her weight in taco meat and nacho cheese just about three hours ago, but she’s not going to think too hard on that right now.
Stiles goes up on her tiptoes and kisses Derek and he squeaks a little when she grabs his perfectly shaped ass, it’s weirdly gratifying and downright adorable.
She pulls back, says, “I’m going to date the hell out of you,”—she’s going to be the best at this, Derek will never know what hit him—and Derek says, a little hoarse, “I honestly do not doubt that at all.”