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For Love is Not Ours to Command

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“How is this necessary again?”

“To recap,” Stiles sighs, “while I was busy being possessed by Japanese demons, this son of a bitch was trying to get my dad fired and guilt trip his way into Scott's life.”

Derek blinks at him.  “That sounds like Scott's personal problem.”

“Oh, yeah, okay, Mr. Boundaries, how about you don't even. So anyway, if anyone deserves a #1 Dad mug from Scott, it's Deaton, or my dad, or hell, even you. Not this fucker. So we're going to find something on him and run him out of town.”

For a long moment, Derek is quiet.  He’s sitting in the Jeep’s passenger seat, the car parked outside of the police station where Stiles knows there is an ample amount of information in his father’s left bottom file drawer, all about Agent McCall.  If it’s the end of him, he’s going to figure out how to send this dude back to the federal bureau of asshats.

“Okay,” Derek says eventually.

Stiles does his best not to be surprised.  “C’mon.”

The light is still on inside, but going in through the back door makes it easier.  There’s still cops wandering around, near holding cells and interrogation rooms, but Stiles is an expert at this sort of thing now.  Plus, the staff is halved, at the very least, because of the hour and the recent patrols made mandatory by the FBI.  They’re not actually a bad idea, Stiles just really hates them on principle.

Getting into his dad’s office isn’t actually that hard.  Sneaking Derek in is.  There’s only one desk nearby, and no one’s there, plus Stiles isn’t really a suspicious person to be seen hanging around the Sheriff’s office.  He’s the Sheriff’s kid.  Everyone here knows him, which means even if someone looks over, they’re probably not going to think anything of it.

“Why did you need me here?” Derek whispers. And hell. Derek whispering. He'd forgotten what that did to him.

“For your wolfy look-out skills. Now shut up and look out,” Stiles whispers back.

Derek growls very softly and holy hell. But now is not a time to get distracted by how mortifyingly hot Derek is in light of his own newly questioning sexuality. Now is the time to find some dirt on Scott's asshole dad.

It's not even hard, Stiles realizes. If the unprofessional post-it sarcasm all over Rafael's files on his dad don't do the trick, the creepy ass level of surveillance he has on Scott and Melissa's home certainly is. Abuse of power in aid of stalking? That should be plenty.

The only issue then is that apparently bringing Derek along wasn’t actually as useful as he thought.  In fact, it only serves as an enormous distraction because, for whatever reason, Derek is yanking him up and saying, very quickly, “Go with it,” before he seals his mouth over Stiles’.

He has a brief second of panic.  Derek, to his credit, obviously expected this because his arms are firm around Stiles, one hand on the back of his neck, not letting him back away, and honestly—what is it with hot people springing kisses on him?  Is it a side effect of hanging around werewolves?

He figures it out, though, because not five seconds into this glorious kiss, the door opens and Agent McCall strides in, crossing his arms over his chest.  Derek’s hand is on his ass.  Stiles feels like he’s the subject of a huge practical joke before it comes to him—

“Well,” he says, “this is embarrassing.”

“What are you doing in here, Stilinski?”

“I know that the FBI took you in ‘cause they felt sorry for you and all,” Stiles says, leveling a glare at him, “but I didn't think your observational skills were that bad.”

“What are you and this…biker man doing making out in my office?”

“It's my dad's office.  It's no one's problem you're squatting,” Stiles says, holding on to Derek's shoulder.  “And Derek doesn't own a bike.”

He’s obviously not amused, and Stiles glares just a little bit harder.

“I never thought I’d have to explain my sexual preferences to the guy who gave my best friend 50% of his genes, but apparently some people have a thing for cops.  Not to mention sneaking around.  We’ll put a Do Not Disturb sign up next time.”

“Does your father know that you're ‘sneaking around’ with a grown man?”

“I don't think we're supposed to be doing your job for you,” Derek says, surprising Stiles.  “Isn't that what you're getting paid to do? Finding out everything the Sheriff does and doesn't know? Seems like a pretty shit job for FBI. Are your superiors that unimpressed with you?”

Before Agent McCall can say anything, Stiles is pulling Derek just a little bit closer, hand sliding down his back.  “And more to the point, do you mind?”

“You still can’t be here,” he says gruffly, obviously affected by Derek’s comment.  He holds the door open.  “Leave.”

It’s easy to pick up his backpack.  It’s easy to slip the file into it like nothing’s happening and hook it over his shoulder, grabbing Derek’s hand and pulling him along.

“I’m sure your father will be interested in hearing about this,” McCall says as they’re leaving.

“Can’t wait to hear what you’ll tell him,” Stiles says back, and as they head towards the door, Derek wraps his arm around his waist, a warm weight that keeps him close to his side.

Once they're back inside the jeep Stiles realizes that he's shaking, but not until Derek puts a hand over his. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says.  “Duh. Not the worst thing to happen to me by like a lot. Uhm. I don't know why my hand is doing that.”

“I'll drive.”

“Uh no, no one drives my car.”  He spends a moment shaking himself.  “I drive my car.”

“Look, in there—”

“That was fast thinking.”  Stiles grins.  “Proud of you, dude.  Who knew you could be that quick?”

“You’re a good actor.”

“Yeah, well.”  He shrugs a shoulder and licks his lips.  They still taste like Derek—like coffee and something sweet.  “C’mon, I’ll drop you off at the loft.”

The drive is quiet except for the music Stiles has playing.  Thankfully, the roads are essentially empty, and he pulls up in front of Derek’s building, leaving the engine on.

“Thanks for helping.”

Derek smirks.  “Sure,” he says, and then he’s closing the door and walking towards the building, and Stiles bangs his head against the steering wheel, trying to tell his dick that he should not find Derek Hale so fucking attractive.



He doesn't realize the level of deep shit he's in until Scott pulls him aside.  “Why does my dad say that you and your boyfriend are a bad influence on me?”


“Yeah, what boyfriend? Dude, you are not allowed to not tell me crap like this.  You didn't think I'd like be a douchebag or something. Right?”

“No, wait, what?  I have no boyfriend.”

“He says you were with him at the police station.”

Stiles blinks.  “Uhm. Oh shit.”

His plan to run the bastard out of town isn't fully cooked and it just isn't time to tell Scott yet. But he can't lie to him, literally cannot lie.

“Derek and I had to do some improv because we were kind of in the station trying to see what he had in my dad's office.”

“You mean, like, what he has on your dad?”

Stiles nods. Stiles is very good at getting around lie detectors.

“So now he thinks you and Derek are dating?”

“Well he may have caught us making out. You know, as a distraction. Did you know Derek is a fairly fast problem solver?”

Scott blinks at him.  Just blinks.  Mouth closed.  Eventually, it seems the thoughts have buffered and he says, “What.”

“Well we were gonna get caught, so it was easier to explain away me sneaking some guy into my dad’s office for sexy make out times than digging through files.”  He shrugs.  “It was no big deal.”

“Derek kissed you.”


“What the fuck, man,” Scott says, a half smile on his face.  He shoves Stiles’ shoulder.  “Why didn’t you tell me?!”


Scott arches an eyebrow.  “You did not.”

“It just wasn’t a big deal.”  Down the hallway, Stiles can see Allison and Lydia by the latter’s locker.  Mr. Yukimura’s classroom door is open.  Scott is supposed to go talk to him about an exam they have coming up.

“Did my dad tell your dad?”

“Probably not—if my dad brushes it off then your dad will look like an idiot.  I’m not sure he’s willing to take that risk.  Look, dude, you have things to do, and I have to get home before my dad does because if he orders pizza while I’m here, I’ll have to let him eat it.”  He pats Scott’s shoulder.  “I’ll see you tomorrow, man.”

The good news is his dad isn’t home.  The bad news is that Derek is sitting in his car outside of Stiles’ house, reading a book he has pressed up against his steering wheel.  He looks up when Stiles pulls into the driveway, and Stiles jerks his head towards the house.

They have nosy neighbors.  Talking outside might not be a good idea.

“I don’t know what to do with the files,” Stiles says when Derek walks in the house.  “I mean, I do want him out of here, I really do.  But my dad could get in a lot of trouble if I gave him these.  We have to figure out a way they can be, like left out in the open or something, have witnesses so no shit comes down on him.”

Derek nods.  “Sounds like a good idea.”

Stiles hesitates.  “I think that’s the first time ever you’ve ever complimented a plan of mine.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.  It’s not actually a complete plan, anyway.”

“Why are you here?”

“You’ll find out,” he says.

“Yeah, I will,” Stiles drawls, “because I just asked you.”

“Don’t worry about it.  Do you have homework?”


“Go ahead and do it,” Derek tells him, and he promptly sits down on the couch and continues reading his book.

Stiles figures he could waste time arguing with Derek about why he’s there and why he’s intruding on Stiles’ precious alone-time—during which he mostly does homework, watch old movies, plan dinner, and occasionally find time to jerk off—or he could get started on the mountain of stuff he has to do.  He sits at the table only because it’s easier to keep an eye on Derek, plus his room can be distracting.  His computer would tear him away from studying in an instant.

He’s finished his English assignment, half of his History, and is cracking open his Calc textbook when Derek hops up from the couch and strides over.

“Okay,” he says.

Stiles looks up.  “Okay what?”

“Okay, it’s time.”

“Time for what?”

Derek yanks him up—slightly more gentle than he used to manhandle Stiles—and takes him over to the front door, opening it.  They both end up on the outside, but Derek makes sure Stiles is at least leaning towards the inside of the house, the door propped open.


And then Derek kisses him.  It’s slow and sweet, not nearly as eager and excited as the first one, and Stiles can’t help but touch Derek’s face, cup his jaw, his cheek.  Derek leans into his hand, kissing him like he’s saying goodbye, and then he pulls away, smiles sweetly, and walks to his car, lifting a hand to wave goodbye.

It isn’t until after he’s gone that Stiles realizes the car parked across the street doesn’t belong to their nosy neighbors—it belongs to Agent McCall.

Stiles flips him off pointedly and slams the door.



“Sorry,” Derek tells him the next afternoon.

Stiles shrugs.  “I figured it out.  He’s watching the house now?”

“I was hanging out outside of the police station,” Derek says, “and he was talking about how Scott had no idea who your supposed boyfriend was.  He started getting suspicious, thought it was act, and he spent the rest of the day trying to get your dad to let him look through the drawers so he could see if anything was taken.”

“Pops didn’t let him, huh?”

“Iced him out.  It didn’t help that McCall wouldn’t tell him why he wanted in.”

“So.”  Stiles is trying very hard not to notice how several people exiting the school at the same time as him are looking at Derek like he’s a model.  “What are you doing here?”

“Picking up Scott.  We’re going running.”

“How thrilling for the both of you.”

“You tell him about his dad?”

“Yeah, but not about why we were in the station in the first place.”

Derek nods.  “Okay.  I won’t mention it.”

“Thanks.  I appreciate it.”


He looks at Derek expectantly.

“Your dad’s gonna be fine.”

“I know.”  And he does, because they’re on it.



The pack is meeting up at Scott’s house.  There are some things to run down, checks to conduct.  After everything that went down, they have scheduled times to meet up at predetermined locations, make sure each of their own is okay. 

The only person who’s not there on time is Ethan, and that’s because he’s leaving Danny’s house.  When he finally arrives, he sits down next to his brother and says, “What did I miss?”

“You have a hickey,” Stiles points out helpfully.

Ethan buttons up the last few buttons on his shirt.  “Thanks.”


Derek, who’s sitting across the room, actually chuckles.

There’s not much to discuss.  Until the new shit storm rolls into town, they’re just trying to take care of each other.  They make popcorn and do some homework.  Kira puts on a movie and she and Lydia actually sit down and have a conversation.  Stiles is a little afraid of that friendship if he’s being honest.  Like, very afraid.  It’s also kind of nice, though, because he knows how hard Lydia is trying to be a member of the team, and with Kira, Stiles thinks it’s easier.

“Heads up,” Aiden says halfway through Die Hard.  “Agent Fuckface entering in 3—2—”

Derek is across the room in an instant, gluing himself to Stiles’ side.  If anyone is surprised, Stiles doesn’t notice, because he’s too busy looking at Derek.  Derek doesn’t make to kiss him, just wraps his arm around him where he’s sitting on the couch, makes it look like they’re having a conversation over the movie.

“Having a party, Scott?” Agent McCall asks.

“What are you doing here?”

“Your mom asked me to come make sure you had something to eat,” he says.  “She’s working tonight.”

“I’m fine,” he says harshly.  “You can leave now.”

The couch is angled so that Agent McCall can see them.  It’s not a perfect picture, but it’s enough, and Stiles knows he’s staring.  It’s an easy decision to put a hand on Derek’s leg and whisper, “He’s looking.”

“I know,” Derek says back.

“Werewolves have eyes in the back of their heads now?”


He knows Scott and his father continue talking.  He knows they bicker and fight and that, eventually, Agent McCall leaves, letting the door slam shut behind him, and Stiles waits for Derek to move away.  He doesn’t, not for a long moment at least.  When he finally does, it’s only a couple inches, but they both take their hands off each other and wait for the onslaught.

“Pretending to date to piss off Scott’s dad,” Aiden says.  “Since when?”

“Last week.”


“Thank you.”

“What happens if he tells your dad?” Kira wants to know.

Stiles shrugs, reaches for the bowl of Cheetos on the table.  “I’m still betting that won’t happen, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”



To be fair, Stiles admits they probably didn’t have to go this far just to continue McCall’s torture.  Honestly, they’re still trying to figure out how to leave the file lying around for Stiles’ dad to see them, but it’s hard getting back into the Sheriff’s office.  There’s one way Stiles knows they could do it, though.

“We have to go to Make Out Point.”

Derek arches an eyebrow at him across his book.  It’s a new one this week, dark cover with red lettering.  It’s—in Russian.  Russian literature, of course.

“We have to get back into the police station, and with McCall on Red Alert, the only way to do that is to get brought in without actually being arrested.”

“And do to that we have to go to Make Out Point.”

“Yes,” Stiles says with a nod.  “They can’t actually arrest us for fooling around in a car, but they can bring me in to see my father—at which point, I’ll leave the files on his desk and we’ll be golden.”

“There are probably better ways to do that.”

“You think of any go ahead and let me know.”

“You do realize that you’re a minor and that you don’t actually want your father to find out about what we’ve been doing, right?”

Stiles dismisses that with a wave of his hand.  “My dad doesn’t wanna know.  I tell him it’s werewolf stuff and he won’t blink twice.  Probably.  And there’s no law against kissing a minor.  But it’s fine—we don’t have to.  We’ll think of something else.”

Derek hulks a shoulder.  “Pick me up at eight.”

Stiles decides not to grin and instead just nods, flipping a page in his History textbook and continuing his homework.

Make Out Point is a part of the forest.  It overlooks the city and is a great place for kids to park and fool around.  The only issue is that, with the cops out all the time roaming the town, the police are up there every weekend, making sure nobody’s getting any.  Stiles is certain that fogged windows will bring him justice.

“We don’t actually have to make out, you know,” Stiles tells him when they’re settled in the backseat, thighs touching.

“We will when a cop comes,” Derek says.


“And there are a bunch of cars here.  That could be any minute.”

Stiles thinks Derek is probably teasing him and it doesn’t—it’s not good, it doesn’t feel good, but he doesn’t think Derek means it maliciously.  He has to have noticed that Stiles at least physically appreciates the attention.  It’s kind of hard to miss, even more so when the dude’s a werewolf, so.

Stiles kisses him.  It’s easier than talking.  Derek is at least responsive to this, and Stiles can win at this.  Even though talking a special skill, it’s hard sometimes to think about Derek, especially lately.

It starts out slow.  Stiles is just passing time until someone shows up, waiting until there’s a knock on the window and the cop of the week notices it’s Stiles and takes him to his dad.  He’s just…being patient.

“Why were you reading Russian lit?” he asks then, moving back.

Derek blinks at him.  “I like it.”

“Oh.  Okay.”

“Is that important?”

“No, it was just—”  Hot.  Distracting.  Sexy.  Intriguing.  “New,” he decides to say.  “I didn’t know you understood Russian.  Is that a werewolf thing?”

“If it were a werewolf thing, I think Isaac would be doing better in French.”

“Good point.”

Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever going to be able to forget what kissing a dude with a beard feels like.  It’s not even a full beard, at which point it would probably be soft and maybe a little bit of tickle, but this—this is scratchy, and Stiles doesn’t knows why he finds that so hot.  This is the first time they’re really going to be spending a lot of time kissing, and he can feel it even more now, against his cheeks and chin.  It’s good.  It’s distressingly good.

Derek’s tongue slips in against his and Stiles feels his eyebrows involuntarily go up.

“Okay?” Derek pulls away to ask.

Stiles nods quickly, leaning back in.

Time passes.  He’s not totally sure.  All he knows is that Derek’s hand is on his leg, moving upwards, and Stiles is too busy enjoying it to panic.  They’re barely touching, honestly, the backseat too cramped to do much but sit there and kiss.  At least until the warmth of Derek’s hand finds Stiles’ side, slipping up under his shirt.  At that point, it’s really in both of their best interests for Stiles to straddle him.  It just makes it all a little easier, doesn’t it?

There are a lot of things that Stiles wants.  A new carburetor, an A in Calculus, no more deaths around Beacon Hills.  Topping that list right now, though, is Derek, shirtless, kissing Stiles likes he never wants to stop.

He almost makes to push Derek’s jacket off his shoulders.  His hands are hovering when he realizes what he’s doing, and he calmly places them on Derek’s chest.  And then takes them off again.

“What is it?” Derek asks, eyes half open and mouth swollen.

Stiles stares for a moment.  “I—don’t know what to do with my hands.”

“Just do whatever, Stiles.  It doesn’t matter.”  His hands are still moving, on his thighs now, so close to Stiles cock that it hurts.

The temperature in the car skyrockets.  After that, it’s like they can’t keep their hands off each other.  It’s not a game anymore, Stiles knows, and whenever that cop shows up, they’re fucked because this isn’t just innocent kissing anymore.  He does get Derek’s jacket off eventually, even unbuttons his shirt a little bit, and Derek sucks on Stiles’ neck until his knees wobble.

Stiles is sweating through his shirt when Derek perks his head up.  He’s hard, desperately hard, and Derek is right there, hands still on him, mouth inches away.

“What?” he asks breathlessly.  “Is it a cop?”

Derek hesitates, then shakes his head.  “It’s—silent.”


“There’s no one else out there,” he says, meeting Stiles’ eyes, and Stiles scrambles for the fogged windows, wiping away the dew.  Sure enough, there’s no one else out there, not even a cop, and that means that either a cop came by and ignored them, or no authority figure was up here at all, and it’s almost midnight, so everybody left.

“Shit,” Stiles hisses.

“I told you this wasn’t a good plan.”

Stiles is about to sass him just back when he leans backwards and realizes that—oh.  Yup.  That’s Derek’s cock brushing up against the back of his thigh, and it’s extremely interested in basically everything they’ve been doing.  Which is—confusing.  Because it’s entirely possible that anyone making out for long enough would get an erection, but it’s also entirely possible that Derek is attracted to him.  Specifically.

“Sorry,” Derek says, trying to move away.

“No, it’s—it’s fine.  I mean, I—it’s okay.  It’s—flattering, actually.”  Stiles licks his lips.

“We should leave.”

Stiles nods and he does eventually squirm his way out of the car and into the front seat, but it takes a moment, and he stands outside in the brisk air for a bit to try to convince his dick that it is not, in fact, time to engage.

Derek doesn’t say much when Stiles drops him off, just lifts his hand in a wave and thanks him, and it’s all Stiles can do to get home before he throws himself on his bed and jerks off thinking about Derek’s mouth on his and his dumb beard and his tight jeans.  He comes too fast, biting on his tongue to keep from crying out, and it isn’t even enough.

He jerks off again in the shower and falls asleep on his stomach, trying not to think about how nice Derek’s butt is.



Stiles is on the floor of the loft going over his history paper with Kira. Stiles didn't think Derek would just give up the place to the pack once he came back, but he did. He barely even got pissed off about the party, once they'd dealt with all of that crap. Now people just end up gathering here. It's usually quiet and calm, but unlike the library there's no one to overhear things that they shouldn't.

“So how did you and Derek start, you know, this whole thing?”

“Oh,” Stiles says, shifting his papers around.  “Just, you know, we were going to get caught looking through my dad's stuff by Scott's dad and now we just have to keep up appearances. It's not a huge deal. I once held Derek up in 7 feet of water for two hours. This is a walk in the park.”

“Yeah.” Kira smiles. “I can imagine it is.”

He’s not unaware of the double meaning in her words, and neither is Scott.  He looks almost a little hurt by them, in fact, even though he’s totally teasing her.  He gets kisses as an apology though and Stiles rolls his eyes.

“It’s interesting that it’s not awkward, though,” she adds a little later, her head tilted onto Scott’s shoulder, a textbook in her lap.  “It seems like it would be.”

“Derek and I have an understanding.”  As if on cue, the front door opens and there are footsteps.  Stiles doesn’t even need to turn around to know it’s him.  “Did you bring me a milkshake?”

Derek hands him a cup from In-N-Out.  It’s still chilled, which is impressive considering the half hour drive.  Even more impressive, it’s still impossible to suck through the straw.

“Dammit, In-N-Out.”

Kira just laughs.

Scott raises an eyebrow.  “Where's your Alpha's milkshake?”

“Someone has to keep you from going mad with power,” Derek deadpans.

Kira gives in to her giggles and rolls on the floor a bit. Stiles likes the way Derek's face is always gentle around Kira, softer and less frowny. It's not the way Derek looks at him or anyone else and he doesn't know how he feels about that, but he likes it when Derek rolls his eyes more teasingly and smiles softly when she's around. He thinks maybe, just maybe, she reminds him of how things were before. Kira seems to let death and horrors just roll of her back.  It's a trait he wishes they all had.

Eventually, Scott and Kira leave, but Stiles is still there.  Without his dad home, the house feels lonely, empty, and he likes sitting on the floor in front of Derek’s couch and doing his homework.  It’s—nice.  Mostly because Derek never lets him go hungry.

Stiles is halfway through his English essay when Derek sits down on the couch, legs hanging by Stiles’ left shoulder.  He turns on the TV, says, “Is this gonna bother you?”

“Nah, man, I’m in the zone.  Go for it.”

He does get a bit distracted though, just because Derek is watching House Hunters International. He's seen Derek covered in gore and blood and now this.

Either way, he finishes his essay, puts away his laptop and stands.  “I gotta get home.  See you around?”

Derek doesn’t look away from the TV.  “Sure.”

It’s a work in progress.



The next time Stiles sees Derek, it’s because he’s at Scott’s house with the rest of the pack, eating pizza and watching Return of the Jedi.  They would have gone to Derek’s loft, but there was an issue with Peter and a guest—

Stiles doesn’t want to know.  All he wants to do is stare at Han Solo and eat popcorn.

Stiles doesn't realize until mid way through the movie that Derek isn't with them. He looks over his shoulder where his arm hangs from the back of the sofa behind Lydia and see the movement in the kitchen. He turns back to the movie for a few minutes before he sighs and scoots out of the couch.

“What are you doing?”

Derek blinks at him and turns back to the cabinets. “Place is a mess.”

“We'll clean it up after,” Stiles says as he scratches the back of his head.  “Just come watch the movie.”

“You're all going to pass out,” he says as he wipes up the counter, “and Melissa doesn't need to see this shit at two in the morning.”

Stiles thinks it’s positively endearing, the way Derek cares about Scott’s family.  It’s like he’s Melissa personal bodyguard.  He would never let anything happen to her.

“I swear to you that I will finish cleaning it up.”

“It’s okay,” Derek says.  “Go back and finish the movie.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, huffs out a breath.  “It’ll be done faster if we do it together,” he grumbles.  “Shove over and start washing the dishes.”

After that it’s like they’re married, but without the benefits.  They’re around each other a lot, hanging out all the time, and it’s usually because of the pack, but it doesn’t always have to be.  They eat together and they read together and Derek starts building a little library where the hole in the wall used to be.

Stiles actually calls it that, the hole in the wall. Derek is absolutely against that kind of cutesiness but he does accept all the book donations Stiles makes to the collection.

There's a lot of silence around them and it's strange.  It's weird that they can handle that.

“I was, um—have you talked to Scott lately?”

Derek blinks up from his book.  “Probably not more recently than you, why?”

“What about Isaac?”

“Isaac doesn't talk to me unless Scott tells him to,” Derek mutters as he looks back down at his lap.

He forgets sometimes that Isaac and Derek used to have such a good relationship.  He forgets that Isaac used to live upstairs and treat Derek like the father he was supposed to have, a good father, a worthwhile father.  Then he remembers, and he can’t imagine what Derek feels, having to watch someone you turned away for their own good run to the new Alpha, the new boss.

“What is it?” Derek asks after a few moments of silence.  “Something wrong?”

“It's just when we're with the pack,” Stiles starts and then stops himself. Because since when does he speak about we? Maybe Derek didn't catch that.  “I just mean you don't really join in. And I know you don't hate us all, okay, that much is obvious. Like, I know you think Kira is really awesome but you've never even talked to her. I just—don't you get sick of spending time with me?”

Derek's face does a number of weird things. “I didn't realize you found it that pathetic.”

“What? No, I—dude.”

“You can go home, Stiles,” he says as he flips a page a bit violently.  “Text me if someone is dying.”

Stiles rolls his eyes dramatically.  “Don’t be an idiot; that’s not what I said.  God, just—shut up and read your stupid Polish book.”

“How do you know it’s Polish?”

“Well, I am a Stilinski—my dad taught me some phrases growing up.  I know how to say all the curse words, as well as ‘I hope you are eaten by a dog and crapped out.’”  He smiles to himself, moving to sit down next to Derek.  “I also know that that book is called Summer, because I learned how to say the seasons and other basic junk.”

Derek blinks at him over the top of book for a moment before returning to it.  “Huh.”

“How many languages do you even know, man?”

“Seven,” Derek says, like he's talking about how many houses he's lived in.


“Seven,” Derek repeats.  “I can only write in five though.”

“Oh, excuse me.” Stiles snorts.  “Seriously though?”

“Yes,” Derek sighs, “seriously. It was my job.”

“You were a translator?”

Derek shuts the book and pinches the bridge of his nose.  “In the pack.  That was supposed to be my job in the pack. Interpreter. Of texts, of treaties, of relations with other packs.”

Stiles squints at him and grabs Derek's shoulders.  “Derek Hale, do you mean to tell me that you were raised to be your family's PR?”

Derek glares at him and pries his book open again.  “It didn't work out.”

“It could,” Stiles says.  “For Scott.  I mean, he’s the fucking true Alpha—his pack is gonna grow, his popularity.  People are gonna come around.  You deserve to be his number two.”

“Isaac is his number two.  Or Kira.  I don’t know.  You.”  He looks up at Stiles.  “You’re his emissary.”

“They have to do magic.”

“You can do magic, Stiles,” he says like it’s obvious.  “You have before.”

“I—that doesn’t really count.”

Derek shrugs, goes back to his book.  “Whatever.”

“Derek,” he says as seriously as he can as he snatches the book away and throws it over his shoulder.  “You're a part of this pack. Okay? This is your town, all right, your home. And you have every right to be here and protect it, like the rest of us.”

They’re both silent for what feels like several minutes.  Derek just looks at him, like he’s daring him to look away, to blink, but Stiles doesn’t back down.  Eventually, though, he pulls his leg up underneath him so he can face Derek more comfortably.

“So,” he says.  “What languages do you know?”

The ice in Derek’s gaze melts away in an instant.  “Spanish, French, German, Russian, Polish, and Japanese.”

Stiles grins. “You're a freaking savant.”

“That implies incompetence in everything else,” Derek sighs.

“Hey, I didn't say it, you did. Come on.  Talk at me in your favorite.”

“I don't have a favorite.”

“Can you speak really fast angry Spanish? I saw Melissa do it once it was horrifying and beautiful.”

Derek shrugs.  “I guess I could.”

“Good,” Stiles says, shoving his shoulder lightly.  “Go.  Do.  Like on those dumb soap operas where the chick finds out she was separated at birth from a twin sister who then slept with her husband, who’s now in a coma except that he’s not really her husband because he stole her real husband’s identity and then got plastic surgery to look like him.”

Derek blinks.  “You’re weird.”

“C’mon.  Spanish.”

“I'm not going to speak languages on command, Stiles.  Get the fuck off.”

Stiles hadn't realized just how much he had invaded Derek's personal space but he really was practically on top of his lap.

“Oh, shit, sorry. It's all that improv we've been doing.  I get in character.”


“So um, about that.”

“What about that.”

“Just like, you're okay with it, right?”

“I started it, didn't I?”

“That doesn't mean anything. I—we can think of something else.”

“I don't care.” Derek shrugs.  “It's fine.”

Stiles knows he doesn’t mean anything but that, but it still kind of—it kind of hurts, just a little bit.  Derek doesn’t care.  Kissing is no big deal to Derek.  Kissing Stiles is whatever.  It doesn’t matter.  He doesn’t care.

“Great,” Stiles nods, sitting back on his butt.  “Cool.”

“Any update on getting those files to your dad?”

“It’s a work in progress.”

Derek cracks a smile.  “I’m sure it is.”

“I may just—I don't know. It doesn't matter, I guess. We'll just have to keep him from creeping on Melissa and away from Scott. They have too much crap to deal with.”

“Agreed,” Derek mumbles.

Stiles licks his lips.  “So, um, I'll just go.”

“Isn't your dad on night shift?”

“Yeah, he'll be back in the morning.”

“How are your nightmares?”

Stiles snorts.  “Um. They're nightmares, dude.”

“You should stay,” Derek says without so much as looking up.  “Take the couch. Let your dad know. Probably best if you aren't alone.”

It’s safe to say that it’s the weirdest thing that Stiles has ever experienced.  Derek cooks dinner.  Derek puts on the History channel.  Derek sets up the couch with a sheet, an extra pillow, and a blanket.  It’s kind of ridiculous, honestly, since Stiles would be fine at home, but Derek didn’t let him go, told him to stay where he was and call his dad.

“No, I’m gonna stay at—Scott’s,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.

The Sheriff hums.  “Melissa’s working tonight too, isn’t she?”

Stiles has two options.  Call his bluff or play along.  He’s normally really good at this, but not so much with his father.  “Hypothetically,” he tells him, “but Scott said she’ll be home before midnight, so not all night.”

“Have fun, kid.  Don’t stay up too late.”

“He might think it's kind of weird,” he tells Derek after he hangs up.  “Especially if he hears from Scott's dad—”

“You don't owe me explanations,” Derek interrupts.  “You wanna get to sleep?”

“I'm not really tired.”

Derek hums.  “You can watch TV or whatever.”

“Why do you care all of a sudden?”

Derek blinks at him. Stiles expects Derek to call him out on being ungrateful or to say something contrary like I don't.  Instead Derek looks at him with an expression that Stiles can't begin to understand.  “Pack takes care of each other.”



Derek comes over to Stiles’ house after school one afternoon.  Agent McCall’s been very quiet lately.  It’s entirely likely that he knows by now his files are gone.  It’s just that he isn’t supposed to have them, so why would he report them missing?  So, really, there’s not a whole lot of logic behind what Derek is doing on his couch right now, except that Stiles’ dad is gone and the Jeep is having a bit of a rest, so Derek—Derek is gonna spend the night.

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Don’t be a whiner,” Derek reprimands.  “What do you wanna watch?”

Stiles has no idea at which point during The Hangover he fell asleep. He knows that he wakes up to that amazing song about tigers and the amazing feeling of fingers brushing mindlessly through his hair. He blinks and takes half a second to take stock of his surroundings. He is on his couch, more specifically on Derek's lap. Mostly horizontal. There's a crick in his back and a blush creeping up his neck.

Derek’s hand stops moving, but Stiles pushes into it, making a soft noise, and it starts up again.  He wonders if Derek knows he’s awake or thinks maybe he’s just restless.  Either way, it’s nice, and he lies there for a little while longer before his back is too uncomfortable and he has to sit up.

It’s like coming out of water.  Everything’s a little slow, fuzzy around the edges.

“Sorry,” he says through a yawn.

Derek shrugs a shoulder.

He kicks his shoes off and pulls his knees up to his chest trying to zone back into the movie but the warmth radiating from Derek is poking at his concentration. He turns to say something, to break the awkward silence, but then Derek's face is there, being relaxed and stormy and beautiful all at once. Derek's eyes wander away from the screen to his face and he tilts his head to one side, looking to Stiles remarkably like a curious puppy.

Stiles is surprisingly calm, his heart steady.  “I'm going to kiss you—please don't claw my face off.”  And he does.  Derek doesn’t respond at first, a little surprised, but when Stiles doesn’t pull away, Derek relaxes, cupping his face with one hand, the other going to his hip.

It’s astoundingly hot.  He didn’t expect it to be, but while every other kiss at least had an element of distraction, of preparation, of motive, the only motive here is want.  He just wants.  He just wants Derek and Derek doesn’t seem to mind, maybe even wants him back.  He’s gentle, though, careful.  And Stiles has to bite Derek’s lip to get him to really kiss him.

What gets him, though, is that he thinks he can do this forever. His brain is always going a hundred miles a minute and kissing Derek doesn't make it stop. But there are exactly three different tastes to Derek's lips and this close he smells like dusty drawers and pine. Stiles can't stop his brain but his brain seems to have found enough stimuli in Derek to keep it focused, to keep his hands steady as he cards his fingers into Derek's hair.

Somehow he ends up on his back, Derek atop him, kissing him like he’s angry about something.  There’s minimal groping, nothing particularly salacious, but Stiles is still having the time of his fucking life, clinging to Derek like he has no plans to ever let go.

He moans into Derek’s mouth when his hands slide across Stiles’ chest, down his stomach.  Derek makes a grunting noise in response, and his kisses are slower, less passionate, like he’s remembered something and is focusing more on that instead.

“Stop thinking whatever it is,” Stiles mumbles against Derek's lips. But that seems to be all Derek needed to push away from him.

“No, stop.  Damn it, Stiles, stop it.”

Stiles pulls his hands back even though Derek's whole body is pinning him to the couch. 

“What the hell are we doing?”

“Um…  I don't know what you were doing but I was having a really hot make out session.”

Derek sighs and sits up. Stiles feels violently cold.  “There's no one here to put on a show for.”

Stiles tries to ignore the buzzing tunnel vision he feels coming on.  “Oh. No, yes. Of course.”

Derek looks confused and exasperated.  “There's no other reason for us to—”

“Of course not,” Stiles huffs out in a breath.  “I.  No. I'm…going to go. Upstairs. Just, um. You can sleep here and I'm going to go. Okay? All right.”

He thinks maybe Derek will say his name, will wish him goodnight or tell him to stay, tell him that there is a reason, that he wants Stiles, that he wants all of it—

But that doesn’t happen, and Stiles goes upstairs and turns on the shower and stands underneath water so cold that it hurts, and it’s not fair.  It’s not fair because he doesn’t know what he was hoping for, but he knows that it wasn’t that.  He knows that it’s over now, that even if Agent McCall is around again, it’s over, because Stiles won’t do it anymore.  Not when it hurts this badly.

He didn't mean to screw up this badly. He didn't mean to fall in love again. He knows what everyone says, that what he felt for Lydia wasn't love. Stiles knows that's complete bullshit. He knows it because he loves her still. So, yeah, he moved on and grew up and learned to love her the way she needed to be loved by him, but it doesn't make his feelings less real. It doesn't make the recognition of falling for someone new and just as uninterested any easier.

He supposes he’ll get over it.  He’ll go to college, he’ll have other relationships, and just like with Lydia (just like anyone else he’s ever had feelings for), the feelings will fade with time. 



Stiles takes the files back to the police station the next morning.  His dad’s already home, sleeping off the evening, and Agent McCall is sitting at his desk, behaving like the insolent poacher he is.

“Here,” he spits, slamming them down on the desk.  “You’re getting these back and the only reason why is because I feel sorry for you, you lousy piece of dog shit.  You leave my dad alone, you leave Scott alone, and you leave our town once your bosses are through punishing you.”

Agent McCall blinks at him, picking up the files.  “No guard dog boyfriend today, Stiles?”

“We broke up,” he says, and it’s automatic, a reflex, an excuse.  “Not that it’s any of your fucking business, just like the rest of our lives.  Get your shit together, McCall.  I’m watching you.”

He storms out with just as much anger as he had going in, but he feels a little lighter.  It helps that he has copies of everything tucked away in his desk at home, like a security deposit.

He goes off the map a little bit. He tells Scott he needs time with his dad and that gets the pack off his back. He tells his dad that he has to catch up on schoolwork and that gets him a glare until he fesses up.

“I just need a few days off from…everything. You know? And I know running away isn't the responsible adult thing to do but—”

His dad raises a hand to stop him.  “Good thing you're not an adult then, huh? Just be mindful and let me know where you are at all times, got it?”

Stiles nods.  “Yeah, of course.”

“Good.”  He grasps his neck briefly, a sign of affection, and goes back to his coffee.

Stiles leaves.  He sees Caitlin and he sees the girls at Jungle and he just—does whatever he wants.  He spends a lot of time in his room.  He watches movies and actually does do schoolwork, but he’s also out and he’s just trying to forget, just for a little while.

Caitlin, to her credit, is lovely to him.  Stiles was never really very sentimental about his virginity, but he’s glad it was her.  It’s a nice memory, and she—she’s his friend.  She’s his friend outside of werewolves and death and she’s good to him.  He wishes he could have fallen in love with her instead.

The only reason he doesn’t drunk dial Derek the one night he actually gets wasted enough to do anything so idiotic is because he can’t find his phone.  (He’ll realize later, when everything hurts and the lights are too bright, that it was in his back pocket the whole time.)  Instead, he sits in a room at Jungle with all of his girls, done up and smelling of alcohol and sweets, and sleeps it off on a faux leather couch before he makes his way home.

His dad doesn't blink an eye at the amount of make up his son is wearing.  “That dress is lovely.”

Stiles looks down at himself.  “It's more impressive without the jeans but I got cold.”

“Good call,” he says as he flips through his newspaper.  “I think it's time for your vacation to end though.  Scott is worried. Derek Hale stopped by.”  His father, bless him, is incapable of getting in a first-name basis with Derek.

“I’ll talk to Scott today,” he says with a nod.  “Coffee?”

“Some still in the pot.  And Hale?”

He shrugs a shoulder.  “Not really my problem.”

“Something wrong?”

“Just the usual stuff.”

“Considering the last usual stuff was a Japanese demon and the worst weeks of my life,” the Sheriff says slowly, “I think maybe you should elaborate.”

“Everyone’s fine, Dad; I swear.”  He pours himself a mug and adds cream, scratching his nose.  “I should shower.”

“Hang up the dress.  We’ll have it dry cleaned so you can send it back to your friend.”




The hardest part of it is the pack meeting.  With Stiles having been entirely absent from all pack proceedings over the past five days, it feels a little bit like coming back to school after summer vacation.  At least it’s at Scott’s house, so it’s easy to be next to Lydia and Scott, sit himself between them and distract himself from a certain werewolf’s poignant absence.

Nobody asks him about his mini-vacation.  Maybe Scott told them not to, maybe they just don’t care, but either way it’s nice.  He can ignore it, then.

Derek does walk in the door eventually, sit himself down on the opposite arm chair, next to Aiden and across from Scott, the attentive beta to the end.  Stiles only looks at him once, when he enters, and then carries on his conversation with Lydia about their Calculus class and who, in the end, will receive extra credit for being the first person to turn in their exams next week with a perfect score.

There’s talk of visitors.  Apparently Scott received a letter from a pack in Washington who has plans to come down and see this true Alpha that they’ve heard of from Deucalion.  They want to know what, exactly, he is.

“We can’t turn them down,” Lydia says.  “It would be rude.”

Scott nods.  “I agree.”

“I’ll do some digging,” Stiles says with a shrug, “see what I can find on them.”

“We’d like to assume that no one’s going to come onto our land to pick a fight,” Scott says, looking around the room.  “Lately, though, we can’t be sure.  We all need to be cautious.”

“When do they arrive?” Derek asks.

“Within the week.  It would probably be best if we met up on the preserve.”  Scott pulls out his phone, typing something.  “Supposedly they’re not bringing their entire pack, just a few representatives, but we should start away from our homes.”

“We’ll all be ready,” Isaac says.

Scott nods.  “I know you will.”

From there it dissolves.  Ethan leaves with a wave, no doubt going to see Danny, and Aiden, having no other excuse to stay, takes off as well.  Isaac and Allison depart too, even though nobody really notices.  Kira and Scott are discussing History class, Stiles and Lydia are debating the functionality of social media in the future, and Derek—Derek is lounging on the couch, reading.

Stiles doesn’t know why he’s surprised.  It only takes another thirty minutes, though, before Derek leaves.  He waves briefly to Scott, lifting a hand, and says nothing to anyone else.  Stiles thought, maybe, considering what his father had said, Derek would at least speak to him.

He doesn’t get to walk out the door, though, because someone else comes through it instead.

Stiles immediately sits up because he thinks he knows what this is about, just from the look of anger on Agent McCall’s face.  Scott and Kira had been late getting back to the house for the meeting so Lydia had helped Stiles disable any and all security McCall had been using to keep an eye on them.  There was the nanny cam in the windowsill decorations, the CCTV camera outside that had somehow been rewired to point directly at their house, and various other infractions.  Stiles still has them, tucked away in his backpack.

“You again,” he says bitterly as he shoulders past Derek.

“Me,” Derek says dryly.

“You have some things of mine,” McCall says to Stiles, ignoring his son completely.

Stiles manages not to shout.  Instead, he calmly crosses his arms over his chest and says, “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

McCall does that weird thing with his jaw that just isn't cute on him the way it is on Scott.  “I hope you know that none of what you're trying to do is going to help your father. Just like nothing I do is going to get him fired. He did that himself.”

“It’s not actually about helping my father,” Stiles spits.  “He’s a competent cop, unlike some others I know of.”


“If you cared at all about Scott like you say you do,” Stiles interrupts, getting on his feet now too, “you would walk out of this house right now, leave your key on the counter, and never come back.”

“Look, you little brat,” he starts.

“Be very careful about the next thing out of your mouth,” Derek growls, suddenly pressed very close to the front of Stiles.

“You need to go,” Scott says. He says it calmly and clearly.  “This is my house. Those men are my brothers. You are intruding. And you know what, I bet the Sheriff would just love to cuff you and escort you out. I bet my mom would love to press charges. So get. Out.”

For one brief moment, McCall just stands there.  He’s glaring daggers at Stiles but he also glances at Scott like he’s trying to come up with something to say that will fix it, that will make Scott okay with him.  He seems to grasp that it’s not going to happen, though, because he gives Stiles one last angry look—that Derek tries to block by stepping away from Stiles and closer to McCall—and departs, stomping his way to the door.

“Wanna know the best thing about shitty dads?” Scott asks, not looking at either of them but staring at the closed door. “Sooner or later they leave.”

Stiles licks his lips and claps a hand on Scott's shoulder.

“Come on,” Derek says.  “Come on, Scott, let's get out of here.”

Stiles expects Scott to say no, to sink back onto the couch and sit there with Kira, but instead he nods, says, “Okay.”  Kira does go with them, but Stiles suspects Derek will drop her off at home and carry on with Scott.

Lydia doesn’t say anything until they’ve gone.  “Now what?” she asks.

Stiles shrugs.  “Now we wait, I guess.”

She grabs some chips with a certain level of disdain and pours it into a bowl.  “There's no ice cream in this house.”

“Grocery day is Saturday,” Stiles explains.  “Gimme some of that.”

She sits next to him and they munch in relative silence.  “What's happening with Derek?”

“Nothing,” Stiles says too quickly.  “Very literally nothing. We were doing that—thing, but it's pointless. Really. Scott can take care of himself.”

“You weren’t really doing it for Scott.”

Stiles supposes he’s kind of selfish.  He knows that, distantly, knows that the first time was only about saving their skin and they didn’t have to keep playing into it, that it wasn’t that important and there were other ways.  He knows that.  He’s still not sorry.  “Whatever, it was a thing. It's not a thing anymore. End of story,” Stiles says, stuffing enough chips in his mouth to shut him up for a while.

“If anything,” she says, “I'm incredibly proud of you. Most people lower their standards after someone like me. But you? Bravo.”

“I didn't—Lydia, Derek is not a complicated animal. If you tell him something will help Scott then he'll do it.”

“Derek,” Lydia counters, “is not an idiot.”

“Of course not.”

She rolls her eyes.  “He knows true motive, Stiles; he understands.”

“I don’t, apparently.”

“No,” she says, pursing her lips.  “You obviously don’t.”

“Well, since he does,” Stiles says, “he's the one who called it all off. So like I said, the thing is no longer.”

“Maybe he just wants to cut out the excuses.”

“Maybe we all need to let this go,” Stiles snaps.

Lydia glares and takes his chips from him.

“I'm sorry,” he sighs.  “I'm sorry, it just feels shitty. It feels shittier than it did with you. I actually—you know? You never made out with me in the back of a car.”

“I’m a little offended, Stiles,” she says lightly.  “Did our frantic life-saving locker room kiss mean nothing to you?”

He cracks a smile.  “Yeah, but I wasn’t in love with you any more at that point.”

“So you’re in love with him then?”

“I didn’t say that.”

She makes a face at him that suggests he did, in fact, do such a thing.

“I may have accidentally said that.”  He groans.  “Caitlin said if I'm not over it in two weeks we can fuck. It makes me want to not get over it.”

“Caitlin, bless her soul, thinks drinking and sex are going to make her feel better and you should be a better friend to her and give her ice cream and let her talk about her dead girlfriend instead of taking her to clubs and pity fucking each other.”

Stiles tilts his head back against the couch, looking up at the ceiling.

Lydia sighs.  “You don’t get over someone in two weeks, Stiles.  Especially not someone you love.”

“He’s not interested.”

“So what about the display not ten minutes ago?”

“I’m pack.  I’m human.  And Agent Fuckface rubs Derek the wrong way.”


“I'm not saying he’s unsympathetic or would let me die. Derek would never let me die, it's our shtick. But that doesn't mean he wants to be a part of my 10 year plan to have a happy family and a detective job.”

Lydia smiles and runs her fingers through his hair. “Thank you for renaming your intensely disturbing and badly constructed micro-plan to be a successful human being by 27.”

“Anything for you.”  He turns his head towards her.  “It probably would’ve been easier.”


“Staying in love with you.”

“I’m sorry you think that.”


“You know I love you, Stiles,” she says patiently, “but we would never work.  Ever.  So if you really think unrequited love for me forever is easier than this—I’m sorry.  I’m sorry you’re hurting.”

He closes his eyes.  “Me too.”

“I am not an expert on Derek Hale nor do I plan on expending the energy to become one,” Lydia says softly, “but I know some things. I know he plays favorites like nobody's business. That he misses Isaac almost as much as he adores Scott and that you make him lighter. Someone with the amount of baggage that man has could use some lightening.”

“I need time.  If I can get over him then, yeah, I don’t want to lose the friendship.  But I can’t just jump right back in.  Not yet.”

Lydia leans in, kisses his cheek.  “Don’t be such a downer, Stiles.  C’mon.  Buy me ice cream.”



In all seriousness, Stiles doesn’t want to know what bro-bonding thing Scott and Derek did after Scott’s dad left the house.  He doesn’t want to hear about their adventures and their quality time.  All he wants to do is eat pizza, play some Bioshock, and go the fuck to sleep.  He has school in the morning.  He doesn’t have time for werewolves.

School in the morning is rough.  Stiles shows up five minutes late, fights through a foggy haze of exhaustion and stress to actually properly function, and then pulls himself to lunch and sits down at a table near the exit with a textbook.

“Mom wants to have a pack dinner,” Scott says as he scoots in.  “Like a Thanksgiving for everyone? But before Thanksgiving. Because Lydia and Kira and you still have families.”

Stiles nods.  “Your mother is a saint. A badass terrifying saint. We should set it up in your backyard though. Minimize the damage.”

“Derek is invited,” Scott says. It's not an apology, or even a question. It just is, gentle and true. Scott is a good Alpha.

“Why wouldn't he be?” Stiles shrugs, like it doesn’t matter at all.

“Just thought I should let you know.”

“I assume, since Derek is in the pack, that he will be at most pack functions, Scott.  It’s okay.”  Scott doesn’t say anything else, just sits there, food in front of him, staring at Stiles like he’s a science experiment volcano awaiting eruption.  “What?” he asks quickly, looking away from the textbook on the table.

“Can we stop dicking around what happened with you and Derek?”


“Yeah, I can tell by your completely calm response that nothing was going on and that nothing blew up in your face.”

Stiles groans and slams his face into the table.  “We made out to not get caught by your dad.  We ended up picking flimsy ass reasons to keep making out.  Derek put a stop to it. End of story. Can we please just enjoy the peace before the next thing tries to kill us?”

He considers standing up and storming off, but he doesn’t actually want to move, so he just sits there with a stony expression until Scott scoots a little closer and says, “Yeah, man.”

Stiles knows that Scott cares.  He knows that Scott cares about his feelings and all of that junk, knows that Scott is his best friend, is one of the most important people in the world to him, but he doesn’t want to talk about Derek, not with anyone.



They come at sunset, right on time. They keep a respectful distance from the glum monument of the Hale house. They're just as distractingly beautiful as every other werewolf Stiles has ever met.

“Alpha McCall.”  The tall woman in the middle nods.  “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“No problem.”  Scott smiles. “Uh, do you have a place to stay?”

“Yes,” the hipster guy to the left says.  “Thank you.”

“My name is Leila Harding,” the Alpha says, “and these are my first betas.”

The hipster one, with his hair done up and one of his boots untied, introduces himself as Joseph—”But you can call me Joe.”  There is another girl at his side, light-haired with bright eyes, who has to be the youngest of them.  She looks 15 at most.  Her name is Amelia.  There are only two others, on the opposite side of their Alpha, their names Reggie and David, and they’re very obviously brothers.

Scott introduces his pack, going in order of rank.  “Kira,”—his mate, for all intents and purposes—”Stiles, Isaac, Derek, Lydia, Allison, Ethan, and Aiden.”

Stiles notices that Derek perks up at the mention of his name so high on the list.  It’s interesting, watching the way his eyebrows raise and then settle, schooling his face back into practiced calm.

Scott clears his throat.  “So, I—don't mean to be rude, but I'm not sure why it is you guys are here.”

The Alpha tilts her head with a smile.  “Such a shift in power has to be observed. It is always better to make friends, isn't it?”

“Right.” Scott smiles, but it isn't his real smile. He's cautious. Stiles is proud of him.

“We've also been advised that your land is very powerful in itself. It only seems wise to open contact.”  She spreads her hands.  “I’m sure you will learn in your time, Alpha McCall, that it is always better to make friends than enemies.  My pack is an old, established family, like there once was here.  We’re expecting great things from you.”

“One can only hope.”

They make plans to reconvene for dinner and Stiles for one is glad that they seem to be trying to keep with the corporate professionalism even though half of them have CW hair.

“So who's going to dinner?”

Scott leans back against a tree.  “How am I supposed to pick?”

“Isaac's your second,” Lydia notes, “both of you shouldn't be in the same place when the whole pack isn't there. It gives the impression that you're in the habit of leaving us unprotected.”

Isaac frowns.  “Who's going to back up Scott?”

“Derek,” Allison says quickly, “and me.”

“Stiles should come,” Scott adds.

Stiles scrunches his nose. “What the hell for?”

“You're not exactly the most discreet emissary,” Aiden drawls.  “If you're going to be exposed it's best that you stay close to Scott when there's strangers around.”

Stiles looks at Scott.  “I’m not, though.”


“Your emissary.”

Scott rolls his eyes.  “Of course you are.  Who did you think?  Deaton?”

“Well, I—”

Scott shakes his head, throws his arm over Stiles’ shoulder.  “Don’t be an idiot.”

“I always think of myself more like…tech support.”

Scott blinks at him.  “Danny is tech support.”  He says it like he’s disappointed, like maybe he’s wondering if Stiles even wants to be his emissary, so Stiles leans his body against his.

“All right, then,” he says, and even manages a little smile.  “Dinner.”

Dinner is perfectly casual, it turns out.  The restaurant is simple, not fast food but a family-type dining place, and when they sit down at the table with Alpha Harding, David and Amelia, Stiles wonders what exactly they’re supposed to get done.

As it turns out, Alpha Harding wants to talk about borders.  There are more established packs between them then Stiles would have thought possible, but David has a map, and since he’s sitting right next to Stiles, Stiles is all over it.

David, in turn, is all over Stiles.

“You're very observant,” David notes.  “We've only been talking for a few minutes and you've already picked up on a lot of the interactions between packs. Just from what's on paper.”

“I'm the books man.” Stiles nods. “I pick up on stuff.”

“You're kind of powerful.  Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Uh.” Stiles blinks.  “No?”

“Yes, your…  What is it they call it? Aura? Light? It's got this smell to it, this taste.”

David is probably about twenty.  He’s got big brown eyes and his skin is the color of cocoa fresh out of a tin.  His mother is African, his father English, and his parents brought him to America at a very young age.  They were killed the same time he was turned, and henceforth taken in by his current Alpha.

“You’re capable of magic, I would say,” David continues.  “May I?” he asks, and he takes one of Stiles’ hands.

Stiles flails, as he's prone to do, but ultimately nods.  “Uh, um, yeah. Yes. Go for it, dude.”

David studies his palm while the conversations around them quiet down.  “My grandmother, she said that there was more in the palm than vague futures. It's in the whirls. Like your finger tips, but closer to your heart.”

Someone down the table clears their throat, and Stiles looks over to see that it’s Allison, pointedly looking down at her plate.  Stiles ignores her, turning back to David, who releases his hand.

“I imagine your Alpha’s emissary would be able to share a certain amount of knowledge with you on the topic, if you’re ever inclined to learn.  Which you should be.  There are occasionally humans who come along with abilities to perform magic, but if not manifested properly the power diminishes over time.”

“That’s actually really interesting.”

He smiles, and it’s so charming that Stiles is a little thrown.  “Did you think this was going to be boring?”

“Well, treaties and maps and whatnot.  Not exactly a thrilling evening, is it?”

“You're lying,” David says, like he's really very pleased that Stiles is lying to his face.

“I don't do polite well, so it was bound to be interesting, but I'm just saying I thought you were just BSing me. I actually read something about that before.”

“Is there ability in your family?”

The question comes from Amelia and Stiles turns to look at her.  “I'm not sure. My mom's family stopped talking to me when she died.”

“And your father?” she asks.

“Only child, grandparents deceased.  And if he knew, I think he would have told me.”

David looks interested.  “Do you have any idea where you might have read it?”

He does.  It was a book in Derek’s loft, from the hole in the wall, all about magic and its properties, its importance for humans and non-humans alike.  And Stiles, to avoid a lie, says, “I believe it was a book about magic,” with a smirk, and it elicits a laugh from at least half of the table.

The topic switches then to Allison’s presence, a hunter’s daughter, and Stiles is momentarily saved.  Still, the map is right there, and he and David continue a whispered conversation—whether it’s polite or not—on the numbers of different packs.  Somewhere in the middle of it all, David’s hand finds his leg, and it’s not a particularly aggressive move.  It’s almost chaste, right in the middle of his thigh, thumb closer to his knee than the pinkie is to his groin.  Stiles looks up at him, wondering if he wants to move it away.

Stiles is a big fan of flings.  His fling with Caitlin was sublime, and even if it didn’t end that well, Derek was hardly a bad experience.  All things considered, Stiles is—interested.

David isn't subtle but he also isn't gross. He gives him a wink as they say goodbye for the day and leaves Stiles smiling and scratching the back of his neck.

Allison kindly offers to take Derek in her car when Scott expresses an interest in driving back with Stiles, and they depart like that, Stiles driving Scott to his house and then on to his own, still just the slightest bit satisfied that apparently it’s his turn to be the hottest thing around town now.

Scott invites their visitors to his house the next afternoon to finish up what’s left of their discussion.  Honestly, they both just have to sign a treaty and land agreement, covering what packs Scott can be aligned to through Alpha Harding and how, exactly, they’re meant to renew the treaty they establish.

Derek and Isaac will have to read it, as well as Harding’s representatives, but Stiles isn’t worried.  It’s going to be very relaxed, very cordial, and, for the first time in a long time, Stiles isn’t that worried about dealing with werewolves.

Once all the official things are dealt with it all turns very casual. Some from the visiting pack take an interest in a vicious round of Xbox with Isaac and Scott; Lydia and Allison are in deep conversation with Alpha Harding; and David…is staring at him.

Stiles gnaws at his bottom lip. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” David says. “I'm very glad I came along on this little venture.”

“It's a nice town.” Stiles smirks, like he doesn't know where David is going with it.

“Feel like showing me around a bit?”

“There's not much to it,” Stiles says quietly, damn house full of werewolves, “but there are some places.”

David grins, stuffing his hands in his pockets.  “Yeah, like what?”

Stiles glances towards the living room, where everyone else is thoroughly caught up in their own business.  He sets down the soda can he’d been drinking from and, without a word, bounds up the stairs as casually as he can, like he’s just darting up to go to the bathroom.  Sure enough, David follows, and they’re holed up in the guest bathroom, Stiles trapping David against the closed door, not two minutes later.

David kisses like it’s fun, like there is nothing sad to forget or scary to run away from. He kisses like there's time but no reason to waste it.

“It's intoxicating,” David mutters against his lips.  “How does anyone stop kissing you?”

“They manage,” Stiles breathes out.  “What's it like?”

David runs his hand down Stiles' side, gripping at his hips and tugging him closer.  “Sweet, but not like candy.”

Stiles smiles, angling in to kiss him again.  “Anything else?”

“Hot,” David says into his mouth.  “Addicting.”

They grasp at each other in varying ways, always hands, always mouths, touch after touch and bite after bite.  David sucks on his collarbone so hard that Stiles wonders if he’ll have a bruise there.  He can’t care very much, though, because he’s so hard he’s wondering what bro points he would lose from Scott if he were to go just a little bit farther.

David ends up with his ass on the counter, crotch pressed just right against Stiles’.  He doesn’t ask, even though he does hesitate when he goes to the button on Stiles’ jeans.

Stiles nods, so turned on by David’s feet pressing into the backs of his thighs that he can’t think straight.  “Yeah, fuck.”

David has a slight tilt of an accent that simply does it for Stiles when the man starts whispering absolute filth into his ear.

“You're a magnificent creature,” he breathes out as he wraps his too-warm hand almost gracefully around Stiles' cock.  “I bet you fuck like a song.”

Stiles would laugh but he can't help but moan when David twists his hand a certain way, his hips shift closer.

“We should find a bed,” David tells him, biting on his earlobe.  His hand is perfect, precise, like he knows exactly how Stiles likes it without even having to ask, and it could be a total coincidence or marvelous perception skills—either way, Stiles is so into it that he wants to sob, tilting his forehead against David’s neck.  “You can fuck me.”

Stiles has to kiss him, grab his neck and kiss him deeply, achingly.

The door bursts open and then Derek is there and Stiles' brain is sex drunk and confused and he only knows that he's so close with a warm, wise hand on his dick and Derek's perfect eyebrows trying to run away from his face and he's coming before he can help it. Derek disappears just as quickly as he appeared, while David burrows his face into Stiles' neck and bucks against him.

Stiles takes a second to blink the spots out of his vision.  He almost laughs, reaching into David’s pants.  “We didn’t lock the door.”

“He’ll get over it,” David says, and within a couple tugs from Stiles’ hand, he’s coming too, kissing Stiles sloppily.

They clean up with toilet paper and water from the sink, laughing at each other.  David buttons Stiles’ shirt up so that the small mark on his collarbone—which will fade within a day or two—isn’t noticeable, and Stiles cleans away come from the waistband of David’s jeans.

David fixes his shirt collar a bit out in the hallway.  “If McCall ever needs to send a delegation—”

“I'll be the first one to sign up.” Stiles grins. He's happy with this. He's learning to cling to the little great things, because big deals tend to be pretty shitty.

“I can hear my pack getting ready to leave.  We should get back.”

Stiles nods, running a hand through his hair, and David smiles at him again as they make their way down the stairs.  Scott and Alpha Harding are shaking hands, and Allison and Lydia, who are sitting with the other two betas, are saying goodbye as well.  Derek is nowhere to be found.

“We wish you the very best,” Alpha Harding says to them, and Scott repeats the sentiment.

It isn’t until David’s gone, leaving him with a firm press on the hickey under his shirt, that Derek reappears.  He’s leaning up against the Jeep in the driveway, staring directly at Stiles, and Stiles isn’t sure what it is he’s supposed to do.

“Hey,” he says, ducking his head and sticking his hands into his pockets.  “Did you need a ride?”

“No,” Derek bites out.  “I did not need a ride.”

Regardless of this declaration, Derek goes ahead and gets inside the car. Stiles scratches the back of his head and shrugs, climbing into the driver's seat.  Derek doesn’t tell him where to go or anything so Stiles just rolls over the engine, pulls out of the driveway, and starts heading towards town.  He needs a cheeseburger and the diner is on the way to Derek’s apartment building.

There’s only three tense minutes of silence before Stiles says, “You gonna say anything?”

“Are you?”

“I'm sorry we didn't lock the door?”

“That man is at least twenty years old.”

“Excuse me, Kettle, I didn't know age of consent was an issue all of a sudden.”

“It is when it's a complete stranger from another pack, someone who could sense your magic and probably guessed you were Scott’s emissary.”

“So it's fine when it's your legal-adult tongue down my throat.”

Derek’s hands are fists on his legs.  “I never touched you like that.”

Stiles rolls his eyes.  “No, you didn’t.”

“So that’s it, then?” Derek demands.  “I wouldn’t so you let the nearest willing participant do it?”

Stiles slams on the breaks so hard that he thinks something in his neck cracks.  The light twenty feet ahead of him is still green, but there aren’t any cars behind him.  “What the fuck did you just say?”

“If someone is that quick to take advantage of your hormones—”

“My hormones? Do you think I'm a twelve-year-old who doesn't know his way around a boner?”

“I think you're desperate to lose your virginity and it puts you in danger of people who don't care about you.”

Stiles blinks at him.  “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”


“I’m not a virgin,” he says bitterly, turning back to the steering wheel and taking his foot off the break.  “I had sex with Caitlin.  And I had sex with David.  So no, I’m not a fucking virgin and it doesn’t matter anyway.”

It’s Derek turn for silence then, and he doesn’t say a word until Stiles parks right in front of the diner and cuts off the engine.  “He doesn’t care about you,” are the words he chooses, and Stiles laughs.

“And so many other people do.”

“Of course they do,” Derek stresses.  “You have a pack, your father—”

“I'm not crying out for help, Derek. I'm just a guy who has sex with people who are into him. Why are you panicking?”

Derek has nothing to say to that, but Stiles feels like he can't stop.

“I know it must be shocking but other people actually want me sometimes, for the hell of it too, not because they have to touch me for reasons.”  He knows it’s cruel, but it’s true, and he’s not sorry that he said it.


“No, you don’t get to talk now,” he snaps.  “This is my turn.  I’m sure it’s a difficult concept for you to grasp, but it turns out that I don’t actually have to apologize to you for the decisions I make or the actions I take.  You turned me down, Derek.  Having sex with David wasn’t a reaction to your dismissal.  He wanted me and I wanted him and that was it.  Okay?  You don’t actually factor into everything I do.”

He immediately knows he shouldn’t have said that, because it was a lie, just that last sentence.  The way he said it, the way he formed it in his mind as it was coming out of his mouth, it was a total lie, and Derek’s eyes say that he knows that.

He shakes his head, pointing out the door.  “Get out, Derek.  Your strong, mature werewolf ass can walk the rest of the way.”

At first, Derek doesn’t move.  Then he unbuckles his seatbelt and climbs out of the car, closing the passenger’s side door.  What he doesn’t do, however, is walk away.  Instead, he walks around the front of the Jeep, opens up Stiles’ door, and stands up on the little step there so he can come face-to-face with Stiles.

“What are you doing?” Stiles says, contemplating punching him in the jugular.

Derek is silent for a second.  Then he reaches forward, brushing aside the folded collar of Stiles’ shirt.  “Use cover up,” he says, and then he’s gone.



That's how Stiles goes from maturely tolerating being near the object of his affections to full on silent treatment and avoidance therapy.  Every time Derek appears, Stiles leaves.  Every time someone says Derek is going to be around, Stiles leaves.  He wanders away, ignoring and avoiding, ignoring and avoiding, and Derek doesn’t try to get his attention.  He seems to accept this fate, letting Stiles behave like he’s above it all, like it doesn’t matter.

Finals pass.  Lydia, unsurprisingly, is the first to finish the Calc exam and so, also unsurprisingly, the winner of the promised extra credit.  Stiles is a minute behind her, and he gets one question wrong, but he doesn’t really mind all that much.

Christmas is a pack ordeal.  Stiles enjoys himself as much as he can force himself to.  Derek only shows up to that party for about an hour before he takes off again.  Scott tries to convince him to stay at least.

Stiles wonders if this is how it’s always going to be.

There’s a pack meeting at Derek’s just after Christmas and Stiles doesn’t want to go, but he does anyway.  Unsurprisingly, everyone else is late and he’s the first one to open the door and stride in.  Derek, he sees, is over by the hole in the wall, on his phone.

He’s speaking French.  His back is turned to Stiles, one hand on his hip, the other holding the phone, and he’s examining the wall of books like he’s trying to find a very specific one.  Stiles is lost for a moment, unsure of what to do.  He knows he should be angry, should hate Derek all the time, but for a few minutes of this, all Stiles can do is stand and stare and not care that he’s still gone over Derek fucking Hale.

Scott and Kira show up before Derek gets off the phone, and when he turns to see them, he says his goodbyes and hangs up.

“New Year’s,” Scott says, reaching into his wallet to hand Derek a pile of cash.

“What?” Stiles asks.

“We’re having a New Year’s party at the loft,” Scott explains.  “Derek said it was cool.”

“I'm not paying to feed all of you,” Derek says to no one in particular.  “That was the only stipulation.”

“We'll take care of everything.” Kira nods.  “We'll clean up after too.”

“Yeah.” Derek rolls his eyes.  “I remember how well you all cleaned up last time.”

Stiles shrugs to himself and goes to sit on the couch, pulling out his phone.  Caitlin has texted him, asking him if he has plans for the holiday, but he pockets the device just as quickly when Kira sits down next to him, smiling sweetly.

The meeting, when everyone else arrives, goes smoothly.  They organize who to invite, what kind of security is necessary, as well as many other things, and then Stiles stifles a yawn for the third time and bows out of the planning, claiming exhaustion.

“It’s like six o’clock, dude.”

“Yeah, and I was up all night.”  He shrugs, grabs his jacket.  “Au revior,” he says to the room at large, and Derek looks right at him, like he’s trying to command his eyes to shoot lasers.



Stiles is still in his boxers at 7PM on New Year's eve. It is not a good day. His father plans to spend the evening with the other officers on duty, hoping that the night is mostly quiet and they can watch the ball drop in peace on the station's break room TV. He doesn't expect the sequined dress his father is holding when Stiles wanders into the kitchen.

“I have been instructed by every lady in your acquaintance that if you're not dressed and at Derek Hale's apartment by 8:15, you're going to have a police escort and wear this.”  He looks at it, shrugs.  “It doesn’t really seem like your type of gown.”

Stiles rolls his eyes.  “Dad.”

“Your friends want you to be included, Stiles,” his dad says, shoving the dress at him.  “Go hang that up.  Or put it on.”

“It’s just a party.”

“It’s a New Year’s party,” he protests.  “You’ll have fun.”


“I don't usually pull this on you but I didn't raise you to run away from your problems or from the things that scare you. Granted, the kind of things you face now, I wouldn't blame you for running. But I get the feeling this is something you can face, so I want you to do it. I'll be here no matter what happens.”  He squeezes Stiles’ shoulder, looks at him pointedly.  “Whatever it is, whatever you don’t want to talk about, I know you know how to handle it.”

“What if I don’t?”

“You’re a Stilinski,” he says, shrugging one shoulder.  “Wing it.”

And that’s precisely what he means to do.  He shows up just after eight o’clock, jeans and T-shirt and sneakers—and a jacket because he’s not an idiot—and immediately starts helping Allison at the little bar they’ve created.  They have enough alcohol to suit everyone who was invited, plus there’s a maximum occupancy and Derek will be counting people at the door for the first couple hours so everything should be fine.

It’s 10:34—Stiles knows because he just checked his phone—when some girl asks him to dance.  He does, because it’s fun, but he excuses himself shortly afterwards, fighting his way through the people to get to the bathroom.

He doesn't actually have to pee but he doesn't really want to be out there dancing with people when all he wants to do is find Derek, give him some shitty excuse about Scott's dad lurking around, and feel Derek pressed up against him in the warmth of the dance floor.

He finishes throwing some water on his face when the door is pulled open and Derek squeezes in with him.

“We have to talk,” he says, and Stiles blinks at him.  Derek grabs a towel and wipes off his face, one hand cupping Stiles’ jaw.

Stiles closes his mouth so he’s not gaping.  “Okay.”

Derek doesn’t say anything.

“Do you, uh, maybe not wanna do it here?”

It smells a little bit like weed and a lot like vodka, so Derek opens the door up all over again and grabs Stiles’ hand firmly, tugging him out through the crowd and towards the spiral staircase that has a sign slung across it, reading, DO NOT ENTER.

Stiles figures if anyone can break the rules, it’s the guy who made them up.

Stiles runs his hand back and forth over his hair like he's trying to clear his brain.  “So talk.”

“This needs to stop,” Derek growls.  “It's putting stress on Scott and it's generally screwing things up for everyone.”

“Oh, you wanna talk about Scott,” he laughs.  “Okay, buddy, let's talk about Scott.”

Derek clenches his jaw.  “Stiles.”

“No, Derek, you’re the one who isn’t willing to address what’s going on, who isn’t willing to just talk about it.”

“I wasn’t the one who wanted to get out of that car, Stiles.”

“You’re the one who made it necessary.”

Derek throws his hands up.  “Why do I even bother?  It’s like everything I say to you just goes in one ear and out the other.”

“This isn’t Scott’s problem,” Stiles tells him, crossing his arms over his chest.  “It’s ours.  So we’re not going to stand up here and pretend it’s about the pack when it’s about you being an absolute ass.”

Stiles expects him to fight.  He expects anger and shouting, he even expects a bit of threatening.  The only thing he doesn’t expect is what he actually gets.  “I’m sorry,” Derek says.  “I was a dick.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’d like to tell myself that you're a kid and stupid one at that but you're neither. It's easier for me to tell myself that it's all”—he waves his hands around like it’s a foreign concept he’s contemplating—“teenage hormones than to face the fact that you're just a guy and sometimes you fuck people and I'm not the only one you want. Why should I be? You're young and…  You’re whole. You can have anyone you want.”

Stiles just looks at him a moment longer.  “I—thank you?  I think?”

“Stiles,” he says shortly, “it’s not fair that we’re making things worse for everyone else.”

“I agree.”

“Good.”  He sticks out his hand, open as if to accept a handshake.  “Friends, then,” he says, and Stiles doesn’t reach to make the same gesture.  Instead, he takes a step forward.

“You said I could have anyone I want.”


“You were jealous.”

“Of course I'm jealous, Stiles, why do you think I'm going around stomping and slamming doors?”

Stiles blinks at him.  “Because that's your natural state of being?”

“It drives me crazy,” Derek says fiercely, “knowing that you're out there and that you can just give someone those smiling eyes and have them touch you. Other people touching you, Stiles, it makes me lose…control of myself.”

“So when you turned me down you expected me to wait for you?” Stiles wants to know.  “I was just supposed to sit around and wait for you to come to your senses instead of doing what I wanted?”

Derek looks like he’s in pain.  “I didn’t—I didn’t turn you down.”

“Oh,” Stiles says through a humorless laugh.  “So what do you call it then?  Because I’m at a loss.”

“I didn't want to take advantage of the situation,” Derek says too quietly, “not when I felt differently about it. I didn't want to…  Not when you were just having some fun.”

Stiles rears back.  “Just having some fun?  Do you seriously think that’s what it was to me?”  He holds up a hand when Derek begins to look offended.  “No.  Wait.  You—you’re actually right.  Fuck.”  It does make sense, how Stiles was behaving, the things he was doing, the things he was saying.  He just thought—he just thought Derek had to realize how much Stiles really wanted him.  He didn’t expect Derek to translate that into purely sexual attraction.  “I wasn’t clear.  That—I never meant to give you that impression, not when it wasn’t for show anymore.”

Derek looks—almost hopeful.

“It was never just about sex,” Stiles tells him, and he means it.  His legs feel heavy when he steps forward, like he’s trying to move through hardening cement.  “It wasn’t.”

Derek nods, a little bob of his head.  “Okay.”

“So you can take advantage now,” he adds, a smile blooming on his face.  “In fact, I would encourage you to.”

It’s nice that Derek doesn’t hesitate to kiss him.  He has a hand on the base of Stiles’ skull, the other on his hip, holding him just there so that the kiss is even and slow and thoroughly disheveling.  This is the guest room, Isaac’s old room, and there are boxes of storage and other things spattered about but there’s a mattress, and Stiles tries to lead Derek over to it, completely intent now on getting what he should’ve had weeks ago.

“Stiles,” Derek says lowly.

“Hey, don’t back down on me now,” he says with a laugh.  “We have things to do.”

“We don’t have to.”

Stiles smirks.  “I know.”

Derek’s thumb is up under his shirt, stroking his hip bone.  He doesn’t say anything, though, doesn’t argue, and eventually Stiles becomes impatient and kisses him again, holding onto his sides.  They do make it to the bed, slowly, and by that time they’ve both lost their shirts.  He’s gotten enough eyefuls of Derek over the past years, but this is better, because now he’s allowed to touch, and now, when Derek lies on top of him and rolls their hips together, he knows there’s going to be a positive outcome.

“I wanted to—” Derek says into his neck.  “On the couch, I wanted—”

Stiles kicks off his shoes, very prepared to just go full birthday suit and let Derek do whatever he wants, but Derek kisses him again, slows down his movements.

“Don’t move,” he tells Stiles, and he sits up, scooting down the bed until his knees are just below Stiles’, on either side.  Stiles knows, when Derek unbuttons his jeans and starts pulling them down his hips, that Derek’s going to put his mouth on him.  He also knows that he probably isn’t going to survive the experience.

He’s thankful that the music downstairs is loud, that people are half drunk and giddy about the holiday, that no one is paying attention to anything that might be happening upstairs.  He’s thankful because he can’t control the noises that escape him when Derek licks and bites at his thighs, when he sucks a mark on his hipbone, and, worst of all, when he swiftly sucks Stiles into his mouth like he’s done it a million times before.  He doesn’t take all of it, can’t, but he does almost everything Stiles has seen people do in porn—and it’s a pretty extensive list.  Stiles is so far gone over it that all he can do is toss his head back and moan, twisting his fingers in Derek’s hair to try to keep himself anchored.

Eventually, he pulls off and jerks Stiles off—it only takes two long pulls—until he comes, gasping, his hips arching off the bed.  Derek’s hard, Stiles can see, and he sits up to lick into Derek’s mouth, hands trailing down his neck, his shoulders, over his chest and stomach to undo his jeans.

Derek moans, his hips making small aborted movements.  “Fuck.”

“I would, I swear,” Stiles tells him, spitting into his hand to start stroking Derek off, “but I want to have more time.”

“Wha—”  He groans, tilting his head against Stiles’.  “What are you—talking about?”

“I’ll blow you.  Another time.”

Derek apparently likes that imagery.  He fucks into Stiles’ hand, teaches Stiles just how to keep the grip, just how he likes it, and within a minute he’s coming, biting on Stiles’ neck and shuddering.

For long, silent moments they lie there together, still half dressed, sticky with come and tired.  There’s a toilet and a sink but no shower, and they clean each other off with careful movements, Stiles leaving lazy kisses along Derek’s shoulders.

He remembers, then, what he’d wanted from Derek at the beginning of the night.  Dancing—easy, heated, passion-fueled—just in front of everyone, even though the only thing that mattered was the two of them.  He wants Derek to touch him like he never wants to let go, wants Derek to hold him against his body out there and make promises without saying a word.  And now he gets to have that.

“I’m not really a dancer,” Derek says when they’re downstairs again, Stiles leading him towards where Kira has taken over for Allison at the bar.

“Vanilla vodka for the whiner,” Stiles tells her, “and a beer for me.”

Derek touches Kira’s hand, stopping her.  “Vodka, yes—beer, no.”

She looks back and forth between them.  “Um?”

Stiles rolls his eyes, reaching over the counter and ignoring both of them to grab two glasses and the bottle, pouring two shots of the horrid drink, and he tosses his back quickly, holding the other out to Derek.  “Drink.”

Derek looks like he’s above it all but he does as he’s told, and then Stiles is dragging him back out into the mass of people.

Honestly it’s hard to describe exactly what’s going on.  All he can see, when he chooses to open his eyes, is Derek’s face, his nose and down, his shirt and shoulders, his hips.  Their foreheads are pressed together like this, their bodies moving, and Stiles can’t say it’s one way or another, say that there’s a huge difference from what they were doing upstairs and what they’re doing now.  Derek isn’t wildly expressive in this, but he’s comfortable, and Stiles tilts his head forward, kisses him.

Somehow, time passes.  Midnight sneaks up on them and the music cuts out.  The countdown is loud, even to Stiles’ ears, and then he can’t hear anything because he’s being kissed.

Happy New Year, indeed.



The loft is empty by three.  Allison and Isaac are gone, Scott and Kira are asleep on Derek’s couch, Lydia left with someone, Ethan and Danny took off, and Aiden left just after midnight.  Stiles, who isn’t drunk but warm and satisfied, sitting on Derek’s bed in his boxers and T-shirt, grabs his phone and calls his dad.

“I’m exhausted,” he says, “and I don’t think I should drive.”

“Want me to come pick you up?” the Sheriff asks.

“Nah, I’m okay; I’m just gonna crash.  I’ll be home tomorrow.”

“Okay, kid.”

Derek is cleaning up a bit, tossing idle cups into trash bags, and when he drops one of them near the couch, Scott jumps, he and Kira falling together.  They leave then, waving goodbye, and Stiles laughs as Derek crawls into bed with him.

He has a book in his hand.  It’s the Polish one, from weeks ago, and he puts it on Stiles’ chest, moving under the covers to tuck his face against Stiles’ neck.

“I don’t read enough Polish to be able to finish this,” Stiles tells him, picking up the book.

“I’ll teach you.”

“Yeah?  You gonna teach me Russian too?”

Nastrovia,” he says dryly.  “That’s all you need to know.”

“What’s it about anyway?”

Derek tells him, he knows, but he falls asleep partway through it.  He doesn’t actually feel that bad.

In the morning, Derek is on his stomach, face tucked against the pillow, arm thrown over Stiles.  It’s not actually morning so much as noon but still.  And Stiles is comfortable in Derek’s bed, still a little sleepy, and if he closed his eyes he could probably drift off again.

“Do you have to go home?” Derek asks.

Stiles hums.  “Probably.”

They take a shower together, in Derek’s mediocre bathroom.  The water is hot but the pressure isn’t particularly phenomenal.  It doesn’t end up mattering that much because they fall back into bed like it never even happened, hands all over each other.

They both came in the shower already, but Stiles has plans.

“I have to suck you off.”

Derek pushes his face against Stiles’ arm.  “You don’t have to.”

“Yeah I do, shut up.”

It’s more difficult that Stiles imagined it being, honestly, but he’s still totally into it.  Derek tastes like come and skin and sweat and it’s doing weird things to Stiles, his cock hardening even as Derek spreads his legs wider.  He remembers too late to squeeze his thumb with the rest of his fingers, gagging just the slightest bit when he takes Derek too deep, but it’s—it’s so good.  It’s a little hard to breathe and his cock is bobbing against his stomach now, but Derek is making these amazing noises and the weight of him on Stiles’ tongue is heady, a power trip, and doesn’t want to stop until Derek comes again.

Derek tries to pull him up, off, but apparently doesn’t care enough to work too hard at it, because when Stiles bats his hands away and tongues the vein on the underside, humming around him so that Derek cries out, he just gives up.

Derek grabs for him when he’s finished, pulling Stiles up into his lap and kissing him, licking the taste of his come out of his mouth.  “Fuck, Stiles.”

“That’s the idea.”

“What do you want?” he asks, fisting Stiles’ cock, slow and smooth with his pre-come easing the way.

Stiles moans, tilting his head against Derek’s shoulder.  “Just keep doing that and I’ll be good—fuck—Derek—”

“That’s the idea,” he quips.

Stiles smacks him, halfheartedly, and comes.

He has to leave shortly afterwards.  He doesn’t want to, really, but his dad texts him, asks him to come home for dinner, and so he spends as much time as he possibly can kissing Derek and then leaves, walking away slowly because he really doesn’t want to go.

Dinner with his dad is nice.  They order Chinese food and watch television and when his dad gets up from the table to work a five-hour night shift, he ruffles Stiles’ hair and says, “Bring Derek Hale over for dinner.”

Stiles nearly spits out the chow mein he’s eating.  “What.”

“I’m assuming that’s the person responsible for that.”  He gestures to the back of Stiles neck, and Stiles reaches up a hand to touch it.  There’s definitely a bruise, definitely one Derek gave him when they were in the shower, his front pressed all along Stiles’ back.  It’s a good bruise.  But at this moment, it’s a very, very bad bruise.

“I fell,” he says, and his dad rolls his eyes.

“Okay,” his dad tells him, grabbing his jacket and pulling it on.  “Tell him to bring pie.”



Stiles has Derek trapped against the latter’s kitchen counter two days later.  It’s vaguely reminiscent of something Stiles doesn’t think Derek really wants to remember, so when Derek spins them around to keep Stiles in place, he lets him.  The guy deserves a win.

“We’re gonna be late,” Derek says, hands already trailing up Stiles’ arm, grasping his biceps.

“You’re the one who insisted you make the dumb pie instead of just buying it at the store,” Stiles protests, biting Derek’s lower lip.  He pushes Derek away, though, just a couple inches.  “Check the oven.  I’ll grab your jacket.”

Derek kisses him quickly, going to do just that, and Stiles takes great pleasure in watching how his jeans truly accent his butt when he bends over to peer inside the oven.

It’s cherry pie, which is the Sheriff’s favorite, and they bring it over along with a bottle of Gavi, which Derek says will make his dad very, very happy.  When they enter the house, his father is in the kitchen, flipping the steaks over on the broiler pan and sliding them back inside the oven.  As soon as the task is finished, he looks up at them both and says, “Cherry pie?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Sheriff nods, gestures to the table.  “Steaks’ll be done in fifteen.  Stiles, make a salad.”

“You’re willingly going to eat salad?” Stiles asks.

“It’s to balance out the red meat and the dessert.”

Stiles shrugs.  “Good point.”

The Sheriff doesn’t use the wine at dinner, but he thanks Derek for it and sticks it in the fridge.  Stiles knows that Derek isn’t offended by that, all things considered.

Dinner is good, casual even, and Derek is obviously trying his hardest.  He’s polite and complimentary and doesn’t mention anything unsavory.  It’s Stiles’ father that really makes it awkward, and Stiles is sure it’s on purpose.

“So, werewolves.”

Stiles looks up at his father, smile dropping from his face immediately.  “Dad—”

“It’s okay,” Derek tells him.  “I don’t mind.”  He looks up at the Sheriff, doesn’t shy away, and Stiles knows there’s no anger in his eyes, only self-awareness, pride, confidence.  He knows what he is, accepts it.  No one can take that away from him, not when he uses it as a shield.

“Scott told me,” Stiles’ father says, “that it’s hard for werewolves to control themselves sometimes, that when they become overly emotional or passionate—”

“Dad, Jesus—”

“—there can be issues.”

Derek nods slowly.  “With all due respect to Scott, he was bitten.  I was born.  I had more time to control myself.  It was all I ever knew.  It was harder for Scott, but he’s a very competent wolf.  And, more to point,” he adds a moment later, “I would never hurt your son.”

The table is silent.  Then, Stiles clears his throat.  “Well, that was pleasant,” he says brightly.  “Time for pie?”

The Sheriff does pour the wine then, for him and Derek, and makes an off-handed comment about Stiles’ boyfriend legally being allowed to drink.  Derek looks like he’s going to say something about it but Stiles levels a glare at his father and the Sheriff waves it off.  He doesn’t disapprove, not really, and the only reason Stiles can think as to why not is because of him.  Because his son is happy.  And that’s kind of touching.

They devour three-fourths of the pie and half the bottle.  Stiles drinks some too, but only half of one of Derek’s glasses.  He has to drive him home later.

At the end of the night, the Sheriff stands by the door while Stiles and Derek put on their jackets.

“Thanks for coming over,” he says.

“Thank you for having me, sir.”

He grins.  “I think you can stop with the sir now.  The incubation period has passed.”  He looks at Stiles, pats his shoulder.  “Curfew’s still eleven.  Don’t stay out.”

Stiles nods.  “Thanks, Dad.”



“This is a blatant disregard—oh, god—of your father’s trust.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, replanting his hands on Derek’s chest.  “Please stop talking about my father when I’m riding you.”

“Jesus.”  Derek throws his head back, eyes closed tight.  “Fuck.”

They’ve talked about this.  This is something neither of them have done before, which is what makes it both terrifying and absolutely thrilling.  They wanted a whole night to be together, as many hours as they could have, and Stiles had to set up a scheme with Scott to make sure his dad wouldn’t find out where he really is tonight.

There were other areas of planning they had to delve into.  They’ve been fingering each other for days now, adding it to blowjobs and grinding and a whole bunch of other stuff.  Stiles even rimmed him once, which made Derek come so hard he couldn’t move for several minutes afterwards.  This, though, is a whole different beast, and it feels—good, yes.  It feels good.  But it’s also awkward and a little bit uncomfortable.

Derek digs his hands into Stiles’ thighs.  “You’re only half hard.”

“My legs are stiff.”

“I can—”

“It’s okay,” Stiles protests, pushing him down.  “I just have to get used to it.”

Derek licks his lips.  “It shouldn’t be this difficult.  We could—try another way.”

Stiles shakes his head, bites his lip.  “It’s good, relax.”  And it is.  He’s in control here for the most part, which means he gets to take Derek however he wants, move his hips and his ass and take what he needs, do what will make him happy, and so it’s slow for a while.

By the time he’s actually really into it, Derek is trying his very hardest not to come.

“Just—just a little longer,” Stiles pants, moving forward to put more weight on his knees and less pressure on his thighs.  It changes the angle a little bit, and Stiles has to work harder to get the same feeling back, but it’s so worth it, because Derek is lifting his hips at the same time then, now that Stiles’ weight has been removed for the most part, and it’s—it’s so good—

He centers his left hand on Derek’s sternum, reaching to start jerking himself off with the right one, and Derek surges up to kiss him, biting and desperate.

Derek comes just seconds before Stiles, gasping into Stiles’ mouth, and Stiles nearly collapses, his bones turning to jelly.

Later, Derek is lying on his stomach, a book in hand, pillow tucked under his chest.  The sheet is pulled up above his ass, but Stiles steps out of the bathroom and immediately gets an eyeful of his boyfriend looking like a piece of Greek art.

Maybe he should ask, he thinks, before he starts kissing down Derek’s back and groping his thighs.  Maybe he should say something, anything, before he pulls the sheet down and nudges Derek’s legs apart.  Maybe, just maybe, he should listen for a protest, a request, before he starts what, ultimately, he has little power to stop.

Derek makes soft noises that Stiles isn’t sure he isn’t just imagining.  The pounding of his own heart in his ears is too loud and everything else is distant, all except for the way Derek’s muscles jump under his hands.  His hips are moving against the mattress, his hands grasping at the pillow, and Stiles sits up, grabbing for the lube on the nightstand.

Derek props himself up on his hands and knees so that Stiles can prep him.  He doesn’t speak, barely makes any sign that he’s even aware of what Stiles is doing—except that he’s there, hands clenched, mouth open—and by the time Stiles has three fingers sliding in and out of him smoothly, he’s a mess.

“Fuck—fuck me—”

“Like this?” Stiles wants to know, dry hand going to Derek’s hip.  “Or do you wanna be on your back?”

“Just—just like this—fuck—”  He seems to fall then, but his left arm is keeping him up, forearm flat against the mattress, and his right is tucked under his stomach, hand on his cock.  “Please, Stiles.”

Stiles can’t remember the last time he heard Derek say please.

He scrambles for a condom even though Derek is babbling nonsense about not needing one, about being clean.  Once it’s rolled on and he’s pushing inside, Derek groans deep in his chest, head drooping.

Stiles tries his best not to shake and come that very second. It's different, intense and nerve wracking and right. His hands grasp at Derek's hips and below him he can hear the man's huffed breaths.

“Derek?” his voice is strangled and weak. The breath rushes right out of him when Derek looks over his shoulder, blue eyes shining.  “Fuck,” he gasps, hips moving.  “I can—now, yeah?”

Derek nods.  “Move.”

He wants to do it evenly.  He wants to be able to thrust and move and make it perfect, rhythmically flawless, but the issue is that it’s never been this good.  Even losing his virginity didn’t feel this good.  He’s a little bad at this, he thinks, because it’s broken thrusts and uneven movements and he considers stopping, catching his breath, trying to calm down, but as soon as he stops, Derek pushes back against him, asking—more like insisting—for more.

His legs are stronger than the rest of him, so he tries to draw his power from them, to steady himself on the bed. All he manages is to plaster himself closer to Derek, his hips making smaller frantic thrusts.

Derek doesn’t seem to mind.  On the contrary, he’s more vocal, more encouraging, and Stiles can see his elbow move, see that he’s right there, so close to coming.

Maybe he wants it to last.  Maybe he doesn’t care.  Maybe this is about his chance to be impatient, desperate, wanton.  Maybe he gets this night, these hours with Derek, so that he doesn’t have to make it last.  Because they’ll have a lot of other times to do just that.

“You can,” Stiles says to the back of his neck, eyes closed and hips still rolling.  “You can come.”

Derek makes the best noise in the world, like a growled whimper rolled into a sigh. His body is rigid and nearly shakes and then he's toppling into himself.

Stiles comes after a few more thrusts, too eager to make them proper, just desperately fueled by his own desire to come.  When he does, he whites out and later comes to, curled around Derek, both of them sticky and sweaty and lazy.

“Sorry for jumping you,” Stiles says to the back of his neck.

“No, you’re not.”

“You’re right.  I’m not.”

Derek pulls his arm from underneath himself and all but throws it over Stiles.  “Don't get smug.”

“What am I going to get smug about?”

“I have never been fucked like that.”  Stiles feels his grin growing exponentially until Derek shoves him over and smacks his arm.  “I said don't get smug.”

“You can’t expect me not to be a little pleased with myself.”  He kisses Derek’s temple.  “I’m exhausted now.”

“You interrupted my reading.”

“Hm, something in French this time?”

Derek doesn’t move to grab the book, just says, “English, actually.”

Stiles grins, settling down next to him.  “Well, everyone will be glad to see I didn’t fuck the ability to read out of you.”