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Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?

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“Gentlemen.” Stiles lets out a groan, because seriously? He and Scott weren’t even doing anything this time, they were in a perfectly acceptable place to be and- “You’re aware, of course, that the sign right above your heads specifically forbids loitering?”

“Fuck my life,” Scott mutters beside him, but at this point Stiles doesn’t even care. He stares at the ground, turns, holds his hands behind his back because he knows what’s coming, damnit; because Deputy Derek Hale is a jerk and lives to make Stiles’ and Scott’s lives living hell, and he’s been cuffed more in the three months that Derek’s been on the force than ever before in his life, and for crying out loud he should really mind this whole situation a hell of a lot more than he actually does. Derek never actually arrests them, just likes to tease them a little, slip the cold cuffs over their wrists and give them a stern talking-to in the car, full of accusing eyebrows and knowing smirks and the unbearable smugness of someone who believes he’s doing them a favour.

It’s really a pity he’s so damn hot.

Stiles waits patiently, barely fidgeting at all, as Deputy Hale cuffs Scott first and sits him in the back of the squad car. Then he’s behind Stiles and really, what should be illegal is that much firm muscle that close to him while he’s ridiculously unable to do anything about it. He drops his hands on Stiles’ shoulders, slides them unnecessarily slowly down to his wrists before he hears the soft click of metal-on-metal.

“In the car, Stilinski,” Derek murmurs next to his ear, and Stiles is maybe so distracted by the brief current of warm air against his skin that he doesn’t remember a word of the lecture.


Stiles might be a little sick of unrequited feelings or lust or whatever. The situation with Derek- Deputy Hale, he has to keep reminding himself, because he’s never actually told Stiles his name and that’s getting into creeper territory pretty quickly- has gone past the merely-wanting-to-jump-his-bones stage and well into die-hard-crush, complete with inappropriate fantasies involving handcuffs and roleplaying. And the problem with that, of course, is that he tends to resolve situations like these one of two ways: going out and getting drunk, or staying home and getting drunk.

(The still-famous bout of binge-drinking after Lydia and Jackson got engaged resulted in almost three hours’ worth of embarrassing messages left on Scott’s answering machine in the span of two days, including a detailed play-by-play of the night he spent with the guy that made him realize for good that he wasn’t as straight as he thought he was. Scott may or may not have kept all of those messages, the complete and total asshole.)

Given how he’s practically being stalked by a police officer, going out should have registered pretty freaking high on the scale of things not to do, but Stiles has never really been one to take that list into account, so he and Scott are well and truly trashed before he realizes that he doesn’t have the cash on him for a cab.

“Fuck my life,” he groans, and Scott just laughs, because the jerk only lives about two blocks away; his walk home is going to be decidedly shorter than Stiles’. But he sucks it up because that’s what he does, he deals with the fact that life’s a bitch and he gets over it, and he starts walking home.

And isn’t it just the icing on the cake when he registers a quick flash of red and blue lights behind him, the crunch of tires as the now-familiar squad car pulls up to the curb?

Derek parks, gets out, and comes around the car, crossing his stupid muscly arms over his stupid muscly chest as he leans against the hood of the car, just watching Stiles.

“It’s past midnight,” Derek tells him mildly.

“I’m aware of that. I would have been home forty minutes ago, but I’m not exactly sober, because blue balls are a bitch, and getting home with the town’s lampposts more intact than my sanity seemed a bit more important at the time.” What brain-to-mouth filter?

Derek chuckles- honest to God chuckles, that’s new- and Stiles sighs, holding out his hands to Derek.

“Not tonight, Stilinski,” Derek tells him. “Get in front, I’ll drive you home.”

“What, seriously? No growly eyebrows or anythi-“ Stiles stops as Derek raises an eyebrow at him. “Okay, okay, shutting up, getting in the car. Got it.” He manfully keeps his mouth shut for an entire block before he starts fidgeting, tapping his toes, then drumming his fingers on his knee, then mumbling quietly to himself under his breath. Hopefully under his breath; he really can’t trust his brain-to-mouth filter while drunk. Derek just sits there, and Stiles tries very hard not to notice that his eyes flick over to look at Stiles more often than they probably should.

He’s probably just making sure that Stiles isn’t in danger of puking in his car.

Derek pulls up in front of Stiles’ house, and he’s out of the car and holding Stiles’ door open before he can even get his seatbelt off.

“Really?” Stiles asks before he can help himself, but he manages to get himself up and out of the car before Hale can do something like offer to help him stand up. “I can walk, you know. I even have my keys.”

“Civic duty, Stilinski,” Derek tells him with a smirk, and the bastard follows him closely enough that Stiles can practically feel the heat radiating from his body. He hovers close as Stiles digs out his keys, and makes no move to leave when he finally gets the door open.

“Did you want to come in? Feed me some Tylenol? Help me shower?” Stiles asks with a leer that dissolves into drunken giggles before it can even fully form. Derek shakes his head, rueful smile on his face.

“Good night, Stiles,” he says in answer, and walks away.

It’s not until he’s finally lying in his bed that he realizes he’s never told Derek his nickname, either.


The next morning, in a fit of unbelievable mortification, Stiles promises himself to stop getting in trouble, because if he has to look Derek Hale in the face any time soon he’s actually going to die.

And the plan works. It really does. Stiles doesn’t get stopped or cuffed or arrested.

No, he just sees Derek everywhere. The grocery store, the gas station, out getting coffee. The guy is suddenly popping up everywhere, and every time he sees Stiles he gives him a half-smile and a little wave.

Stiles is screwed.


“Oh my god, I haven’t even left my house in three days, what did I do now?” Stiles blurts when he answers the door to see Derek- Deputy Hale- standing on his doorstep.

“Maybe you didn’t do anything and I’m just here to say hello because I’m concerned about your lack of trouble making,” Derek counters.

“Maybe you’re trying to kill me,” Stiles mutters under his breath. “You don’t ever say hello,” he continues, louder, so Derek can hear him. “Your version of ‘hello’ is pushing me against a wall and putting cuffs on my wrists for deplorably nitpicky reasons.”

“I could try that if it would make you feel more comfortable,” Derek offers, and there’s no smirk this time. Derek looks serious, and he’s looking at Stiles like he wants to eat him up.

“What big eyes you have,” Stiles mumbles, before turning away, moving back inside the house and leaving the door open for Derek to follow if he wants to. He’s halfway down the hall when he hears the door close, and he’s about to turn around to check if Derek actually did follow when the solid wall of Derek’s chest is suddenly flush against his back. Derek shuffles him against the wall, turning him so they’re face to face, arms bracketing his waist, nose pressed into the crook of Stiles’ neck, and oh.

“Is that a gun in your pocket, Deputy Hale, or-“ Stiles eyes widen as Derek steps almost imperceptibly closer. “Oh my- holy shit. You really are happy to see me.”

“And you are incredibly slow on the uptake sometimes,” Derek mumbles in his ear, pressing tiny kisses here and there along Stiles’ jaw.

“Does this mean you’re going to stop cuffing me at every available opportunity?”

“Only in public,” Derek growls, and then he’s kissing Stiles, kissing Stiles, on the lips, and Stiles might not be a virgin but he sure as hell feels like one at how excited he’s getting just from this, from being kissed by Derek freakin’ Hale and being able to wrap an arm around his neck, run a hand through his hair, hear the pleased little noises he gets in return. They stay right where they are, enjoying the moment, before a car horn honks somewhere outside and a dog starts barking and the moment is a bit disrupted. Derek takes a step back, looking slightly embarrassed, and Stiles just grins at him.

“So, about those handcuffs…”