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The Valentine You Need

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On February thirteenth, Stiles comes home to find a bright red envelope taped to the center of his apartment door. It's exactly at his eye level and is completely blank. Stiles looks up and down the hall, hoping that whoever left it will be lurking around in wait. But the hall is empty, same as it was a second ago. Stiles lets out a sigh as he reaches out and pulls it down. He flips the envelope over with one hand-- noting the the back is as blank as the front-- while tugging his key out of his pocket with the other.

Stiles stares at the envelope as he clumsily tries to shove the key into the lock and opens his door. He shrugs off his backpack, letting it fall to the floor with a thunk, as soon as he's inside, shutting the door behind him with a kick of the foot. Stiles slides his forefinger under the flap of the envelope, tearing through the red paper as he heads towards his bedroom, flopping down on his belly when he reaches his bed.

He tugs the card out and then lets out a startled laugh. The card features a tortured looking Batman, head bent as he stares down at the street, with the words "I'm not the valentine you want, I'm the valentine you need. Be mine." printed in bold black letters along the bottom.

"That's awesome." Stiles stares at the picture for a bit longer, a happy smile in place, before turning the card over. Scrawled across the back is an address, a time, and the words you know the date. Stiles snorts. "Valentine's got jokes," he says, shaking his head.

He shifts a little on the bed, reaching back to pull his phone out of his pocket. Once he's got it, he wakes it up and clicks on the internet icon. A quick google search later, Stiles realizes that his valentine has somehow managed to pick Stiles's favorite fifties style diner as the venue for their date. "Sweet," he says, because there is a double bacon cheeseburger, hand cut fries, and a classic malt shake in his near future.


Stiles spends about a second debating if he should dress up or not for his date with his mystery valentine before deciding that clean jeans, his best non-ratty Batman themed tee, and his not-quite-dirty red hoody is dressed up enough. It's a diner, after all, not a four star French restaurant. He fusses with his hair for a bit, brushes his teeth, and then gives himself finger guns in the mirror for good luck before heading out.

It’s not exactly a short walk from his apartment to the diner, but it’s not an overly long one either, so Stiles is pleasantly exerted when he arrives. The bell on the door gives a little jingle when Stiles pushes it open, the smell of hamburgers wafting out at him along with the buzz of conversation. Stiles tugs it shut behind him and then rubs his hands together and he looks eagerly around the waiting area. No one steps forward or waves at him or anything, which causes Stiles’s shoulder to slump, but then, he is a fairly early so it’s possible that his mystery valentine hasn’t arrived yet.

“Party of one?” the hostess asks, and Stiles jerks a little before turning his attention to her.

“Party of two, actually. Just waiting for my date to arrive.”

She gives him a smile. “Want me to seat you while you wait?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Naw. I’m good.” He points at one of the red vinyl benches. “But thanks.”

“Okay, just let me know when you are ready,” she says, as she starts to organize menus.

Stiles nods and then head over to the bench by the window, as it gives the best view of the door. He sits there long enough to watch as two couples and a family come in and be seated before he caves and tugs out his phone.

It’s five minutes past when his mystery valentine said to meet, which makes Stiles scowl. Did he just get pranked? Is that what happened. Stiles runs a hand through his hair, feeling stupid. He lets out a sigh and slumps on the bench. He should just go. It’s clear he’s been stood up. Sitting here longer will just make things that much more embarrassing in retrospect. Stiles stands, resigning himself to another bitter Valentine’s Day alone, but before he can leave, the door opens and Derek Hale comes in.


The last thing Stiles wants right is for anyone he knows to see him. Because, really. Getting stood up on Valentine’s Day? Not something that’s he wants people to know happened to him. Especially not people like Derek, who Stiles’s has had a not-so-secret crush on since the summer between sophomore and junior year in high school.

“Stiles,” Derek says, walking towards him with a frown on his face.

“Derek,” he replies, doing that head-nod thing you do with people who are more acquaintances than friends.

Derek opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, the hostess cut in with a perky, “Ready to be seated now?”

“No,” Stiles says, at the same time as Derek says, “Yes.”

The hostess looks back and forth between them. “Um,” she gives them an weak smile, “which is it?”

Derek shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, eyebrows pulled down low as he stares at Stiles. Stiles lets out a sigh and then gives her a tight smile. “It’s fine. You can seat us.”

“Great,” she says, “follow me.”

She leads them to a back corner booth, and then sets down the menus. “Your server will be with you shortly.”

Stiles slides into the near side, knowing from experience that Derek won’t be comfortable with his back to the door. Derek, however, doesn’t sit on the far side. Instead, Derek crams in next to Stiles. Which, okay, they have room, but it's weird.

“Um,” he says, scooting over until his shoulder is touching the wall.

Derek shifts, making the vinyl seat squeak. “Are you comfortable?” he asks.

“Um,” Stiles says again, because he’s not rude enough to say “hell no.” But Derek must get the message, because he slides out of the booth, rounds the table, and sits on the far side. He picks up a menu and glares at it like it’s done him wrong, silence descending over the table.

Stiles puts up with it for as long as he can, which, admittedly, isn’t very long. Then says, “I thought you hated this place.”

“The shakes are good.” Derek doesn’t look up from his menu.

“The shakes are just shy of heaven, is what they are,” Stiles corrects. “And the fries. The fries. Better than sex.”

That gets Derek to look up. “You haven’t been having good sex.”

“What?” Stiles flails a bit. “Yes I have.”

“No, you haven’t.” Derek shakes his head, his voice flat, but his eyes dancing. “Not if you think deep fried potatoes are better than it.”

Stiles makes a face. “Dude, it’s an expression.”

“You could be,” Derek says, eyes dropping back down to his menu.

“I could be what?” Stiles asks with a frown.

“Having good sex,” Derek glances up, his eyes smoldering with the look on his face he uses when he’s trying to seduce something out of someone and no.

“Dude,” Stiles says, pissed as hell. “Dude, that’s not cool.”

Derek’s only response is to give Stiles a wounded look, like Stiles is the one being the dick here when, in fact, the opposite is true. Derek is being the king of dicks right now, actually, and that’s not okay. He doesn’t get to say things like that, not with that stupid come-hither look on his face. Not to Stiles. That’s not how they work. The way they work is that Stiles pretends like he doesn’t think Derek is hot like fire and Derek pretends like he doesn’t know that Stiles thinks he’s hot like fire and neither of them make jokes about at all.

But here Derek is, sitting across from Stiles, joking about Stiles’s massive, unrequited crush like it’s nothing. And isn’t that just the perfect cap to his shitty day? Stiles shakes his head and slides out of the booth. “Enjoy your shake, asshole,” he says before he starts walking towards the door.

“What the hell, Stiles?” Derek’s voice sounds hurt, of all stupid things, but Stiles can’t be bothered enough to turn around. “Stiles!”

Stiles would ignore him and keep walking, but Derek’s suddenly in front of him, glaring for all he’s worth. “Get out of my way,” Stiles tells him through gritted teeth.

“Stiles,” Derek starts, but Stiles cuts him off with a shake of the head.

“Whatever you have to say, I don’t want to hear it.”

He moves around Derek and hurries towards the exit, ignoring how everyone seems to be staring at him. Stiles slams out the door into the fresh air and starts walking down the street back towards his apartment. He knows that Derek is following him, but he’s not saying anything, so Stiles can ignore it.

Or at least he can until Derek’s hand is closing around his bicep, pulling him to a stop.

“Fuck off,” Stiles snaps, trying to yank free. But, of course, he can’t because Derek is a freaking werewolf. He turns towards him, ready to say something cutting, but the contrite look on Derek’s face stops him.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says softly, letting his hand drop. “I should have known...” he trails off with a frustrated sound. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

Stiles gives him a tense nod. “Apology accepted.” He sucks his lower lip into his mouth, contemplating the best way to explain why he reacted so badly. He lets out a breath and lifts a shoulder. “Look, I know it was just a joke. I get that. And normally I would just laugh it off, even though it’s really a shitty joke to make, but today... It’s Valentine’s Day, okay? And I got stood up for my date. Which shouldn’t even matter since it wasn’t even a proper date to start with, but still. I’m just not in the mood to deal with,” he gestures at Derek, “whatever this is.”

“You had another date?” Hurt flashes across Derek’s face before it goes carefully blank.

Stiles blinks at him. “Another?” he narrows his eyes. “Derek,” he says slowly, “did you think we were on a date?”

Derek jerks back like Stiles slapped him. “What else would it be?” Derek grits out.

Stiles lets out a laugh, he can’t help it. “Dude, you just showed up at the same place I happened to be at. That’s a coincidence, not a date.”

“Coincidence?” Derek’s eyebrows are pulled down and he’s frowning for all he’s worth. “What are you talking about, Stiles?”

“I’m talking about you just happening to show up at the dinner I was waiting for my mystery valentine at. Duh.” Derek gapes at him, which, for the record, is not a very good look for Derek. “You okay there, big guy?”

“It’s me.”

“What’s you?”

“The mystery valentine,” Derek says.

Stiles gives him a confused look. “What about my mystery valentine?”

“It’s me.”

Stiles shakes his head. “Derek, are you alright? You’re not making sense.”

“It’s me.” Derek’s voice is rising. “Me. I’m the valentine!”

He ends in a near shout, causing the old couple passing by them to startle and give them both concerned looks, but Stiles doesn’t care because it’s Derek. Derek is his mystery valentine. Which, wow.

Mind officially blown.

Stiles is fairly certain that, if his life were a movie, this would be the part where he confesses his epic and apparently not unrequited after all crush by saying something touching and-slash-or endearing. But his life isn’t a movie, so Stiles skips the confession and goes straight for the kiss.

The awkward, messy, and hot as hell kiss. Complete with nips, hands in hair, and the best case of beard burn Stiles has ever had the pleasure of receiving.


On February fifteenth, Stiles wakes up alone in his bed, feeling achy and well used. He lets out a groan, stretches, and glances at his alarm clock. There is a bright yellow post-it note stuck over the numbers. Stiles reaches out and pulls it free, rubbing sleep out of his eyes as he brings it close enough to read.

Getting you breakfast. Will be expecting to be rewarded with sex when I return. Good sex. Love, The Valentine You Need

The word “good” is underlined three times and Stiles can’t help but to grin.