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you love the hate that we share

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Maybe it’s petty — okay, it most definitely is — but it just irritates Stiles that the universe makes people like Derek Hale. He’s practically superhuman at lacrosse; he’s been blessed by the puberty gods with stubble and muscles on top of muscles and not a pimple in sight; he spouts off effortless monologues in Spanish class while Stiles is still struggling to remember how to say “Can you repeat that?”; he could probably make a killing as a male model; and when he asked Lydia to study with him, she said yes. Like, seriously, what the fuck.

Stiles gloats where he can. His math grades are consistently better than Derek’s, and Derek still has no real friends here besides Scott even though it’s October. Even his killer cheekbones and his sleek, sexy Camaro can’t make up for the fact that Derek Hale obviously hates everyone. (Everyone except Scott, that is, because no one can hate Scott in the face of all that sunbeam-y goodness. It’s a superpower.)

Case in point: The first week of school, Stiles watched a girl come over to Derek’s desk in study hall and throw her hair over her shoulder in a classic flirt-maneuver and ask him if he’d had a good weekend. “No,” Derek said, just 'No,' and went back to whatever he was writing in his notebook like she didn’t even exist.

Stiles may be terminally awkward, but at least he can tell when someone is flirting with him.

Well. Hypothetically. No one has actually flirted with him yet, but he’s ready. When the time comes, he has no doubt he’ll do a better job than Derek.

A rock could do a better job at flirting than Derek.

Hotness is totally wasted on him.

Stiles is entertaining himself in study hall by ranting just a little about this — he just saw Derek walk down the hall past this room for like the third time this period, so it’s on his mind — when Scott butts in with, “Why don’t you like him, anyway?”

Stiles shrugs and starts doodling a lacrosse net on the corner of his worksheet. They’re supposed to be working quietly and industriously on their trig homework, but like hell that’s going to happen. It’s the last period of the day, and anyway, Coach Finstock left the room five minutes ago and hasn’t been back. Stiles’ theory is that he’s secretly having an affair with Greenberg, the new science teacher, who’s always borrowing dry erase markers from Coach Finstock’s classroom without asking and then returning them without the caps on. It’s been driving Coach Finstock crazy. He’s obsessed.

“I don’t not like Derek,” Stiles hedges finally.

“Uh huh. That’s why you were just in the middle of calling him a ‘spoiled know-it-all fun-ruiner with a stick up his ass.’”

“He’s just… annoying sometimes. His face is annoying.” Stiles erases a crooked line with a little more vigor than maybe strictly necessary. “He thinks the mayo-ketchup dip I mix up at lunch is gross.”

“To be fair,” Scott says, “it tastes okay but it looks like that pink goo from Teletubbies.”

“Derek still has no room to talk. He eats strawberries without taking the leaves off first. Like, who does that? And that’s the least of his problems. He gels his hair like a douche, and he drives that stupid car. And he’s clingy.”

“You’re clingy,” Scott points out.

Okay, yes, Stiles can admit that’s true, but it’s not the same thing at all. Pretty much as soon as Derek transferred to Beacon Hills High, he latched onto Scott. He started following him around the hallways, sitting with Stiles and Scott at lunch some days, partnering up with Scott on the biology project, even dropping by the vet’s office after school to hang out with him on his quieter shifts. Stiles understands the impulse to buddy up to Scott, boy does he ever, but there’s only one Best Friend of Scott McCall, and that’s Stiles, for life. He doesn’t exactly want to share. And he’s pretty sure Derek doesn’t, either, if the intense stares he levels at Stiles every time they run into each other are any indication.

Come to think of it, that definitely takes the cake for Most Irritating Thing About Derek Hale.

Not that he’s going to tell Scott any of that, though. It’d probably sound kind of petty if he said it out loud.

Stiles decides a good offense is the best defense. “The better question is why you like him. He’s all grim and serious all the time, and you guys don’t even have anything in common.”

“He likes sports,” Scott says.

“Obviously,” Stiles says. To the best of his knowledge, that’s all Derek ever does, lacrosse and homework, because Derek is boring. “You don’t really like sports, though. You’re only on the team because you wanted to impress Allison.”

Scott nods like, True. “Okay, well, how about, he likes dogs.”

“Everybody likes dogs. Doesn’t count.”

Scott throws up his hands. “I don’t know, Stiles. We just started hanging out, and it turns out he’s pretty cool. I don’t think you have to have a ton in common with someone to be their friend. I mean, look at you and me.”

“We have so much in common,” Stiles starts to say, but then pauses to think. “Okay, so maybe I’m a bit more into murder mysteries and weird Wikipedia articles than you. And a lot less into cute baby animals. And, okay, I’m still not ever going to be over the fact that you don’t like Star Wars or the Mets. But whatever, dude. We both like video games and Marvel movies and hate Mr. Harris. That’s the major stuff.”

“Anyway,” Scott says, “I think you should give Derek a chance. He likes Star Wars.”

“What about the Mets?” Stiles says stubbornly.

“I dunno, man.” Scott looks down hastily at his worksheet as Finstock finally reappears. He’s always been way more teacher’s-pet than Stiles. “You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

Yeah, right. Like Stiles cares if Derek likes the Mets.


Lunch on Friday is, as usual, tense.

Derek slaps his tray down between Scott’s and Stiles’ and elbows his way in until Stiles is forced to scoot down the bench a bit or be sat on. Stiles glares up at him, but Derek studiously pretends not to see him.

Scott, meanwhile, has his head buried in his bio notes. He has a test next period. Stiles has the same test, but he’s got that shit locked down. He can label cell diagrams in his sleep at this point.

“Can you pass me the salt?” Scott asks vaguely, and Derek’s hand shoots out so fast he almost knocks over Stiles’ Gatorade. Stiles slaps Derek’s wrist and wrestles the salt shaker out of his hand. It takes a bit of maneuvering, but he manages to lean back and pass the salt behind Derek’s back before Derek can twist around to snatch it back.

“Thanks, bro,” Scott says, glancing up from his notes. Stiles beams.

Derek kicks Stiles’ calf under the table. Stiles tries to kick him back and accidentally hits his ankle on the table leg. Ow.

While he’s still leaning down to massage his ankle bone, Derek turns to Scott and says, “Laura and her boyfriend were going to go to the movies tonight, but turns out Laura has to work, so she gave me the tickets. If you wanted to go, I mean. It’s —”

"Sorry,” Stiles interrupts, smiling sweetly at Derek, “but Scott and I always hang out at my house on Friday nights. Eating our weight in Cheetos and playing video games,” he adds, because he knows Derek hates both video games and cheesy snacks, AKA everything fun in this world.

Unbelievably, Scott clears his throat and says, “Uh, actually, I was going to go to a thing with Allison tonight.”

Derek scrunches his absurdly thick eyebrows, looking wounded. If Stiles weren’t feeling pretty much the exact same, and if Derek weren’t such a best-friend-stealing dick, Stiles might even feel sorry for him. “A thing,” he echoes.

“Yes,” Scott says. At least he has the decency to look a little chagrined about it. “Sorry.”

Derek says, “Not a thing as in… Lydia Martin’s party?”

“What party?” Stiles says, then immediately wishes he hadn’t. He’s basically just admitted, in front of Derek, that Lydia didn’t invite him. She’s apparently invited Derek, though. Maybe Scott isn’t Derek’s only friend at this school after all. Damn it.

Derek shoots Stiles a smug look.

“It’s just a thing,” Scott says. “Just a few people. Very small.”

“The whole junior class is going to be there,” Derek says. “Except you, I guess,” he adds to Stiles.

Scott goes on like he didn’t hear anything. “The only reason I’m going is because Lydia is Allison’s best friend, so she pretty much has to go, and what kind of boyfriend would I be if I made her go by herself? Anyway, it probably won’t even be that fun.”

Scott’s never been a very good liar, but Stiles appreciates the sentiment. “Whatever,” he says, and starts ripping his napkin into little pieces on his tray. “I have a lot of homework anyway.”


Not that he’s actually going to do any of it tonight.

Stiles’ dad is at work — Fridays are supposed to be his nights off, but Parrish is out sick — so Stiles is sprawled out alone on the couch, drowning his sorrows in copious amounts of root beer and X Files reruns and aggressively not thinking about Scott and Allison and Lydia and Derek and dumb parties. And then the doorbell rings.

It’s Scott, obviously. It has to be. He’s realized the error of his ways and come to sneak Stiles into the party. For a nanosecond Stiles thinks about leaving him standing on the porch out of spite, but he’s not actually that mad. He gets it. Scott wants to be with Allison. If Stiles had an Allison, and an invitation to Lydia’s party, he’d probably do the same thing.

So he answers the door way too cheerfully, given that the person actually standing there is Derek. Which. What?

Stiles blinks, and then blinks again, but nope. Still definitely Derek. He’s standing on Stiles’ porch with his hands in the pockets of his douchey leather jacket, looking kind of uncomfortable but determined, and also (although Stiles would never admit it to anyone, ever, under any circumstances, ever) really hot. There’s no Scott in sight.

“How did you get this address? Are you stalking me?” Stiles asks, just to be contrary. It’s pretty obvious that if Derek’s been stalking anyone, it’s Scott.

“The school directory lists everyone’s address,” Derek says.

Which, oh yeah. Stiles always forgets that that’s a thing. He always loses his directory pretty much the second they’re handed out at the beginning of the year. There’s never anyone he needs to contact except Scott and sometimes the other people in debate club, and he already has their numbers.

“So, uh, why are you here?” Stiles asks. The only possibilities that come to mind are things like blackmail and assassination, which he can pretty safely rule out. Well. Probably.

“I, um.” Derek scratches at the back of his head. “Scott’s at Lydia’s party.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says.

“But I’m not.”

Stiles bites back a grin. “So I see.”

“I just, I hate parties. They’re boring and loud and there are too many people.”

Stiles can’t help but think, for the hundredth time, that hotness is totally wasted on Derek. Not that he’s going to voice this opinion, because, again, he’s not going to give Derek the satisfaction of telling him he’s hot. He settles on a neutral-sounding “Okay?”

“So,” Derek says, digging something out of his pants pocket, “I still have these.”

The movie tickets. Okay. Stiles was not expecting that.

“And” — Derek looks pained now, staring over Stiles’ shoulder at the porch light — “I thought we could go. Together.”

Stiles squints suspiciously. “Did Scott bribe you to ask me that?” Maybe this is part of Scott’s whole ‘give Derek a chance’ thing.

“What? No.” Derek scowls. “I just — thought it’d be nice. To go with someone. Since I have two tickets. And you’re obviously not doing anything tonight either, so.”

“So who says I even want to go to a stupid movie with you?”

“How do you know it’s stupid?” Derek counters. “I haven’t even told you what it is yet.”

Stiles crosses his arms. “So what is it?”

“Captain America: Civil War.”

And that’s just. That’s. “No fair,” Stiles groans.

Derek looks confused. “What?”

“You don’t get to —” Stiles cuts himself off abruptly. Have good taste in movies on top of being perfect at practically everything, he was going to say. He can’t believe he was going to say that. To Derek’s face. “Never mind.”

Derek shifts his weight from one foot to the other. The silence lengthens. “So you don’t want to go, then,” he says finally.

“I didn’t say that.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “Dude. I love all things Captain America.”

“I know,” Derek says, then quickly looks away.

There’s an awkward pause.

“Right,” Stiles says. “Let me just go get my hoodie.”


“I don’t suppose I can drive?” Stiles asks in the driveway.

Derek doesn’t even deign to answer that, just goes around to the driver’s side.

Well. It was worth a shot.


Stiles buys a giant tub of popcorn while Derek is taking forever in the bathroom. Derek raises his eyebrows at it when he finally reemerges.

Stiles hugs it to his chest. “I’m not sharing with you,” he says, even though he needs both arms to carry that and the red vines and the skittles and the soda into the theater.

Derek rolls his eyes and goes to buy his own snacks. Two little boxes of raisins. Not even raisinets, just raisins. God. Boring. Stiles didn’t even realize they sold anything that healthy at the movies.

It takes a while to pick a seat, because Stiles wants to sit at the front (he may or may not be slightly nearsighted), whereas Derek says no way is he spending the whole movie with his head tilted back so far he gets a crick in his neck. There’s a moment when Stiles thinks they’re going to end up sitting on complete opposite sides of the theater, but then Derek sighs and the tension passes and they compromise on a seat in a middle row.

Stiles puts his elbow on the armrest and Derek shoves it off with his own elbow. Stiles shoves back. Derek has an annoyingly strong, unbudgeable arm. They start an elbow fight, until Derek knocks over Stiles’ popcorn and the people in the row ahead of them turn around to glare all judgily.

They agree on a truce: no one gets the armrest. Still, Stiles feels like he wins — he successfully makes Derek cough up the $8 for more popcorn.

It’s still the previews; he’s not missing anything by going for more snacks. When he comes back, he drops a bag of M&Ms on Derek’s lap just to watch Derek struggling with whether to eat them (he obviously wants to) or ignore them out of spite and/or health-consciousness. Derek finally sighs like it’s a burden, rips open the bag, and starts crunching angrily. Victory.

At least Derek doesn’t talk during the movie. Stiles can’t stand people who talk during movies.

Somehow, though, the way Derek sits there staring intently at the screen and not talking manages to be just as distracting. Stiles kinda starts to feel like they’re on a date.

Which is ridiculous. Obviously.

But, well. There’s just this weird tension. It’s not like going to the movies with Scott. He’s finished his popcorn and his candy and his soda, and now he’s just sitting there, and he’s already seen this movie like five times, and he really needs something to do with his hands and his mouth, something to chew on or fiddle with, and he keeps getting distracted by the sound of Derek breathing, or shifting in his seat, or crinkling the M&M bag. Time crawls. Stiles’ hands feel really sweaty. He can’t remember if he’s wearing deodorant.

“Stop fidgeting,” Derek hisses.

“I’m not,” Stiles hisses back, and goes still. For about two minutes. Then he starts jiggling his leg, just a little. And then a little more.

Derek huffs and grabs Stiles’ knee. Stiles freezes. Derek’s palm feels really hot through the fabric of his jeans, which is not something Stiles ever needed to know, for the sake of his sanity.

“Um,” Stiles says.

Derek clears his throat and takes his hand away. He doesn’t say anything else about Stiles fidgeting.

At the end, Stiles and Derek both glare at the people who start to get up before the credits are over. Stiles shoots a grin at Derek before remembering he’s supposed to hate him. Anyway, Derek doesn’t seem to notice. He hasn’t looked at Stiles once since the whole hand-on-knee thing.

In the lobby, Stiles spots Coach Finstock and Greenberg in the popcorn line and immediately stops to fist-pump and take a picture on his phone. He’s not even surprised. He knew he was right.

“What are you doing?” Derek says when he finally notices Stiles isn’t walking with him anymore and backtracks. “Is that Coach Finstock? With Mr. Greenberg?”

“Yeah, and Scott owes me twenty bucks,” Stiles says. He takes another couple pictures just for good measure. “I knew something was going on between those two. They’re totally on a date right now.”

Derek makes a skeptical noise and says, “I don’t think so,” because Derek never thinks Stiles is right about anything.

Stiles rolls his eyes and focuses on texting the pics to Scott. “C’mon, man, just admit I’m right already. It won’t kill you.”

“You’re not right. Just because two people are at the movies together doesn’t mean they’re on a date.”

“Yeah, right. Two guys, alone together at the movies on a Friday night? That’s like a classic first date.”

Derek raises an eyebrow pointedly at Stiles. “Really.”

“Okay, so we aren’t, but they obviously are. I mean, look at them.”

Over at the concession stand, Greenberg is holding Coach Finstock’s hand. Their heads are tilted together and it looks like they’re talking about what to order. Coach Finstock is wearing a suit jacket, for Christ’s sake.

Stiles grins triumphantly. “You going to tell me that’s just platonic?”

“Fine,” Derek grits. “So maybe they are on a date. Whatever.” It looks like it’s killing him to admit Stiles was right, which is hands down the best moment of this night so far.

“Maybe I should take another picture, just in case,” Stiles decides.

He’s just raising his phone when Coach Finstock suddenly turns around and looks straight at them. Crap. He lets go of Greenberg’s hand like he’s been burned. Stiles didn’t know people’s faces could go red that fast. For that matter, he didn’t know Coach Finstock was capable of blushing.

Or maybe that’s the first flush of apoplectic rage.

“Uh,” Stiles says. Finstock has exited the line and is now headed their way. “We should probably go before we get murdered.”

Derek says, “Before you get murdered, you mean,” but when Stiles shoves at his shoulder, he goes.


Stiles ends up inviting him inside.

It’s not like he means to, exactly. It’s just, when they pull into Stiles’ driveway, Derek doesn’t dump Stiles on the curb and roar off down the street like Stiles expects. He just sits there idling, hand on the ignition, like maybe he’s waiting for something, and all of a sudden Stiles is saying, “Hey, do you want to eat something? With me. I mean. Are you hungry?” and Derek is saying yes, and. Well.

Maybe it’s temporary insanity. He’s blaming it on the shock of Derek putting on some music on the drive and it actually being good. First Captain America, now the Black Keys and Fiona Apple — Stiles doesn’t know what to do with this information. Up until tonight, Stiles just assumed Derek had shitty taste in everything and probably listened to Nickelback or Evanescence or some emo shit like that. But this? This is so much worse. How is Stiles supposed to cope with this.

It’s a little easier when they start trying to decide what to eat and Derek turns up his nose at Stiles’ cheesy nachos like Stiles is trying to poison him.

“Jesus,” Derek says, watching Stiles pile on more cheese, and then a few more nachos to balance it out, and then a little more cheese for good measure. “How are you still hungry? You already ate your weight in junk at the movies.”

Stiles waves a dismissive hand. “That was just appetizers. Hey, do you want this veggie stir fry I made for my dad? He didn’t end up eating it because he had to work.”

“Sure,” Derek says.

They eat in the living room, plates balanced on their laps, a nature show on in the background — something with lots of snowy trees and iced-over waterfalls, just something to provide some noise. He’s not really paying attention to it, and he suspects Derek isn’t, either.

It’s by far the least antagonistic meal they’ve ever had together. Derek says Stiles’ stir fry is “not bad,” and Stiles nearly falls off his chair in shock.

“It needs a lot more salt, though,” he adds, and that feels more familiar.

“I don’t cook with salt,” Stiles explains. “I’ve got my dad on a low-sodium diet.”

Derek makes a face.

“Don’t even,” Stiles says. “I am not the one with the gross food preferences here. You’re the one who voluntarily eats kale at lunch.”

“It’s what my mom packs me,” Derek shrugs, and gets up to take his empty plate to the sink.

Stiles gapes, because in no universe did he ever think about Derek of all people having a mom who packed him healthy bag lunches. “Wait. Is that why you eat so healthy all the time?“

"I eat healthy because I like it,” Derek says. Stiles trails after him into the kitchen. “But… I’m not really used to sweets. My mom’s a doctor and my dad’s a dentist, so sodas and chips and things like that are banned at our house.”

“That’s the saddest thing I have ever heard,” Stiles says. Although it does help to explain why Derek looks the way he does. If Stiles ate like that, he might have a six-pack, too.

Well, okay, probably not. Who is he kidding, Derek’s genes are in a whole other league.

“It’s fine. It’s what I’m used to,” Derek says, all resigned to his fate.

Which, no. “We’re fixing this. C'mon.” He yanks on Derek’s shirt until Derek gets with the program and starts following him up the stairs.

“Where are we going?” Derek asks.

“My room,” Stiles says. “I don’t keep any of the good stuff in the kitchen. Too tempting for my dad.”

“The good stuff?” Derek asks, hovering in the doorway of Stiles’ room and looking mildly intrigued.

Stiles doesn’t answer, just gets on the floor and pulls his snack box out from under his bed. As hiding places go, it’s not the most original, but it’s convenient, and anyway, that’s why Stiles keeps it in a locked box.

“Isn’t that overkill?” Derek asks.

“When your dad is the sheriff, there is no such thing as overkill, trust me.” Stiles gets the box open and hauls it onto his bed. Derek sits down hesitantly beside him, hands in his pockets again. “Okay. I’m running a bit low, but I got a few things. You like Doritos?”

“Dunno, never tried them,” Derek says.

“Never,” Stiles repeats. “As in, at no point in time in your entire life. Not even once.”


“What kind of deprived existence… Never mind. What about Jolly Ranchers?”

Derek hasn’t tried those, either.

Stiles quickly finds out there are a lot of things in the junk food box Derek hasn’t tried. He is outraged on Derek’s behalf. What childhood is complete without Doritos and Jolly Ranchers??

After that, Stiles refuses to rest until Derek has sampled at least one bite of everything in the snack box. It’s both the best and worst idea Stiles has had all night. The way Derek closes his eyes and groans while eating a Reese’s cup is possibly one of the hottest things Stiles has ever seen, and that’s including his porn folder and that one time he saw Lydia sunbathing in a bikini at the public pool.

“Here,” Stiles says frantically, trying to distract himself out of a boner, “you haven’t tried the Fritos yet.”

Derek opens his eyes and smiles, and that’s almost even worse, and — oh no. Stiles knows what this is. This is bad. This is so bad. “I — uh — bathroom. Yeah. Be right back.”

“Okay,” Derek says, totally oblivious, sucking a smear of chocolate off his thumb.

Stiles practically races down the hall and slams the bathroom door.

Okay. Breathe. Breathe. Deep breaths.

This isn’t happening. Stiles just thought for a minute that it was, but it’s not. He just has to think about Derek all gross and sweaty from lacrosse, with a skinned knee, maybe a skinned elbow too, blood everywhere, gross, so gross, not appealing at all. Or Derek eating celery sticks with peanut butter at lunch. Yeah. Stiles is never going to have a crush on someone who eats celery and likes it.

That would just be… ridiculous.

Not going to happen.






Okay, fine. He wants to stick his tongue in Derek’s mouth. He wants to feed him mountains of chocolate chip pancakes and Mars bars. He wants to wear Derek’s lacrosse jersey. He wants to get his hands in Derek’s hair and tug. He wants to marathon Star Wars together and make fun of the prequels. He wants to find out if Derek likes the Mets, and he might not even care if he doesn’t. Too much, anyway.

And okay, he may or may not have been saying some of that out loud.

“Bad idea,” he reminds himself, bracing his hands on the sink. He gives his reflection a stern look. “Abort. Do not pass go. Be cool, Stilinski. Ice cold. Top-of-Mount-Everest cold. Canada-in-January cold. You are impervious to Derek’s everything. You got this.”

He opens the door and Derek is standing right there. Stiles is pretty sure he almost has a heart attack.

“Sorry,” Derek says, not sounding sorry at all. “I just need to wash my hands. The chocolate melted a bit.” He holds up a hand in illustration, and god, Stiles wants to suck on his fingers and everything is terrible.

“Okay,” Stiles says, slightly strangled.

“So do you always give yourself pep talks in the bathroom?” Derek asks with a shit-eating grin.

Stiles is pretty sure he stops breathing. He’s going to go up in flames right here, right now. He’s used to mortification — when you’re Stiles Stilinski, it kind of comes with the territory — but this is just a whole other level. “How much of that did you hear?”

“Oh, pretty much everything,” Derek says.

“As in, everything, everything?” Stiles asks, just to make sure.

“Yeah,” Derek says, and Stiles really wishes he would just stop smiling like that because it’s making Stiles want to punch his stupid face. Or push him into a wall and kiss the shit out of him, Stiles isn’t picky. “I have excellent hearing. And you’re kind of loud.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Well, you’re kind of an eavesdropping dick.”

“Guess so,” Derek says.

Stiles is too busy internally self-combusting to even appreciate Derek agreeing with him for once. All he can do is stare at Derek staring at him. He looks amused and—pleased? Not homicidal or insufferably smug yet, but, well, give it time.

“I want to be Scott’s friend,” Derek says after a long moment. “I don’t think I want to be yours.”

“Wow,” Stiles says. “Okay, then.” He tries to sound sarcastic and not utterly humiliated and disappointed, but he’s not sure he quite gets there.

“No.” Derek looks frustrated, although whether it’s at Stiles or at himself, Stiles can’t tell. “I mean I don’t want to be friends with you. Or enemies. I want…” He stops.

“You want?” Stiles echoes, leaning forward. He doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anyone to finish a sentence more. Even though he thinks (hopes) he might already know where this one’s going.

Derek glares at Stiles like he’s waiting for Stiles to read his mind. “I want to… you know.”

That is definitely simultaneously the most exhilarating and aggravating sentence ever to leave Derek’s mouth. “Will you please stop being so fucking cryptic and just —”

Derek makes an exasperated noise and kisses him. It’s fantastic. He crowds Stiles back against the sink, and Stiles pretends to be mad about it for about .2 seconds before giving in and pulling Derek closer by his hips and hiking a leg up around the back of Derek’s thigh because hell yes.

“So,” Stiles says when he pulls off for air, panting against Derek’s mouth. “Does this mean you like me back?”

“Duh,” Derek says. He goes to kiss Stiles again, but Stiles yanks him back by his hair. Derek looks at him pissily.

“So are we, like, boyfriends now, or —”

Yes. Now shut up and let me kiss you.”

Stiles can totally do that.

Stiles has never made out with anyone before, except Scott once (it was weird and they don’t talk about it). He can’t decide what he likes best: getting to grope Derek’s ass a little bit, or the way it feels to be manhandled, or the way he can feel Derek’s breath hitching when Stiles puts his open mouth against Derek’s Adam’s apple, or the thrill when Derek’s mouth starts wandering, to his jaw, to his ear, to his neck, back to his jaw, like he can’t decide what he wants to taste most. It’s awesome. Even if Derek does smell a little bit too much like Axe. Once the endorphins wear off and Stiles can think again, he’s going to mock Derek about that forever.

Derek ducks his head again and latches onto the tendon of Stiles’ neck and sucks. It feels like he’s leaving the monster of all marks. Which —

Stiles groans and tugs at Derek’s hair. “Stop biting my neck, you weirdo, you’re going to leave a hickey.”

Because Derek is still an asshole, he just smirks and sucks harder, and. Okay. Stiles lets his head drop back to bare his throat, opens his eyes dazedly, and — “Dad!” he yelps, and bangs his head on the medicine cabinet. Fuck. “You’re home!”

Derek tries to jerk away, but Stiles tightens his grip on Derek’s waist because nope. There are some things his dad — who’s currently standing in the doorway with a clear view of everything — just doesn’t need to see.

His dad raises his eyes to the ceiling. “Stiles,” he says evenly, “who’s your friend?”

“Derek,” Derek says. His eyes are wider than Stiles has ever seen them, and he looks thoroughly kissed, his hair sticking up all over the place. “Hale. Sir.”

His dad hmms. “Really. Stiles has told me a lot about you.”

Stiles cringes. So he might’ve ranted about Derek a few times to his dad. Or maybe more than a few. He’s regretting it now. “Dad, can you just… give us a minute?”

“Thirty seconds,” his dad says. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Stiles thunks his forehead against Derek’s shoulder and lets out a long breath.


In the kitchen, his dad looks like he’s gearing up for the inquisition, and just, no. Stiles doesn’t let him get any further than “So tell me, Derek —” before he’s stepping in.

“Dad, I swear I will let you eat as many cookies and donuts as you like for a week if we can just table this conversation for later.”

His dad crosses his arms, considering. Derek eyes them nervously from behind Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles has never seen Derek look nervous before. It’s pretty satisfying.

His dad sighs. “Two weeks, and no veggie burgers, and he’s coming over for dinner on Wednesday.”

“Deal,” Stiles says.


In the front hall, Derek boldly darts in and kisses Stiles one last time, long and lingering and knee-weakeningly fantastic, until Stiles’ dad clears his throat pointedly and holds open the door.

Stiles grins against Derek’s mouth.

“See you Monday,” Derek says, squeezing Stiles’ hand, and then he’s gone. Stiles’ dad watches him make his way down the driveway for a long moment before closing the door.

“Don’t you dare say anything,” Stiles warns, slumping back against the wall. His bones feel like goo. “We have a deal.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” his dad says cheerfully. “I’m going to go help myself to some Oreos from your snack box now.”

“Ugh,” Stiles says. “You’re not even supposed to know about that.”

His dad just hums to himself and heads up the stairs.


On Monday, Scott does a double-take when he sees Stiles and Derek standing by his locker, holding hands. “Seriously?”

“Yep,” Stiles says, popping the ‘p.’ “He’s my beau. My steady guy. My one true boo.” He ruffles a hand through Derek’s hair while he says it, just to be extra obnoxious. Also because the fact that Derek doesn’t punch him for it totally proves he’s telling the truth. “My main squeeze.”

“Not for long if you ever do that again,” Derek says pleasantly.

“Oh my god,” Scott says. “Who thought this was a good idea?”

“Uh… pretty sure that would be you, Mr. Give-Him-a-Chance. Also, I saw Finstock and Greenberg on a date and you owe me twenty bucks.”

“This day just keeps getting weirder and weirder,” Scott says. “They’re supposed to hate each other. You’re supposed to hate each other.”

“That’s old news,” Stiles says. There are definitely still plenty of things he finds annoying about Derek, but he’s having trouble remembering what any of them are right now. Especially once Derek leans in for a slow, thorough kiss. 

In the background, Scott groans, “My eyes,” but it’s mostly just for show. Stiles is his best bro; he can tell these things. 

He grins and kisses Derek harder. He’s got five minutes until the first bell, and he’s not going to waste a second of it.