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flint & tinder

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Scott was going on about Allison again. Stiles narrowed his eyes at his best friend, wondering if he didn’t move and just stared unblinkingly, Scott might take a hint and shut up. He was dense, though – way denser than a detective should be, and he just kept talking about how cute Allison looks with her pregnant belly and how he rubs her swollen feet every night and how—

“Augh!” Stiles exclaimed, flinging his arms into the air and nearly knocking over his soda. “Dude, you can talk to me about dead bodies all day, but if you start telling me about how good her vag looks, I’m going to curse you twelve ways til Sunday.”

Scott looked offended. “I wouldn’t talk about that!” he protested. “That’s private.” He sounded mortally wounded, like Stiles hadn’t constantly walked in on him and Allison sexing it up back in college. He’d seen enough of both their private bits for a lifetime. He bit his cheek, resisting the urge to remind Scott of how he’d told Stiles, in great detail, about the first time he’d had sex with Allison, despite Stiles reminding him every five seconds that he wasn’t all that interested in vaginas, thanks, especially not ones his best friend had had his dick in.

“You know,” Stiles said, stabbing at his spaghetti with a fork, “it still amazes me that Chris offered you a position here when you spend so much time talking about your sexcapades with his daughter.”

“Lydia told me the final choice wasn’t his,” Scott replied cheerily. “There’s a review board or something, I don’t know.” He looked smug. “He doesn’t like you that much either.”

“Yeah, but I’ve got talent,” Stiles replied haughtily, giving up on his rubbery pasta and stealing a fry from Scott’s plate. “You’re sadly lacking in that department, my friend.”

If they hadn’t been at work, the next five minutes probably would have delved into a wrestling match. As it was, Scott elbowed Stiles viciously in the side and trotted off back to work, leaving Stiles to polish off the rest of his fries in peace.

When Stiles went back to his station after lunch, he found Erica sitting in his chair, swinging idly back and forth.

“Derek’s looking for you,” she offered in greeting and Stiles sighed.

“Course he is,” he said, hip-checking the chair so Erica went rolling away, grinning madly at him. “Why aren’t you out chasing baddies with your partner?”

Erica put her boots up on his desk, sticking out her tongue when he wrinkled his nose. “He got jinxed by an ifrit yesterday. He’s at the hospital.”

“What was the jinx?” Stiles asked curiously.

“He—” Erica startled gigging helplessly. “He can’t stop dancing.”

Stiles choked back a snort of laughter, imaging big, silent Boyd glowering as his feet propelled him around the room. “Okay,” he said, taking a deep breath, trying not to laugh. “Okay. One: did you get the ifrit? And two: please tell me you got a video of him.”

“I used one of your traps,” Erica replied, digging around in her pocket. “Worked like a charm. It’s down in the vault now. And please, what do you take me for?” She pulled out her phone and showed him the video.

It was even funnier than he’d imagined; Boyd had a sour look on his face, his arms crossed over his chest as his feet moved around madly underneath him, tapping out a rapid rhythm. Stiles was in stitches by the time the video was over, leaning over his desk for support. Erica was crying from laughing so hard.

“Oh my god,” Stiles groaned, clutching at his aching stomach. “Please tell me you’re putting that in the holiday party slideshow.”

“Boyd’s going to kill me,” she replied, wiping her eyes.

Stiles was still chuckling ten minutes later when he went to find Derek, a sheaf of papers clutched under his arm. He forced himself to stop and take a deep breath outside the office Scott and Derek shared, knowing that Derek’s sense of humor – well, it didn’t seem to exist, really, and if Stiles showed up laughing, he’d be sure to get the Hale Glare™.

He received it anyway when he knocked on the doorframe and poked his head into the room. Scott wasn’t inside, but Detective Derek Hale was, sitting at his desk. Stiles didn’t think the detective liked him. In fact, in the six months Stiles had been working in the unit, he’d seen no reason to believe that Derek liked anyone. Derek ate his lunch by himself, didn’t talk to anyone unless it was about a case, and the only time Stiles had seen him smile was when Scott had tripped while carrying a birthday cake for Chris Argent – and it hadn’t been much of a smile, really, just a less severe scowl.

He was one of those types of people who was so determined to be an asshole that Stiles was determined to devote his life to either: one, becoming his best friend or two, goading him into a mental breakdown, which could result in three, Stiles being mauled to death, or four, some extremely angry sex. Stiles was all down for the angry sex scenario because Derek was, objectively speaking, probably the hottest guy he’d ever seen – certainly the hottest guy he’d ever spoken to, except for that time he’d literally run into Jake Gyllenhaal in Greenwich Village. He liked to sit behind Derek in meetings just so he could stare the long line of his shoulders and imagine himself biting into the sharp wings of his shoulder blades. Even the fact that he was a werewolf didn’t bother Stiles – Scott was a werewolf, after all, and Stiles had been best friends with him since elementary school.

Stiles was pretty sure his plan perplexed Derek, though it was hard to tell because the only facial expression he ever made was an angry grimace. He didn’t look at Stiles most of the time, and when Stiles did catch Derek looking at him, he really looked, not taking his eyes off him until Stiles looked away first. He’d heard that if you keep eye contact with someone for more than six seconds, it meant that they either wanted to kill you or fuck you, and he figured that fit into his plan. It was a work in progress, anyway.

“Hey,” Stiles said, ignoring Derek’s baleful look. “You wanted me?” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and got a full blast of the Hale Glare™ as a reward.

“You got anything on those runes?” Derek looked like he was gritting his teeth.

Stiles smiled sweetly. “Maybe. You gonna reward me if I do well?”

Derek just looked at him, his mouth a grim line. Stiles sighed and stepped into the room, offering the detective the stack of papers from under his arm. “I’m pretty sure this one was an accident. These are Sumerian spells of protection, but look.” He pointed at one of the photographs. “See this symbol? It should be for ‘defend’ but there’s an extra line here and that makes it ‘destroy.’ So he either fucked it up by mistake or he chose the worst way to kill himself.”

Derek stared down at the photographs of an apartment, symbols scrawled all over the floor and walls. A big pile of glistening body matter lay spread over them, all that remained of their errant spell caster. Derek looked faintly disappointed, like he’d been hoping for some big sinister conspiracy.

“That’s it?” he asked.

Stiles shrugged. “Unless you can figure out what he was trying to protect himself from.”

“There was nothing,” Derek replied irritably. “Neighbors all said he was paranoid.” He gathered up the photographs, smacking them against the desk to make them even, and handed them back to Stiles. “Thanks,” he added reluctantly.

Stiles took pity on him and decided to give him a break. He paused in the doorway before leaving, though, and said, "It's Friday."

Derek, who had turned his attention to his computer, didn't say anything. He looked at Stiles briefly before returning his eyes to the monitor. Stiles sighed. He'd tried twice before, but maybe the third time was the charm.

"Some of us are going out for drinks after work," Stiles said. "You should come."

"No," Derek said bluntly. His eyes flickered to Stiles again and he said, even more grudgingly than the last time, "Thanks."

Stiles shrugged. "Your loss." Derek didn't reply. Stiles gave up and left.

When he went back to his desk, Erica was still there, flipping through one of his textbooks. Stiles pulled a chair over from an empty station and plunked down next to her.

"Derek's your alpha, right?" he asked her. "Do you guys ever hang out or anything?"

Erica snorted. "Yeah right. We hosted a barbecue last summer and he came for about ten minutes. He stood there looking like he wanted to die and left without telling anyone."

Stiles pursed his lips. "Isn't the pack supposed to be close? Do you guys even talk?"

"Not really," Erica shrugged. "I think he kind of likes Boyd, and Isaac’s his roommate, but I dunno. He just doesn't like people."

"So I guess I should give up on trying to get him to come to the bars with us," Stiles sighed.

"Yeah, that's a battle you'll never win," Erica said sympathetically.

They both jumped when a voice behind them snapped, "Reyes!" Stiles turned to see Chris Argent, Scott's father-in-law and the commander of their unit, standing behind him, arms crossed over his chest. "Your partner's been un-jinxed. I need you to go pick him up and head out to Williamsburg. We've got reports of a new cult raising corpses out there.”

Erica got to her feet with a sigh, adjusting her holster. "Stupid hipsters. Always digging up what's better left buried."

Chris watched her go, then turned to Stiles with a grim look on his face. "Stilinski," he said. "When do you finish your Masters?"

"Uh," Stiles said. "I've got my defense in three weeks."

"Good. As you know, Deaton's transferring to the FBI. We're going to need a witch, and I was thinking—”

"I get to go into the field?" Stiles interrupted excitedly. "Are you serious?!"

Chris looked like he was already beginning to regret his decision, but he nodded. "Yes. Once you've got your certification from the state, we can start you on cases."

"Do I get a raise?" Stiles asked eagerly.

Chris scowled. "There's a six month probationary period and then, yes, you get a raise."

"Awesome!" Stiles crowed. Chris's frown deepened. "Uh, thanks, sir."

"Don't make me regret this," Chris replied irritably and turned on his heel. Stiles turned back to his desk, grinning from ear to ear. He fired off an ecstatic text to his dad and Scott and shuffled through the papers on his desk, humming with excitement.

This had been a long time coming. He'd been sixteen when, while on a camping trip in the Catskills, Scott was bitten by a rogue. And though he’d been happy to support Scott through the new changes in his life, Stiles had been jealous of him for a long time after that, envious of his new speed and strength and the way his personality became magnetic. He thought it was wickedly unfair that Scott, who was already graced with good looks, got all that power on top of it while Stiles, who was awkward and clumsy, got to remain on Team Human with all the other losers. He'd never been really good at anything, just average - average looks, average grades, average lacrosse skills.

Then, when he was seventeen, Stiles got a job working at one of the branches of the public library. He spent a lot of quiet afternoons putting books back on shelves and flipping through old books. That was how he found a very slim volume on magic, tucked away behind some old volumes on supernatural creatures. You had to be eighteen to check out books of spells, but this one had been forgotten, mis-shelved before it could make it back to the locked spell room. Stiles tucked it back where he'd found it and came in on his next afternoon off to meticulously copy down a few pages.

He'd never studied magic in school. Students took aptitude tests in elementary school and again before entering high school, but he'd failed both times and never been allowed into the spell courses. His mom had sighed - she was pretty powerful in her own right, and she seemed a little sad that Stiles had no talent for magic. His dad had ruffled his hair and said, "I guess he takes after me after all." Average again.

Still, his mom would talk about the time he was five and she swore she'd come into his room to see him making his Matchbox cars zoom around the floor on their own. Stiles clung on to this assertion, and when he found the book of magic, he decided to try again. His concentration had improved as he grew older, and his doctor had recently weaned him off his Adderall. Stiles thought that maybe his trouble concentrating had been the issue before, and now he felt focused enough to try again.

Find your spark, the book advised. Stiles, laying on his stomach on the floor with a single rune scratched into the wood before him and closed his eyes.

Imagine going your whole life working hard and never getting anywhere particularly special. Imagine throwing yourself into everything you do and being okay at it. Imagine your mom smiling softly, disappointment in her eyes when she reads your test scores. Imagine your mom laying in a hospital bed, dying slowly while you sit at her side thinking If only I could heal you.

Stiles found his spark.

The apple-sized ball of fire he was supposed to produce flamed into existence and kept growing. Stiles felt the heat on his face and yelped, his eyes flying open to see a pillar of flame dancing in the middle of his room, scorching the ceiling. “Holy shit!” he cried and the flames disappeared in a flash, though they left a small circle of blackened paint on the ceiling that his father never noticed.

Things changed for Stiles after that. He kept working on spells from the books and got them right on the first try every time. When he was brave enough to show his dad what he’d learned, his father marched him into the principal’s office and demanded that he be let into the magic courses. Stiles flew through the books, advancing faster than his teachers could teach. He finished the AP Magic Theory coursework halfway through his junior year and began taking courses at NYU instead. For the first time in a year, Stiles wasn’t jealous of Scott. He had his own talent now, his own skills to be proud of. His confidence made him walk tall and suddenly there were people interested in him in a way people never had before. He wasn’t a virgin when he graduated high school, which was something he’d never thought possible.

Stiles left the city and went to Cornell, which people jokingly referred to as “the Hogwarts of America.” Scott went to nearby Ithaca, and they got an apartment together after their freshman year. Stiles dithered for a while, switching his major several times before deciding he wanted to work for the NYPD like his father and he graduated with a double major in paranormal forensics and supernatural pharmacology. After graduating, he and Scott joined the police academy together; apparently Scott’s brush with the rogue alpha in the Catskills had made him want to wrangle supernatural creatures as a career. Stiles began taking night courses at NYU at the same time, working toward his Masters in Runes and Rituals. It was killer; Stiles was kind of surprised he hadn’t flunked out of both schools, but it would be worth it. Once he had his Masters, he could take the state test and become a certified witch, which would expand his career choices significantly.

Soon after graduating from the academy, Stiles served as Scott’s best man in his wedding to Allison, and a couple days after Scott got back from his honeymoon, Stiles was transferred the precinct he’d been assigned to the Supernatural Crimes and Investigations Unit. It was the first time in a long time that he didn’t see Scott every day, which was weird, and Stiles wasn’t working the field; he was stuck in the lab, processing requests, analyzing potions, translating runes. It was boring work, but it kept him busy. He liked his coworkers, too, which was important – Erica and Boyd, the amazing werewolf detective husband-wife team, and Lydia, who ran the lab with an iron fist and an extremely cutting sense of humor. There was Isaac, who managed the bestiary down in the basement, and Deaton, who’d cheerfully taken Stiles under his wing to teach him all he knew about being a witch. Even Chris wasn’t that bad – just intimidating sometimes – and of course there was Derek, Stiles’ project. Things got even better when Scott finally managed to persuade Chris to let him join the unit and now, with the news that he was being promoted, Stiles couldn’t be happier.

Stiles got extremely drunk that night. He went with the wolves to a werewolf bar somewhere on the Upper West Side and threw back every drink Scott placed in front of him while the rest of the wolves got increasingly rowdy around him. Erica shouted into his ear about the zombies she and Boyd had fought in East River Park. Stiles asked if the zombies had been impressed by Boyd’s dancing skills, which earned him a dark look from Boyd that nearly rivaled the Hale Glare™. He ended up making out with some muscular werewolf from Clinton Hill and they made their way back to Stiles’ apartment. It had been a good day - though, Stiles thought through a drunken haze, it would be a whole lot better if it was Derek fucking him. Oh well. He was a long-term goal anyway.


When Stiles awoke the next morning, he wished he hadn’t, because his head felt like someone had clamped it into a vise. He rolled onto his side and moaned pitifully. He felt like he was on fire; something next to him was emitting heat like a furnace.

“You drank a lot last night,” the furnace remarked, sounding impressed. “Do you want me to get you some Tylenol or something?”

“What a kind offer,” Stiles groaned into his pillow. “Can’t, though. The chemicals fuck with my magic.” He’d figured that out back in college after a long night of heavy drinking followed by a practical exam the next day. Non-herbal pharmaceuticals seemed to disconnect his body from his magic entirely – which explained his whole magic-less childhood on Adderall.

“Oh,” said the furnace. “Some water, then?”

Stiles rolled over to look at him, even though the movement made his head pound. Definitely not as attractive as Stiles had thought he was last night – a little too beefy for his tastes, but at least he looked kind. Stiles gave him a tired smile. “Actually, could you lean over and grab me the shoebox that’s under your side of the bed?”

The young man obliged and Stiles took off the cover, revealing a selection of small glass bottles filled with various colored liquids. Stiles lifted one out, flicked his finger against the rune on the side to activate it, and downed the clear liquid inside in one gulp. The young man watched him curiously.

“Are you an herbalist?” he asked.

“Nah,” Stiles replied, setting the empty bottle on his nightstand and putting the cover back on the shoebox. “I work for the NYPD. One of my degrees is in glorified potion-making, though.”

“So you made all that?” the young man asked, nodding at the shoebox.

“Mmhmm,” Stiles agreed, some of the tension already clearing from his head. “I used to do it on the side at school, making mixes for people – stuff for mental clarity, good health, and so on.”

“Do you still do it?”

“Sometimes.” Stiles tilted his head. “Why? Do you need something?”

“Not me,” the werewolf replied. “But my boss might be interested.”

“Well, I don’t have a lot of spare time right now, but I might be able to do some work,” Stiles said. He sat up in bed, his headache almost entirely gone. “Uh, this is super embarrassing, but—”

“I don’t remember your name either,” the young man admitted, smiling wryly.

“Oh, thank fuck,” Stiles sighed. “Stiles.”


They shook hands and laughed at the weird formality of introducing themselves while sitting naked in bed together. Stiles shoved the shoebox back under his bed and watched Ethan shimmy out of bed and pull his clothes back on. When he was dressed, he turned to look at Stiles and said, “Can I get your number?”

“Oh,” Stiles said. “Look, I’m not really a relationships kind of dude, and—”

“No, no,” Ethan laughed. “For my boss. I think he’ll have some business for you.”

“Oh!” Stiles said again. “Yeah, sure.”

They exchanged numbers and Stiles listened to Ethan let himself out of the apartment, shutting the door gently behind him. Stiles flopped back onto his bed with a sigh. One-night stands always left him feeling a little empty, but what he’d said to Ethan was true; he wasn’t a relationship sort of guy. Maybe it was some weird remnant of the ADHD he’d had when he was younger, but he couldn’t focus. (Or maybe, like Allison had giggled, it was because he was basically married to Scott. “As long as you don’t mind him being polyamorist,” Stiles had grinned back.) Maybe once his life settled down things would change, but he couldn’t imagine living with one person, waking up with them day after day, doing normal, domestic things like grocery shopping and choosing curtains. It sounded nice, sure, but he couldn’t do it. Even with Derek – he just wanted to know what it felt like to have sex with him. He was, Stiles thought, decidedly selfish.

With another long sigh, Stiles pulled himself out of bed and got dressed. He’d promised Isaac he’d go in and help him and Deaton neutralize some of the more dangerous creatures in the bestiary. That and schoolwork kept him busy all weekend, and he spent the following week working late nights at work. There was some sort of creature breaking into houses around the city, stealing relics from antiquity from rich people, and the unit was trying to track it down. It left behind some weird type of oil that Stiles was trying to analyze, but every time he put it in one of the lab’s equipment, it shorted out every circuit in the building. He was left to analyze it by sight, working under a microscope, and it took him all week.

The building was quiet when he finally finished collating his data. He entered the information into the DNA database and left it running while he wandered out of the lab to get some coffee. It was near eleven and everyone else had left hours ago – Scott to a dreaded family dinner at the Argent’s, Boyd and Erica for a weekend trip to Boston. Even Deaton had plans, a trip to Kansas for some sort of clandestine FBI training.

He was crossing the office, cup of hot coffee in his hands, when he noticed a light on in Scott and Derek’s office. He knew Scott had left, so that left Derek behind. Stiles grinned and took a detour, never passing up an opportunity to work on his plan.

Derek sat at his desk, surrounded by piles of old books. Soft strains of bluegrass rolled from his computer speakers and Stiles’ grin widened; he never would have pegged Derek for a folksy type of guy – alternative rock, maybe. He looked tired, though, his face less severe than usual, and Stiles realized he hadn’t noticed him standing in the doorway, which was even more unusual. You weren’t supposed to be able to sneak up on a werewolf.

“Why aren’t you out celebrating your Friday?” Stiles asked. Derek’s shoulders jumped, his eyes flashing red as he lifted them to glare at Stiles. Ah, there was that patented look.

“I’m working,” Derek said bluntly. Then, sounding suspicious, he added, “Why are you here?”

“Running DNA analysis on the oil from those relic robberies,” Stiles replied. He lifted his cup of coffee. “I just made a fresh pot. You want me to grab you a cup?”

Derek shook his head. He was doing that intense, unblinking stare he did sometimes, which made Stiles’ heart bang nervously. “It makes my hands shake,” he said, which was the first time Stiles had heard him offer up anything even remotely personal about himself.

“All right,” Stiles said agreeably. He nodded at the books piled on Derek’s desk. “What are you working on?”

Derek looked down at his desk, tapping an irritable finger against the volume currently open in front of him. “Someone’s been turning people to stone,” he replied.

“And you’re trying to figure out what it is?” Stiles asked. Derek nodded. “Can I take a look?”

Derek shrugged. It wasn’t an invitation, exactly, but he hadn’t said no. Stiles stepped into the office, setting down his mug so he could lean over the desk, looking at the book in front of Derek. He tried not to think about how this was maybe the closest he’d ever been to Derek, and he could hear the sound of his breathing, quiet and steady, even over the sound of the music. Stiles tilted his head, looking at the page.

“There are a bunch of things that can turn people to stone,” he said thoughtfully. He could feel Derek watching him and tried to act casual. “Any clues from the scene?”

“Smelled like snake,” Derek said, his voice low.

“Okay,” Stiles said. “That narrows it down. Gorgons have snakes for hair, and the basilisk is basically a giant snake. Oh, but the cockatrice has a snake’s tail, doesn’t it?”

Stiles looked over at him for confirmation and found Derek staring at him, his lips parted. Stiles didn’t know what made him do it. Maybe he was crazy. Maybe he had a death wish, but he lunged forward and smashed his mouth against Derek’s. Derek made a startled noise against his mouth and Stiles jerked back like he’d been burned. Before he could get far, though, Derek’s fingers curled in the front of his shirt and dragged him back. Derek’s lips were soft, his touch rough, and the weird clash made Stiles hot all over, his heart beating like a drum.

“Whoa,” he said, when they parted to breathe. “I was not expecting that outcome.”

“I’ve smelled your want for weeks,” Derek said, his breathing uneven and rough.

“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d let me do anything,” Stiles agreed, grinning. “Can we continue?”

Derek nodded, his eyes dark, and Stiles moved around the corner of the desk to straddle him in the chair. Derek’s big hands came up to brace him, one against the curve of his spine, one digging into his ass, and they kissed again, open-mouthed and filthy. Derek groaned when Stiles fisted his hand in his hair and pulled his head back, biting bruises into his throat that faded before they really appeared. This was even better than he’d hoped, he thought, as Derek’s hand moved under his shirt, hot against his skin. Derek felt real and solid under him, his thighs firm under Stiles’, and he could feel the beginnings of Derek’s erection pulsing in his pants.

Stiles grinned and slipped a hand between them, an old pro at unbuttoning pants with one hand. He pushed his way into Derek’s underwear, curling his fingers around Derek’s dick, feeling Derek heave underneath him, breath hissing from him. Stiles moaned when Derek’s fingers tightened their grasp on his ass, bringing their hips together in a way that made them both pause.

“I don’t,” Derek began, his jaw working furiously. “I wasn’t – I don’t have anything,” he managed, and the frustration on his face made him look more human than Stiles had ever seen him.

“That’s cool,” Stiles replied. He unbuttoned his own pants, pushing his underwear down as far as he could. He offered a hand to Derek, who dragged his tongue across Stiles’ palm, keeping his eyes on Stiles’. There was a look in his eyes that made Stiles shudder, and he shuddered again when he curled his hand around their dicks. He braced his other hand against Derek’s shoulder and began jerking them off slowly.

“Fuck,” Derek growled, leaning forward and attaching his mouth to Stiles’ collarbone. Stiles sighed, hand quickening, hips moving unconsciously in small, aborted thrusts. Derek felt so fucking good in his hand, hot and thick. Stiles tilted his head back when he came, toes curling in his shoes, panting harshly. Derek moaned against his skin when he followed a few second later and for a few long moments they sat quietly, letting the aftershocks run through them as Derek mouthed aimlessly at Stiles’ neck.

When Stiles straightened and moved to wipe his hand on his shirt, Derek grabbed him by the wrist and licked the cum from his palm, tongue curling around each finger. Stiles watched him, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he swallowed.

“Holy shit,” he muttered as Derek released his wrist. “That was fucking awesome.”

Derek leaned back in his chair with a nod, his breathing back to slow and even. Stiles climbed off him, tucking himself back into his pants while Derek watched him, not making an effort to put himself back together.

“Well, my results are probably in by now, so I’m going to head back to the lab,” Stiles said cheerfully. “Thanks for that, though.”

He picked up his cup of coffee, which was lukewarm, and as he turned to leave, Derek said, “Stiles.”

Stiles turned. He was pretty sure that was the first time Derek had ever called him by his first name. He hadn’t been sure Derek even knew what his name was. “Yeah?”

“This,” Derek said, then paused, looking uncertain.

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Stiles told him. “I’m not going to tell anyone.”

Derek shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah. Okay.”

Stiles gave him a reassuring smile and headed back to the lab feeling triumphant. He felt even better when he found that his results were in – their culprit was a Cyclops, apparently – which meant that he could finally go home. He printed out the results, blasted out a report, though when he went up to hand it off to Derek, he found the office dark and Derek gone. Stiles left the report on Derek’s desk with a shrug and headed home.

He was so used to leaving quickly after hook-ups that it didn’t occur to him that maybe Derek had wanted to talk.