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It goes like this: Stiles is broke, and also is hungry. This is not a particularly unique set of circumstances, but what is unique is that he and Derek have just gotten off patrol duty, and Paco’s has a sign in the window that says “Proudly Participating in Wedding Week!”
"Dude," Stiles says, stopping short. "Wedding week!"
"What the hell is that?" Derek says, in that tone he uses for everything Stiles says, the tone that says "you’re boring and I’m humoring you," but Stiles knows it’s an act. If nothing else, Stiles is never boring.
"Wedding Week," Stiles says with a dramatic flourish, "is this week where all the restaurants in Beacon Hills offer free dinners to engaged couples to show off their catering options."
"Okay," Derek says, after a pause. "And this is important how?"
Stiles opens his mouth, points inside. “Tacoooooos,” he sings out, and then without another word, grabs Derek’s arm and drags him into the restaurant.
Derek immediately makes an outraged noise, but Stiles isn’t stupid. A, Stiles can’t move Derek anywhere if Derek doesn’t want to go. He knows, he’s tried and B) Derek loves free food. It’s like, the only thing they agree on ever. Scott has gotten both of them to do a lot of stuff based on the offer of pizza.
"Hi," he tells the hostess. "I’m Stiles and this is my fiance Derek. We were in the neighborhood and thought we might drop in to see about your Wedding Week options?"
"Oh yes," the hostess says, looking up. Stiles recognizes her immediately, she’s definitely in his Art History seminar. The practiced smile drops off her face, and she says, incredulous, “this is your fiance?”
"Hell yeah," Stiles says. "Look at this big lug. I couldn’t not lock it down. For life." He wraps an arm around Derek’s waist, beams happily at Denise. Derek is going to kill him.
"I don’t believe you," Denise says. "We’re allowed to refuse fakes."
"This is not very good advertisement for your business," Derek says, and Stiles can feel his fingers settle lightly in the center of Stiles’s back, along his spine.
"Fine," Denise says, narrowing her eyes. "Wedding date."
"June 14th, 2015," Stiles says, not missing a beat.
"Colors."
"Grey and blue."
"Venue."
"My backyard."
Denise scoffs. ”The Sheriff is going to let you host a wedding in your own backyard.”
"He’s building us a Chuppah," Stiles says. The Sheriff probably would, too. The traitor loves Derek, keeps inviting him over to watch football.
Denise folds her arms. ”Proposal story,” she says, and holds up her hand. ”Let him tell it,” gesturing towards Derek.
Stiles inwardly groans. Derek will play along to a certain extent, he thinks, but the dude is a terrible liar, and Stiles isn’t even sure he likes tacos that much. He pulls back so he can see Derek’s face, says “Tell her, pumpkin,” with a shiteating grin. Game’s up now, what does it matter?
Derek smiles back, his big fake flirty grin. ”You tell it so much better, sugar,” he says, digging his thumb into Stiles’s back until Stiles winces. ”But sure. ” He focuses his attention on Denise, says, in his smarmy voice, “So we were at Comic Con last year, and Stiles here was so excited to go to a panel on Lizard Basements.”
"Dungeons and Dragons," Stiles says, because he can’t help himself.
"Right," Derek says, and his eyes say nerd. Stiles scowls. ”Anyway, he had told me he wanted a wizard hat—”
"They don’t—" Stiles starts, annoyed but falters. Denise is listening, looks intrigued. "Nevermind," he says, lets it go.
"so I stood in the line while he was in the panel, and when I gave it to him, I hid the ring box inside."
There’s about fifteen things extremely messed up about this entire conversation, and Stiles wants to right all the ways he has been wronged, but Denise is eating this up with a spoon. She’s fallen for it, hook, line and sinker.
“That’s really adorable,” She tells Derek, and grabs two menus, beckons them to follow her.
“You’re an ass,” Stiles says under his breath as they’re seated.
“Tacos,” Derek reminds him, smirking.
Stiles is pretty sure Derek is the devil. He tells him so, tells him his jacket is trying too hard, that his hair is dumb, and that his ears look weird. Derek kicks him in the shin, under the table, balls up straw wrappers and flicks them at Stiles, hard enough that they feel like little BBs. Stiles hasn’t had fun like that in years.
He checks online the next night and Lino’s is up next for Wedding Week. He pulls out his phone, scrolls to Scott, pauses, up to Lydia, pauses, and then, before he could change his mind, he calls Derek.
“What?” Derek says, which is a pretty damn rude way to answer the phone, Stiles thinks.
“Meet me at Lino’s in ten minutes,” he snaps, aiming for assertive. Brook no nonsense. That’s how he’s approaching this.
“Fine,” Derek snaps back and there’s a click. Stiles fistpumps, because there’s no one to see him anyway. God he loves free food. He resolutely chalks all the adrenaline in his system up to his excitement over getting those toasted ravioli he had last time.
This time, he tells the engagement story. “Derek here hired a skywriter,” Stiles simpers, laying a hand on Derek’s forearm. “He’s just so demonstrative.”
Unlike Denise, this hostess does not care. “Super,” she says. “Enjoy your eventual contribution to the divorce rate.”
“Rude,” Derek says, when they’re seated. “Maybe our robe and wizard hat love might last.”
“I’m getting a prenup,” Stiles says. “I want the summer house in Palm Springs.” Derek kicks him and Stiles grins into his water glass. “Well,” he allows. “Neither of us comes from a divorced home, so we’ve got that going for us.”
“Yeah,” Derek muses. “We just have to manage to stay alive long enough for it to count.” It comes out like a joke, but Stiles flinches anyway, turns it into a grab for his napkin, spreads it out over his lap.
“I think my parents would have stayed together for the long run,” he says, after an awkward pause. He doesn’t know how they got here, after yesterday’s banter fest.
Derek considers, offers, “I don’t know about mine. My dad worked a lot. They used to fight about it.”
“What did your dad do?” Stiles asks, and they’re off. It’s a different night than last night, but no less pleasant. Stiles tells Derek about the time in third grade when he pushed Scott around in a shopping cart, accidentally flipped it, breaking Scott’s femur. Melissa didn’t talk to him for a week. Derek tells him about Laura dying her hair purple and running her wet dye soaked hands through Derek’s hair, giving him weird highlights until they grew out.
It’s nice.
Derek sends him a text the next morning, a camera shot of a Wedding Week flyer with that day’s restaurant. Stiles texts back yes 6pm and wears the One Ring on his left hand.
The last night of Wedding Week is at Monsieur. Stiles almost isn’t going to ask. It’s a fancy place, fancier than anywhere they’ve been yet. The kind of place you wear a tux to, really. They’d need a reservation, most definitely.
“Hi,” he says when he calls. “I’m wondering if you possibly have anything open for tonight?”
“No, I’m sorry,” the hostess says, apologetic. “But I can put you on the waiting list if anything cancels.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says, disappointed. “It’s uh, Stilinski.”
“Oh,” the hostess says. “We already have you down. You and D. Hale for 7PM.”
Stiles’s heart jumps, and he squeaks when he thanks her, says good night. He hopes his prom tux still fits.
Derek pulls up to the house ten minutes before seven, rings the doorbell and everything. It’s a lost gesture, as the Sheriff isn’t home, but Stiles appreciates the thought. Derek doesn’t say anything, just leads him to the car, closes the door after him.
This is a date he thinks, this is a date date. He’s sweating so bad he wishes he brought deodorant with him, maybe just strapped two sticks to his armpits.
It’s awkward for the first time, conversation stilted and slow. Their easy banter isn’t flowing, and Stiles is lost for what to say. “Steak’s good,” he tries, watches Derek push his scallops around the plate. Stiles gives up and studies the couples around them.
“This week is over,” Derek says, suddenly. “Our fake relationship. It’s over.”
Stiles blinks at him, trying not to look as disappointed as he feels. “Yeah,” he says. “I figured.”
“We could pay,” Derek says, mulish.
“Excuse me?” Stiles says, because he’s not sure what Derek means at first.
“We could still come here,” Derek says. “Even though it won’t be free. But that doesn’t mean—it’s not like they won’t be there, and I just—”
“You want to for real real date me,” Stiles says, catching up.
“Yeah,” Derek says, “Or—if you just want free food, I could just—”
“If you thought this was about the free food after that first night,” Stiles tells him, serious, “you’re dumb as a box of bricks.”
“You’re dumb,” Derek retorts, his cheeks pinking up a little, but he looks pleased, relaxing into his seat.
A half hour later, they get kicked out of a fancy French restaurant for their conduct in a single stall bathroom. Stiles has no regrets.