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Stiles can admit, even though he doesn't want to, that the first kiss he and Derek share isn't one. Technically.
Now, the argument could be made (if the one making it was a child between the ages of five and thirteen) that touching lips to the same place another person has also put their lips totally counts. Sharing germs and the residual heat off the edge of a styrofoam coffee cup, energy transferring directly from one object to the other. It's conduction. It's science! It's a totally, 100% valid form of kissing that Stiles is very much allowed to be obsessing over.
And if it's not… well. Derek should have kept his perfectly shaped mouth to himself and off of Stiles' triple-shot vanilla latte if he didn't want Stiles to throw himself headfirst into a crisis on the moral correctness of drinking from his own coffee now that Derek's mouth has been on it. Not that it's entirely Derek's fault. The barista hadn't labeled anything, and there's only so much a werewolf super sniffer can do when pitted against a dozen different coffee-heavy smells.
It doesn't change the fact that his tongue had been on the lid of Stiles' coffee, mouth curved easily around the spout until the flavor hit and he'd pulled away with a grimace, practically shoving Stiles' cup into his hands with a muttered “How do you even drink this?” Stiles was almost offended, but then that thought of 'oh hey, I'm going to indirectly kiss Derek' had wormed in and now five minutes later, he still hasn't recovered.
It's juvenile, really fucking stupid, actually, but Stiles is running on less than five hours of sleep scattered across nearly three days, and there's a smudge where Derek's mouth printed the plastic of Stiles' take-away cup. The sensation of mania feels at least a little justified.
Stiles figures he's got roughly three options.
- He can pop the lid off the cup and circumvent the dilemma altogether.
Though given he's already fighting an Adderall-induced tremor in his fingers, he isn't looking to tempt fate into gifting him 1st-degree burns.
- He could throw the whole thing away and claim werewolf cross-contamination as an excuse.
It's not really viable, what with the coffee costing nearly ten bucks and the fact that Erica is already scrutinizing him from across the dining table they're working over. If Stiles dumped his drink, there's no way he'd live it down.
Which really only leaves...
- Drink the damn thing.
And Stiles' thought spiral runs itself right back to the capital-P problem.
Why couldn't his bisexual crisis (the second more substantial one, at least) have come a year earlier? Maybe then Stiles could have scrounged up a modicum of chill.
"Cooties aren't real, Stiles." Erica pipes up after another minute of Stiles glaring down at his Derek-tainted coffee cup.
Stiles flicks his eraser at her head and misses by about a foot. It bounces on the loft's hardwood floor, and Stiles loses track of it somewhere between the rug with the least amount of claw marks and a side table he's pretty sure Scott found next to a dumpster.
"Neither were leprechauns until the little freaks were crawling all over the preserve like the world's worst and greenest gopher infestation."
"You're pathetic," Erica demurs. She's not even looking at Stiles anymore, but no one in the room questions who she means or why she's really saying it. Stiles isn't surprised. It's their love language at this point, one he accepts in return for no longer being bludgeoned by stolen car parts.
Stiles glowers and, as if to prove to her that he's not thinking about where his cup has already been, takes a quick swig from his coffee. He very valiantly does not lick his mouth like a nutcase just because he thinks he feels the remnants of Derek's terrible mint Chapstick on his lower lip.
"Being unnecessarily mean isn't as hot as you think it is."
A lie.
If Stiles wasn't into it, he thinks he wouldn't be nearly so hung up on Derek in the first place.
Stiles isn't keeping score on how many times the potentiality of locking lips with Derek Hale comes upon him, because that would imply it being a number higher than what he can count on one hand. So he thinks he can be forgiven when he gets a little slap-happy and makes an idiot of himself.
After about five hours straight of weeknight monster hunting bullshit that is definitely going to bite him in the ass if any of his classes decide to drop a pop quiz on him come morning, the wall separating impulse from action is worn thin. The mental check of 'that's two' when he spins in a lazy circle victoriously and blows a kiss directly at Derek Hale's face, pings in time with his good sense rushing back to him.
His brain, even running on spin-cycle, thoughts soapy and slippering and not stringing together in the post-hunt comedown of adrenaline and 'oh my god I literally almost died twice' registers the mistake as it happens. There's no chance to take it back or turn the blatant pantomime into something else. He's left frozen, horror mounting, to watch as a singular eyebrow climbs slowly up Derek's forehead.
Stiles' stomach threatens to drop into his toes, then lurches up in one twisting swoop, his body's lovely knee-jerk response to anytime Derek's unfairly mystifying eyes land on him with any level of intensity that ranks above cold and dismissive.
He's pretty sure the giggle he lets out is more 'haha, I'm in danger' and less 'gee, wasn't that silly of me!'
It's been over a year since Derek threatened to rip Stiles' throat out oh so creatively. Still, the shiver of concern that the older man hadn't been kidding is a real, living thing inside Stiles' chest, thrashing the longer Derek stares at him, incredulous and unflappable. Logically, he knows Derek wouldn't, because under all the gruff, masculine facade, there's a tea drinking, Enya listening, Jane Austin reading nerd lurking beneath, but Stiles' hindbrain screams 'Danger. That's a killing machine,' for every occasion he's pinned by Derek's attention for longer than ten seconds.
He's gearing up a pre-defense, something along the lines of skipping lunch in favor of research, and that being thrown into a tree a couple of times had really done something to the part of his instincts that knew the difference between appropriate and encouraging maiming of the mouth variety. But instead of doing something reasonable, like shoving Stiles up against a flat surface and getting all hot and growly, Derek surprises him.
Forgoing threats that might include words such as throat, teeth, and rip, that is a time-honored tradition by this point in their semi-friendship, mostly acquaintanceship, Derek silently reaches out his hand, lets it hover in the air for a few seconds as if waiting, then closes it into a tight fist, his leather jacket snapping at his wrist with the swiftness of the movement. He then mimes squeezing his fingers and turning his hand over so that his palm is facing the pavement, letting the invisible kiss Stiles had blown him 'drop' unceremoniously to the ground, crushed.
Stiles blinks, stunned, then whips his head around to the others to see if any of them caught that. From how Boyd is pointedly looking anywhere that isn't Stiles, it's safe to say that he was the only other casualty of Derek Hale apparently having a sense of humor. Which is kind of awful for Stiles, because Boyd is the most stoic and probably the most loyal, meaning he'll never narc on Derek even if Stiles begs him to corroborate.
Derek must be secured in that knowledge as well, given how he smirks when passing a still floundering Stiles, going so far as to mockingly pat his shoulder twice on the way, werewolf strength unchecked and almost knocking Stiles flat.
"You-" Stiles stutters, mouth flapping unattractively as he pinwheels and hisses, "You're such a dick," at Derek's back.
Unfortunately for Stiles, the little, self-congratulatory grin Derek shoots him over his shoulder before sliding into the front seat of his Camaro, the one that says he knows, and what's Stiles going to do about it anyway, is kind of perfect.
He needs to get a fucking grip.
Once is an accident, twice a coincidence, three times… well, Stiles doesn't need a class in philosophy or some dusty, old proverb to understand that wanting to put his lips in the proximity of Derek Hale is a bit of a pattern. Still, the third time is definitely the most damning by far.
He really doesn't mean to do it, is the thing. The shared coffee cup had been a juvenile, guilty indulgence that had left him feeling both giddy and like a creep for at least two days following. The air kiss he could at least play off as being a dumb teenager prone to constant, deep bouts of stupidity. And Derek had gotten in on the joke! Even if it stung a little, the more Stiles thought about it.
There's not really an excuse for the third time, though, the time his mouth actually makes contact with Derek Hale's face.
Sleep deprivation only gets a person so far, and he hasn't taken his Adderall in long enough that it's not a crutch he gets to lean on. Even the lightning bolt of victory, which had propelled Stiles from his chair and halfway across the dining table into Derek's space, isn't that good of an explanation.
There is no earthly way he can reason himself out of an early grave for the act of pressing the clumsiest, most unintentional kiss on Derek's stubbly cheek.
His body knows this before his brain catches on, because the moment after Stiles' mouth feels the rasp of a slowly growing beard, his hand curling unrepentantly in the collar of Derek's soft, worn Henley, he's up and tripping backward over the seat he'd come flying out of only seconds before. The impact of the loft floor on his ass is even more sobering than the neon sign flashing 'You Kissed Derek Hale' against the back of his eyes. Because yeah, shit, he just kissed Derek Hale. And it's not stupid or funny like the first two times, forgivable because there had been a layer of teenage idiocy to the actions. This is a stomach-turning, 'oh no I'm really going to throw up' , actual impending consequences kind of situation.
And beneath the weight of that, all Stiles can manage that isn't immediately losing his lunch is a weak "Uhhhhh."
Derek, for his part, hasn't actually moved. Not from when he'd muttered the answer to their weeks-long bestiary conundrum and certainly not from when Stiles lunged for him like an actual crazy person in jubilant delirium.
Stiles hopes with all his puny human heart that solving their creature-feature riddle has temporarily caused a minute long black-out in Derek's brain leaving him wholly unaware of the ass Stiles has just made of himself, but given Derek turns to look at him, stoney mask drawn over a face that has become comfortably readable over the months and months and months they've known each other, Stiles knows his hopes are in vein.
It's time for evasive maneuvers.
"I uh, that wasn't supposed to- I mean I really wasn't trying to- like I totally slipped man and uh- wow I have some bad landing skills huh?"
Any minute now, a pit is going to open up beneath Stiles and suck him into Hell, and he'll call it a mercy. Anything to be out from under the calm, calculating blankness of Derek's stare.
"Sorry?" He tries again, more timid, voice cracking like it hasn't for years now.
And still, Derek doesn't say anything when he stands up from the table, movement mechanically poised.
Stiles wonders if this is how he'll finally be kicked out of the pseudo-pack they make up. Not by getting someone killed or forgetting the meat lovers when ordering pizza for summer training sessions, but for allowing a brainless impulse to assume a familiarity with Derek that he didn't have any right to. For being such a child .
"Tell the others about the Harpies," Derek finally stops looking at Stiles, pushing his chair in. It's somehow worse than if he were to glare or yell or try to intimidate Stiles. The detachedness of it all makes Stiles feel infinitely smaller. "I need to talk to Peter."
Derek's dismal is precise and unflinching, and Stiles remains on the floor staring after Derek's retreating back and wishing for that pit to Hell with growing desperation, because it has to be better than his stomach attempting to crawl into the back of his throat.
At least, Stiles figures, he can tell his hopelessly pining heart that it's time to pack its bags.
The bags are unpacked. Not only that, but Stiles' heart had taken one look at those overstuffed duffles (mutual life-saving feats are a hell of a lot of baggage) and had proceeded to throw the contents all around like some first-date outfit finding montage in a chick-flick. There's probably a replica of Derek's stupid leather jacket hanging off his ribs, the rest of the mess no doubt floating around the bottomless, cheap vodka-filled recess that's become Stiles' stomach.
Eighteen.
The big one-eight.
A part of Stiles hadn't pictured himself making it this far. He's seen one too many satirical horrors, and the sarcastic, human sidekick? Yeah, they usually get killed off in the sequel for dramatic effect.
He won't admit it to anyone, but he'd spent the last four months of seventeen counting the days and holding his breath, a thickening layer of anxiety running beneath his skin. But hey! He's still kicking, despite all the big spooks that have tried, really, really hard to make sure he isn't . And that's great, that's awesome , because the other part of Stiles that hadn't been weighed down by the potential reality of an untimely death, had figured living until eighteen would be pretty sweet.
The Stiles of only two years ago had reasoned that world-saving energy and steadily growing lacrosse muscles would yield a relationship or two, even if said relationship lacked strawberry waves or stubbled jaws. He'd assumed his monster-hunting skills and multitasking under the risk of life and limb would translate to schoolwork, if not the dozens of college applications he's been slaving over. Anything, really, to indicate that giving precious hours of sleep and buttloads of sanity to the continued protection of Beacon Hills was rewarding beyond general good karma points.
But twenty-four months is a lot of hindsight to catch up on, and a birthday spent alone in the partially rebuilt Hale House because his best friend is doing a weekend trip with his girlfriend and only had enough time to video chat with promises of epic celebrations upon his return is not exactly the final turn of pre-adult hood Stiles had been imagining. Add in the fact that he doesn't think he's seen his father outside of his standard-issue police cruiser for at least a week, and over half of the wolf pack, including Lydia, but not him, being invited to a pack liaison? It's not even insult to injury at this point, just something small, and dark, and lonely, like the gutted building he's sprawled across the living room floor of.
Stiles lifts the vodka to his mouth for a sixth (seventh?) time, and doesn't stop sucking until his nose burns from the fumes. It's peach flavor, or it's supposed to be, but he thinks Marty, two towns over, who'd been dumb enough to buy Stiles' fake ID, gave him paint thinner instead. Not that he can actually taste it enough to care anymore.
Eventually, the voice in his head, which sounds a little too much like Erica when she's really feeling herself, whispers a teasing "Pathetic," and Stiles can't even argue with it. His friends have lives of their own, most of them had even texted him, so he knows it's not like they forgot , but… but it doesn't make it suck less, not really.
Still! Not dead. Breathing and drinking and making dumb choices and everything! It could be worse. It could be the opposite.
Stiles laughs at that thought, hiccupping the taste of hard liquor back onto his tongue even though his arm has been too heavy to lift the bottle for a few minutes. He's alive. He lived . Against so many stupid fucking odds, he'd done it. Which means the very next thought slides downhill so quickly in the opposing direction of that giddy fact that he splashes vodka on his collar in his haste to will it away.
He might be alive, but there are almost a dozen kids who aren't .
It's the kind of drunk understanding that slams its way to the forefront of a thick skull like a runaway car, break lines cut, no mercy for whatever obstacles it flattens dispassionately. Obstacles like Stiles' suddenly tenuous control over the nausea roiling in his stomach.
He's going to throw up, and it's only got a little to do with the alcohol and empty stomach now.
There's a little callous thought that didn't use to be so loud in his head, saying that he's happy it wasn't him when it really should have been. If not for Scott, for the pack, for Derek , outwardly uncaring but relentlessly selfless, Stiles can think of way too many times that he should have ended up in the ground only for another gangly, not-yet adult to take his place.
The vodka bottle falls out of his too-numb fingers, stains the newly varnished floor he'd helped install three weeks ago. Stiles gets shakily to his feet as the world sways around him in smearing streaks of blue-moon shadows. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be here wallowing in the fact that he's a few months away from increasing his life expectancy with a six-hour drive north for college when so many other kids will never have the chance to even dream of making it as far as he has.
He makes the handful of stumbling steps out of the Hale House living room and through the front door before his feet give up on him at the top of the porch steps. Stiles has enough brainpower left to understand that the fall won't kill him, but it's definitely going to make him wish it had.
But impact with the ground never comes. He jerks forward, off the ledge of the stairs, eyes closed, and lands not on the unforgiving, muddy floor of the Beacon Hills Preserve but against something surprisingly soft and yielding to the impact of his body.
Warm, clean leather, the smell of mild soap and natural sweat, the heat of a strong, sturdy pair of arms that catch him. Hair gel that has a lingering hint of pepper and menthol.
Derek.
Stiles doesn't open his eyes. Doesn't think he can, actually, now that they're shut.
"Do I want to ask what you think you're doing?"
Stiles cringes, but the mortification he knows is swimming beneath the numbing sensation of drunkenness can't stop him from muttering that Derek would be a pretty bad werewolf if he couldn't tell already.
Surprisingly, that doesn't earn him even a hint of a growl or justifiably pissed off reprimand, only a long-suffering sigh as he eases Stiles the rest of the way down the porch steps, grabbing him quickly when Stiles' knees go out from under him.
"Stand up , Stiles."
"Can't," Stiles protests, "M' legs don't work." He's not even exaggerating; his ankles feel like overly-wet chewing gum, and even with his eyes still shut, the whirly-twirly rollercoaster of vertigo is strong enough that he thinks his lower half is trying to float six feet to the left of where the rest of him clings to Derek's shoulders. It would probably be easier if he were faking, able to play off an overexaggerated swoon. Like this, his human frailty feels like a flashlight, illuminating the insecurities they all know he hides behind quips and general goofiness.
Another sigh, another "Stiles," under Derek's breath. But then there's a shift, and Derek's got one arm beneath Stiles' knees and the other around the middle of his back, keeping him supported entirely and helping his sloshing stomach before it can escape.
"I'm taking you home," Derek says once he takes his first step away from the house.
Stiles wriggles hard instinctively, refusal in physical form, before he can make his thick tongue curl around a "Nooo don't do that."
It takes a minute and some not-so-gentle clawing for Stiles to stop struggling and Derek to stop walking. Stiles might cling a little extra tight because there's a non-zero chance Derek will forget he's not one of the puppies and throw him like a rag-doll.
All Derek does is adjust Stiles gently and heaves in another breath, as if he does it deep enough, the patience needed to deal with an intoxicated teenager will slip in with the air.
"Your dad's not home. He's not going to catch you if that's what you're worried about."
Stiles might have been suspicious over why Derek knows the Sheriff's not at his house, but his thoughts are slipping around like melting butter, and he's more interested in being sad about the fact that he's been left alone to celebrate on arguably one of the biggest birthdays of his life than anything else.
"S'not what'm worried about. Didn't wanna be all alone or wha'ever." He waves a hand, feeling only a little bad when it catches Derek around what Stiles assumes is his ear.
Derek snorts, meaning the blow probably felt like butterfly wings or something equally unimpressive.
"You were alone. Why not enjoy a mattress while you're at it?"
Stiles shakes his head, putting his face even closer to Derek, his nose against the tendon in Derek's throat, his forehead pressed uncomfortably to the hard edge of his jaw. Derek smells nice. Stiles edges in a little closer because it seems like Derek's going to let him, and he doesn't have any inhibitions left to remind him why it's such a monumentally bad idea to indulge.
"Uh-uh. S' different. You're s'posed to be alone in a kinda fixed, used to be burned down house in the woods, ya know? Home means there should be people, and food, and a cake, but there's not, so, yeah. Alone that makes sense, not the other one." Stiles doesn't know what his mouth is saying, only catching every other liquor-loose word. He's sure it's a fairly succinct argument.
For a long minute, or at least Stiles thinks it's gotta be a long one, Derek is silent before offering a hushed "Alright, Stiles."
He's being too nice, but Stiles is really starting to crawl towards the 'won't remember half of this in the morning because of the epic hangover on the horizon' kind of drunk, so he smiles and makes a dumb noise, pleased as punch that Derek's not being a dickhead.
Which means, naturally, his brain thinks it's the perfect time to try his luck, since the chance of imminent death is as slim as it gets. He's only been eighteen for like, four hours, technically. There's one pre-adult bucket list item right there for the taking and just enough fuzzy reasoning to make the taking seem fairly simple.
Stiles huffs out a little breath at his obvious genius, and brushes a kiss that really, could be taken as accidental, across the bottom-most prickle of Derek's scruff, right where his neck starts a sharp slope to his chin.
If not for the following press of lips to the same spot and the near-silent pop of sound, Stiles thinks he might have gotten away with it.
Derek stopping a second time in the walk to wherever he's carrying him, tells Stiles he's not that lucky after all.
"Stiles?" Derek asks, something implacable and tight in his tone, something a not drunk off his ass Stiles might know, but for the moment doesn't really care to identify.
Derek still hadn't dropped him, and that's only serving to feel like a decent risk-reward stat problem. So instead of apologizing, Stiles hums, nuzzles himself even closer to the heat of Derek's throat, and repeats the innocent peck for a third time, giggling to himself when the scratch of Derek's makes his mouth and cheek buzz.
"Shhhh," he slurs, when it's clear Derek's gonna say something again, his jaw flexing against Stiles' temple, "S' present. My birthday. Jus' sshhhh. Won't even ask you not to maim me during training next week."
He doesn't kiss beneath Derek's chin again, though, what little granules of self-preservation are still left in his spine finally showing themselves when he needs them most. But Derek doesn't throw him off, doesn't yell, inhaling slowly for one beat before carefully putting Stiles into the back of his jeep, covering him with the spare blanket kept in the back in case of extra-long stakeouts. He's not even particularly mean when he takes off Stiles' shoes and forces his body into a sideways curl. But even if he were, Stiles doesn't know if he'd be able to tell. Unconsciousness is a wavering sheet threatening to cover him with every infinite minute that passes.
Before the final pull of drunk blackout drags him down, Stiles thinks he hears a sad "Happy Birthday, Stiles."
In the morning, hungover and throwing up over the side of his jeep, head drooping from the seat, Stiles is only left with the vague impression that he's done something very dumb and very pitiable.
Stiles imagines blowing back into Beacon Hills, fall semester of college behind him, like a hurricane of cool, no longer virginal, badassness. He imagines that the pack will smell the lower levels of nerdness on him and be, if not impressed, then relieved that he is not the biggest loser they know anymore. But Stiles' life is not a teen drama on ABC, and how he let less than six months wash that knowledge down the metaphorical drain, he'll never know.
The second he hits the town's main road, an SOS is going up on his phone, and he's changing course from his dad's to the Preserve.
Three cars are already waiting outside of the fully remodeled Hale House, the engine of Boyd's truck still ticking as it cools down in the pre-dusk chill. Stiles is the last to arrive, though, and any thoughts of the meager increases to his confidence go out the window when he lets himself in with his spare key and is nearly hit in the face with a photocopy of the Argent Bestiary.
He catches it, barely, and uses the few seconds of fumbling to hide his pleased smile. It wouldn't help anyone if he let on just how happy he is to be home.
"Wow, Stiles, it's so nice to see you after so long. Thank you for rushing over here to offer your bountiful wealth of knowledge, Stiles." Stiles says dryly, staring daggers at Cora, who's somehow maintained her south of the border tan even though Stiles knows she's been back in Beacon Hills for at least three months.
"Get to work," is all she offers, imperious and effortlessly cool as always.
Behind her, spread out across the eight-person dining room table, Stiles is still convinced Derek made himself, is the rest of the pack that's not currently overseas for their higher education and internship programs. Boyd has Erica tucked into his side, both of them tandem reading and highlighting printed sheets from what Stiles is pretty sure is a Wikipedia page. Kira and Isaac are on the other end, dusty tomes cracked open, the spines threatening to disintegrate each time one of them turns a page. They at least have the manners to greet him with a smile (Kira) and a nod of the head (Isaac).
Crossing the room and taking up one of the empty chairs is Peter, dressed like a very lazy Bond villain in a purple silk robe. He ignores Stiles entirely, sipping what could be either a glass of red wine or cranberry juice, looking for all the world like this isn't some DEFCON 1 situation. And it might not be, but Stiles would put money on innocent blood being on the line.
It's always innocent blood.
Scott's not due for another two days, so Stiles isn't surprised to find him missing, but just when he's craning his head to see who else the emergency text dragged in, toeing off his shoes so he doesn't track mud further than he needs to, he's scared shitless when a second stack of papers is slapped into his arms.
Derek has his hand on Stiles' shoulder, a slight self-satisfactory smirk toying at the corner of his mouth, probably listening to how Stiles' heart is trying to jackhammer itself free from his chest.
"Welcome back," Derek offers, just as sarcastically as Stiles' introduction had been. "Get to work."
He saunters off quickly enough that Stiles can hide the way his lips tremble upward in pleasure despite himself, blood going warm and flooding his cheeks even though he should feel insulted first and delighted second.
It's probably unfair that even though Stiles is on the cusp of nineteen, no longer under the impression that even a frog wouldn't want to see him naked, and has some decent prospects on campus, he's still annoyingly in love with the most unattainable person he's ever met.
The Incubus they're apparently chasing down is also unfair, if only because Stiles was really hoping to get dinner with his dad. But even so, there's a little thrill of excitement that runs down Stiles' spine once they narrow down which creature they're dealing with and what target they're likely to hit in the downtown district.
He doesn't miss the murder or the danger that had become his norm for four years, but it's hard not to be excited to be back with the pack. Video calls and FaceTime can't replace the feeling of a job well done, and though Stiles can tell they make a reasonable effort to get his input when they need it, something is daunting and lonely about the six hours between where he's crammed into the world's smallest single room at college and home.
He could still do without the Incubus, though.
The only good thing about this stalk and stake operation is that whoever they're hunting down is a bit of a glutton, as far as Stiles can tell, seeing as they're attacking before sleep and hitting multiple targets in one go. It means that they aren't left casing neighborhoods for weird vibes and that the victims are alive for the most part. The rest? Objectively terrible. For one, they have to split into two groups to cover more ground, which Stiles is never a fan of, and then there's the detection potion he has to choke down.
"That's- oh god -" Stiles gags, holding the shot glass Erica had passed him away like it might make the fuzzy, moldy flavor and feeling leave his mouth.
Kira isn't doing much better, but she takes it with far more grace than Stiles does, smart enough to have had water ready and within reach before she downed hers.
The others are saved from going through the same thing, watching on with barely concealed amusement. Stupid werewolves and their bullshit metabolisms. Kira will have to double-dose if they don't find the Incubus in the first half of their club hopping, but her healing factor is still slow enough that she's their own only second option for 'human' energy detector.
"Remind me why you guys couldn't just sniff this dude out the good old-fashioned way?" Stiles asks from his seat in Derek's Camaro after they'd metaphorically suited up and split into their predetermined teams.
Derek's eye roll is so loud when he speaks that Stiles doesn't bother looking up to catch the tail end of the movement in the rearview mirror.
"Sure thing, Stiles. We'll just pick up the singular scent of a semi-human that we've never encountered before in a crowd of a hundred other similarly smelling bodies. Great plan." There's no real bite in his words, but Stiles feels himself squirm in unconscious contrition regardless. It's what he gets for asking dumb questions, he knows, so he admits defeat with a huff and throws himself back into the comfortable leather of Derek's car, counting down the streetlights and the way they start blurring with comet trails as they make their way to HOTWIRE .
For the first half-hour of their search, Stiles has the thought that, honestly, it's not so bad. The potion is doing its job; everyone is glowing with a faint, trippy halo of iridescence if they're human, and it's no worse than the one house party Stiles went to at the start of the semester, too eager to fit in and make friends. Someone handed him what he'd thought was a breath mint and spent the next seven hours in a bean bag chair tripping shit. So he doesn't complain even when the conflicting bar strobes make his head hurt, knowing firsthand how much worse it could be.
The music's not bad either, and every few minutes or so, he'll cross paths with either Isaac or Cora. Derek even buys him a drink! It's Coke, but it's free, and he knows it's for blending in purposes anyway, so Stiles keeps the "Seriously?" behind his teeth.
And the best thing is that he's not stuck with Peter.
So yeah, all together, a seven out of ten kind of night.
But then Stiles has to make a beeline for the last place he saw Derek to politely suggest they try their second stop on their itinerary, just for variety's sake, and nearly about eats cements when he freezes so fast he almost falls.
The book they'd pulled the detection spell out of had been vague-ish with its description of what the Incubus' energy field should look like, going as far as to say that it would be distinct and pretty much nothing else. At the time, Stiles had scoffed. Now? He kind of gets it. Because the guy leaning into Derek's space doesn't have the slightly opaque but rainbow shimmer lining that 98% of the people crushed on the dance floor and sliding along the bar do. It's not even the fuzzy yellow outline shooting off in random pinpricks like the pack. No, this dude doesn't have a ring of light, not a speck of pretty aura or sparkling nimbus. He's a blackhole. The edges of his body like black tendrils curling in, in, in , some sort of sucking loop, drinking up the energy around him. A lure in a pretty human suit and a bottomless pit just waiting for some poor schmuck to fall right in.
That the aforementioned poor schmuck might be Derek has Stiles' pulse skyrocketing. He's unsteady as he pushes through dancing couples and around solo occupants, shoulders smashing together indiscriminately with whoever gets in his way. He's about ten feet from reaching the pair when his brain catches up with his body.
He's got no plan for when he clears the rest of the distance, no idea how he's going to get Derek out from this weirdo's energy sucking tractor beam. Except- yeah, okay, he's got one idea, and it's a pretty fucking bad one, but the Incubus is swaying closer to Derek, who's tense from shoulders to toes as far as Stiles can see but isn't doing anything to create space. So it's do or die as far as Stiles can tell.
He's just not entirely sure who's going to be doing the dying once the dust settles.
Stiles crosses the last few paces in a series of brain-dead, instinctual actions. He steals a drink off a tray and dips around quick enough that he's not caught, pushes his way past the Incubus, and manages to keep from shivering hard enough to see when he gets too close to the creature's edges, throwing himself into Derek's side, and pushing his ill-gotten drink against Derek's chest.
"You would not believeeeee the line at the bar! Sorry, babe." Stiles declares way louder than he needs to, even with the heavy bass thumping. This close to Derek, he can see how pale his skin's gone, how there's a distant, filmy look in his eyes. It makes Stiles' stomach twist, and when Derek's attention swings to him as if in slow motion, some of the mounting guilt quiets down. Derek needs backup. Stiles will wrestle with the fallout when it comes.
Hand at the hinge of Derek's jaw, Stiles lifts himself the few inches of height Derek has on him, and slots their mouths together. At first, it's all dry pressure, tacky from Stiles' soda and whatever beer Derek had been nursing, no movement from Derek's end even as Stiles leans harder into him, a silent request to 'please just go along with this so we can get this freaky sex energy demon out of here and kill him .' Then something shifts, and Derek's sucking in the breath from Stiles' lungs and kissing back, one hand on the wrist still holding the stolen cocktail to Derek's chest, his other grabbing Stiles by the front of the shirt and hauling him even closer.
It's enough to make Stiles lose track for a second, every thought in his brain spilling out like loose change left in pockets and thrown into a washing machine. He feels upside down and spun around the longer it goes on, his toes and finger-tips tingling from the lack of oxygen, and the way Derek's capped mouth moves against his, searching and pulling little sounds out of Stiles that he'll be actually ashamed of later. But eventually the need to breathe wins against super werewolf kissing prowess and a teenage fantasy coming to life, so Stiles pulls back, eyes sliding open only halfway because the rest of his bodily control is hyper-focused on keeping his knees locked so he doesn't swoon. The sliver of sight is plenty to catch that the Incubus is still there, less than three feet away, its black hole fringes just as disconcerting as the first time Stiles saw them.
He coughs, swings his arm around Derek's shoulder, and tucks his head uncomfortably beneath Derek's chin, ignoring the way he can hear Derek's heart pounding like crazy. The smile that Stiles levels at the creature is too wide and as manic as he can make it, though he's careful to keep his gaze pointed to the side of its head, worried he'll get sex-magic whammied if he's not careful.
"Oh hey, dude, mind backing up? Totally didn't see you there, but uh, we're not really the sharing type, so…" Stiles trails off, hoping the Incubus might catch the hint that Derek, hot and brooding and no longer alone, is not the easy prey he'd been hoping for.
There's a beat of tension, and Stiles's skin crawls when he sees those black tendrils wave in his direction, but against all odds, the Incubus nods and turns around, shifting his way through and then disappearing into the crowd.
When Stiles is sure that the thing has really gone to find his snack elsewhere, he slips his phone from his back pocket and starts typing furiously, only half paying attention to how stiff and still Derek is behind him.
Sex pest spotted. All pack units to HOTWIRE. Dude is medium build, tall, floppy blond hair-
"Stiles…"
-wearing a very stupid flouncy blue shirt. Think Vampire Lestat, but with a baby face and somehow tighter jeans. He's-
"Stiles."
-probably going after a male victim tonight, so two people on the front entrance and one on the back. We'll recon in-
"Stiles."
Stiles' phone is pulled from his hands just as he hits send on the group chat message. He turns, an irritated barb on his tongue, because seriously, Derek? He was trying to do his job here—when he finally looks at Derek's face and the words get jumbled up in his throat.
Derek's lips are red. His cheeks are no longer bloodless but flushed beneath the manicured beard that covers them. His eyebrows are turned down, mouth parted just enough, Stiles can see the ends of his bunny teeth poking out, making his expression as endearing as it is confused. And oh, right, Stiles had just- they'd just- but Derek had-
The distraction of identifying the Incubus and rescuing Derek has worn down to nothing, and the distress Stiles had known would build in its wake teases the bottom of his stomach, making him queasy.
"You-" Derek starts, but Stiles cannot right now.
"Later. Okay? We… we still have a job to do."
He'll grovel, apologize, and promise he'll never do it again once this mess is over.
Or maybe he'll hide in his room until winter break is over and Derek can be convinced Stiles has had a pre-second-semester psychotic break resulting in a very specific bout of amnesia.
Whichever comes first.
It turns out that neither of Stiles' initial plans see the light of day. After Cora manages to get the drop on the Incubus with her silver-tipped stake and Peter unceremoniously removes its head from its body, the whole gang is pretty much down for the count, exhausted. They'd had to chase the creep off an unconscious guy in the alley outside of HOTWIRE , and by the time they're all back at the Hale House, no one has the energy to even manage the customary debrief.
Stiles takes it as his opportunity to escape and does so without shame. Shame is for the morning when he has to relive the ghost of Derek holding him to his chest and licking into his mouth while he brushes his teeth. Shame is for taking his dad out to an apology breakfast and speaking in code so that the Sheriff knows there shouldn't be any more half-dead young adults showing up at the hospital without tipping off their waitress, Debby.
Shame is for the noise Stiles makes when he's pulling off his sweatshirt after a 2pm run around the cul-de-sac to burn off the anxious energy that's been simmering since he woke up, and Derek Hale's "It's later" sends him jumping for the roof.
"Jesus Christ, Derek! Do I have to remind you for like, the hundredth time? Fragile human! Not immune to spontaneous heart attack due to stalker werewolves. Also, stop climbing the side of my house!"
Derek doesn't grace Stiles with a response to his outburst; he doesn't even do his stupid raised eyebrow of judgment thing. He just stands there, a facsimile of that confused, open expression from the night before edging at the corners of his features.
Stiles takes a breath.
Right. Later.
"Look," he hedges, scratching a hand through the back of his hair, jittery beyond belief now that the consequences of his actions have caught up with him, "I just- the Incubus with right there, and like, you had this look in your eye like you weren't really all there, and I panicked I guess?" Stiles scoffs at himself, "Or I mean, I didn't panic, I had a plan. One that worked even! But still… maybe I should have thought about it more?" To save himself from this at the very least.
Derek doesn't say anything, but his arms are folded over his chest instead of just at his sides, and he's got what Stiles knows is his thinking face on, the one that pushes his eyebrows together and should look really, really stupid but doesn't.
"This isn't the first time you've kissed me," Derek says after an uncomfortably long wait, Stiles walking in place just for something to do.
He freezes when Derek's non-question hits fully, pinned when Derek looks at him again.
"I-" Stiles flounders, then breaths out hard, indignation at being called out when Derek's had years to do it. His timing is shit . Not that Stiles could claim his is any better. "What do you want me to say, Derek?"
Derek clenches his jaw, the muscle twitching hard enough that Stiles can see it. His hands are fists, so tightly closed that his knuckles are bloodless. It's almost enough to make Stiles angry again, because who does Derek think he is? Coming into Stiles' house and demanding explanations for the most obvious thing in existence? But the annoyance never makes a full comeback, especially when Derek's entire body goes slack, his hazel eyes turning back to Stiles with something like resignation or maybe defeat.
Stiles would like to say that it's a bad look for the man, but that would be lying. As far as he knows, Derek doesn't have bad looks.
"That you meant it. That you-" Derek cringes, and Stiles' breathing goes shallow as he watches him fight through the rest of his answer. "That you've always meant it."
Stiles blinks, dumbfounded, then blinks again. His first thought is to ask Derek what he means by 'always ,' because he's pretty sure he knows what 'it' he's talking about. He wants to ask Derek if he means the time with the coffee cup when Stiles was sixteen, when he flushed because he could see the oil from Derek's skin on the cup and thought about how, in some stupid, transient way, they were overlapping touches, even though they really weren't. Or if he meant Stiles' blowing him a kiss while he'd been coming off a 'I didn't die' high, acting his age despite wanting to be seen as mature and confident. Maybe Derek was thinking about the cheek kiss, the first real one, where Stiles had wanted to cry from how ridiculous he felt, tripping and scared because that was the first time he realized he could lose Derek if his feelings spilled over too much for the other man to stop ignoring. It could just as easily be the kiss that probably smelled like cheap peach vodka, the one Stiles only remembers in blurry, smudgy regret when he smells nail polish remover. And obviously, there's last night: strobe lights, sugary soda, and the rasp of chapped mouths pushed together for the first time.
In the end, it doesn't matter which time Derek means. The answer, when Stiles thinks about it long enough—which isn't very long at all—is the same.
"Yeah. I- yes."
And maybe this is what growing up actually is. Not living to a certain number or losing some arbitrary concept of innocence. It's realizing that whatever Derek says or does next won't matter. Because Stiles is in love with him, has been since he realized he liked the smell of strawberry shampoo and peppery pomade. That he's meant every single hairbrained, thoughtless kiss he's ever given him, and that's not going to change, so he doesn't have to be scared about it. Derek will either shoot him down bluntly, or he'll get over it, or he'll-
He'll take the three steps up to Stiles, curl a warm, steady hand around the back of Stiles' nape, and pull him into a kiss that's somehow equal parts passionate as it is chaste. It's not the fumbling, showy way Stiles had locked their lips together the night before, but a self-assured joining of mouths, a statement being made, a declaration, and Stiles sinks into it, unabashed, heaving a sigh of relief directly into Derek's face. Derek only kissing him harder in response to it.
When they part, Stiles' heart is doing somersaults. A hundred questions are piling up in his brain, but only one makes its way out of his lips.
"We… could have been doing that this whole time?" Stiles asks, forehead pressed to Derek's shoulder, trembling from the rush of 'oh fuck’ that had flipped very wonderfully into ' oh fuck ’ once he was sure he wasn't getting thrown into the nearest wall in a decidedly not fun way. Because Derek kissed him and Stiles is pretty sure that means he's been wanting to do it for a while now, and that's a brain teaser all on its own, so he'd like a yes or no ASAP.
Derek shakes his head, and the tips of their noses rub together. Stiles can feel the slight curve of a smile on his mouth where they're almost touching.
"No, we couldn't have."
It's not a 'No, I didn't want to.'
Still, Stiles almost asks why, almost whines it really, because he's hitting a stress comedown and he thinks he deserves to be a bit petulant about everything. But then he remembers some key facts, like he was sixteen to Derek's twenty-three, and his dad is the Sheriff. Both would make valid arguments.
"But… now we can? Outside of monster distraction techniques?" Stiles does a poor job of hiding his tentative hope, his arms tight over Derek's shoulders, a silent refusal to let him go now that he's gone and put himself into Stiles' range and kissed him.
Which is fine, because Derek does kind of a poor job at hiding that he's trying not to laugh at Stiles' expense.
"Or drunk molestations."
Stiles rolls his eyes even though they're still closed. He's smiling.
"Or coffee cups."
There's a pointed moment of silence before Derek asks, "Coffee cups?" and Stiles wonders about the benefits of extricating himself from Derek's pretty awesome chest and arms.
He sighs in self-created defeat, mutters a "I'll tell you later," and knows by the way Derek finds his mouth again that he'll hold Stiles to it.