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“I’m here.”
His dad’s voice is still tinny through the phone, but the words have the desired effect; Stiles’ breaths coming out more and more even as the plastic creaks in his grasp. Scott stands, shooting a reassuring look back over his shoulder before swinging the door back to reveal his father walking into view, still in the act of tucking his phone in the pocket of his pressed pants. He flashes a grim smile, and Stiles just slumps.
“Thanks for coming up early,” Scott says, pulling the detective into a hug.
“Like I wouldn’t?” he replies, eyes crinkling at the corners. When his gaze falls on Stiles, though, his expression sobers. “It hasn’t been twenty four hours yet, kiddo.”
Stiles’ jaw hardens, fingers coming up to rub at his eye underneath the frame of his glasses. It feels like it’s been days; cooped up in this fucking hotel room, climbing the freaking walls. There’s a spot by the light switch where the wallpaper is uneven and he’d seriously entertained the thought of ripping the entire sheet down, just to think about something else for five minutes.
“Can’t you make an exception?” he croaks, mouth dry. “ It’s Derek.”
There’s a woeful look shared between Scott and his dad before the latter lets out a weary sigh. “Look, I’m not saying you’re overreacting--” he begins, holding up a hand when Stiles squares his shoulders to retort. “I’m not, but Stiles... I can’t just snap my fingers and pull the precinct off their work because of a case of--”
Stiles jerks to his feet. “Don’t say it,” he snaps, cutting the sentence off. “That isn’t what this is about. Something’s wrong and you’re all looking at me like I’ve lost my mind when I’ve probably lost something so much fucking worse.”
___
“I just, I need to find it,” he breathes out, throwing another pile of his own shirts over his shoulder. He shakes his head into the empty space in the box, before turning to rip open another one. “It’s stupid, I know, but she bought it right after she saw Episode I for the first time because she loved it so much, and used to wear it every time we watched the Trilogy, and when she gave it to me it still smelled like her and not the hospital and you can’t even see the print on the front anymore, and it’s way too small, but--” he stops when he feels a gentle thud on the floorboards to his left. His hands are shaking, and the palm pressed between his shoulder blades feels like the only thing in reality keeping him grounded. He looks up to find Derek’s expression pained, sympathetic. So fucking sad that Stiles’ breath comes short all over again.
“It’s okay,” he says after a moment. “I get it.” His voice is soft and his eyes darting between Stiles’.
He feels shame washing over him, because today wasn’t supposed to be about this.
“Guess I should have laid out all my crazy on the table before asking to move in together, huh?” he chokes, self-deprecating, but trying for light. His eyes cast over the room and the mess in it; the mingling of their possessions, clothes strewn over the floor, half-packed boxes vomiting items in a way that looks like they’ve either been the victim of a burglary or some kind of t-shirt monster.
Derek’s hand rubs over his shoulder, down his arm to link their fingers together. His lips tick left on a smirk as he squeezes. “I don’t know, I figured there was plenty more crazy in store.”
Stiles shoves him, snorting. “Sorry,” he says, dipping his head. “It’s just a t-shirt, but it’s not, you know?”
Derek raises a brow, before pulling up the cuff of his suit jacket - because Derek’s the kind of asshole who comes straight home from work expecting to move apartments still looking like James Bond, only to find his boyfriend having a meltdown in his new living room. Stiles frowns, until a shimmer catches his eye - a platinum cuff-link crafted to ornately read BHale is holding his crisp, white shirt together at the wrist.
“I know,” he says pointedly.
Of course he does. Stiles feels like an idiot, but Derek isn’t giving him a chance to say anything else when he shrugs his jacket off, loosening his tie, and sets about taking off the precious cuff-links. “Alright, so it could be in any one of these boxes?” he asks, looking around thoughtfully. “Are you sure you didn’t leave it at your dad’s?”
Stiles just looks at him, watches as he folds his jacket over the back of one of the plastic-wrapped chairs and rolls up his sleeves, and wonders how he ever thought he was completely in love with this jerk when he stubbornly gives him a brand new reason every day.
___
He can hear them talking about him in hushed whispers as he sits by the window. His chin is resting on his knees and he feels like he’s ten years old again, out of the loop while the adults talk about serious and devastating adult things.
Protecting him makes him simultaneously want to get mad and to be grateful for it, but mostly - mostly, he just wants Derek. He wants to know he's okay, to feel him solid and there, to breathe him in and feel like he's not slipping into orbit with no purchase.
The suit tailored to Derek's ridiculous measurements is hanging in the wardrobe, immaculate and ready for him, because he’d planned to take the train after work, and Stiles had space in the car.
“Might as well put all those weeks of you schooling me in public transport to use, I guess.”
Stiles would have been oddly proud, if he’d ever gotten off the train.
Or maybe he never boarded it in the first place, it’s not like Stiles actually knows.
He’s got the tie threaded through his fingers; a blue bow-tie subtly patterned with delicate, silver spider webs, because Lydia had insisted that the theme they were jokingly - or kind of seriously - considering was ‘tacky’. His own matches, if a little less subtle (Lydia doesn’t recognise awesome when she sees it).
He rubs the material over his bottom lip out of habit - his comfort-quirk that’s survived into adulthood - like making a wish on the silk will patch together whatever is breaking apart inside of him.
---
“Loving me means loving all of my quirks, Derek. It’s part of the package. It’s not my fault you never read the fine print. Maybe you need a better assistant.”
“I’ll inform Lydia,” is the deadpan reply. There’s a squelch as he takes a step closer, shadowing himself over Stiles. “So, flooding the bathroom is an adorable quirk, now, is it?”
Stiles looks over the top of the morning paper and smirks. “Sure it is. Like when I chew on a pen and you feel the need to blow me within seventeen seconds.” Derek frowns. “I counted once.”
“Of course you did.” Derek bats the paper down, revealing more of himself, steadfastly seeking out eye contact. “Or like the fact you only read the Times on actual paper because you think it makes you look sophisticated and grown-up. I know you re-read the electronic version on the subway every morning," he says, all accusations, and sighs. "Will you promise to put a towel down?”
“What’s in it for me?”
Stiles takes him in as he teases; the cling of his shirt to his chest from steam, the divot of his stomach, the way the elasticated cotton is settled on his hips-- until he gets to the damp rising up the ankles of his pyjama pants and the sad, soggy hue of his socks, and he snorts out a laugh.
“Oh my-- okay, I promise to try.” He looks back up. “But you know what they say about water conservation...”
Derek turns away with a scoff at the waggle of his eyebrows, and in a swift movement divests himself of his shirt, throwing it back on to the table and right into Stiles’ Cap’n Crunch.
“Let no-one say we’re not environmentally conscious,” he calls back, turning on the shower once more, and Stiles’ chair topples to the tiles as he darts up and off of it.
___
Lydia’s is the next knock on the door. The up-state hotel has been rented out for the long weekend, so it’s not like they were expecting a stranger. Stiles still trips over the edge of the comforter in his haste to stand, though.
“Anything?” she says first, face trepidatious, and it morphs to pity at the collective head-shake. Stiles would feel worse for earning it - if he was capable of feeling worse, that is. All blooms of tenuous hope filter out of his chest and into the strained atmosphere. Her headset is still attached to her ear, and she’s got a tablet tucked under her arm, emails sounding off in the intervening seconds.
“Laura hasn’t gotten back to me yet, but Isaac said they’d get in touch as soon as there was any news.” She reaches out to give Stiles’ shoulder a comforting squeeze. “Don’t worry, Sheldon. We’ll find him.”
He slumps back on to the bed, eyes glazed. “So you all keep saying,” he grunts, frowning into the middle distance, before turning his eyes on his dad. “But I still think it’s a waste of fucking time sitting here with my thumb up my ass when my fiancé is missing.”
“Stiles--”
He’s cut off by the sound of Lydia’s tablet chiming a new notification - louder and different this time. He knows that sound, because he’s the one who installed the settings. They all turn to her as a crinkle appears between her brows, and she swipes at the screen before skimming over it.
The smile she gives Stiles is pasted on, but he didn’t miss the flare of horror in her eyes.
“Just the usual crap,” she waves off, stepping back, and clears her throat. “I’m actually needed back downstairs. Guests don’t arrive until the morning but it’s like the people here are incapable of reading specifications for a reception brunch.” Her words are coming out in a whoosh, and Stiles can see the whiteness of her knuckles even from four feet away. “Scott, can I talk to you outside real quick?”
“What is it?” Stiles cuts in flatly, voice harsh. Lydia freezes in place, face a picture of innocence.
“Nothing for you to get all freaked about,” she says loftily. “Derek pays me to handle this stuff for a reason.”
Stiles raises his brows. “Yeah, and he used to pay me for the same job, so I know what a Google Alert sounds like on the company tablet, because I subscribed to them.” He stands up, determination the only thing from keeping his legs buckling beneath him. “So either tell me what it is, Lydia, or I’ll just find out for myself, and resent you for the rest of my freaking life for keeping it from me.”
She stares him down for a long moment, uneasy looks traded between Scott and his dad, but Stiles holds his own.
She’s not so scary when he’s seen her drunk and crying and asking when she’s going to find what he and Derek have.
Or had.
It feels like his universe is crumbling, slowly and painfully when she tilts the screen towards him, a gossip article obnoxiously announcing Engaged Derek Hale in Secret Rendezvous with Ex Boyfriend!
___
The TV is on mute when he gets in some time past eight. It’s not like Derek watches it much anyway - something he’s learned in the past three months of cohabitation - but the silence of the apartment makes him stop mid-greeting to look. His boyfriend is just in the process of standing up from the couch, hands wringing together, eyes on the floor.
“Derek?” he asks, dropping his keys on the dish bought specifically for that purpose, because they’re those kind of assholes.
“Stiles,” he says, and clears his throat. “Can you come sit down?”
His body stiffens, because Derek hasn’t looked at him yet, and the last time he behaved like this, well.
He licks his lips. “Oh no, you’re gonna get me fired, right? Newsflash, buddy, you’re not my boss anymore, and your sister threatened to cut the arms off all your suits if you did that again,” he snorts back. It’s a charade - his heart is pounding so loud that he’s sure Derek can hear it.
He doesn’t get so much as a twitch of lips in response.
“Please.”
Stiles feels a flash of indignation and folds his arms. “What’s going on?”
Derek lets out a sigh, like he hadn’t actually expected compliance, but it would have been nice. “I need to-- there’s something we should talk about.”
“I can listen just as well while standing.”
Derek meets his eyes at last, a flash of irritation in the desperate look. “Stiles please.”
His resolve floats away like dust, and he parks his butt on the edge of the couch. “Fine,” he says, holding his arms out. “Sitting down. Now can you get to the point already? ‘Cause you’re kind of freaking me out.”
Derek nods to nothing. “I-- okay.” He takes a breath. It feels like full minutes before he decides on what to say. “When you met me, I wasn’t in a good place.”
Stiles scowls, confused because, well, duh.
“And I’ve done some things I’m not totally proud of, and I wish I hadn’t - I wish I’d met you sooner or something, because I feel like you don’t deserve things like this. I want to be better for you, and I wish I always had been, because--”
He stops short when Stiles holds up a hand. He frowns.
“Is this you angsting over that escort story?” Stiles asks, and Derek’s jaw slackens. Stiles snorts. “Dude, seriously?”
“You know?”
Stiles rolls his whole neck. “Derek, who do you think installed Google Alerts for you?”
It’s Derek’s turn to slump on the couch, eyes glazed.
“I’m-- Stiles, I’m sorry. It was years ago, and I was stupid and--”
“And in good company. Derek, he named like fifteen high-profile clients. Some of them are senators. The only thing I knew with any certainty about you before we met, was that you got around.”
Derek’s stare bores into him, searching his face with a look of awe. “I thought you mightn’t want to-- that you’d need some time, or-- You’re not upset?”
Stiles raises his brows. “Upset that you used to have bad taste, maybe? Although, dude, I was aware of that. That guy was not worth high-end prices. I think you got ripped off.”
Derek looks at his hands, not returning the grin. “I was on several.. medications at the time.”
“I’d hope so.”
“And I got tested after, just in case, so you don’t have to worry about anything like... that.” His eyes are so earnest and pleading that Stiles scoots closer, just to laugh into his neck.
“Babe. Hookers like that are probably healthier than we are, since they have to get tested so much. Besides, I had access to all of your private files. Don’t you think I assumed I may have stumbled across something like your huge list of sexually transmitted infections, if you had one?”
He feels hands gently pressing his shoulders back, and a suspicious look is fixed on him. “Definitely not, unless you went looking.”
Stiles makes a cross over his heart and solemnly says, “the thought never crossed my mind.” Derek raises a brow. “Seriously, I’d just have asked.”
There’s a huff of laughter at that. “I guess you would.” He leans back into the couch cushions, still studying Stiles with a curious look. “You really don’t care, do you?”
Stiles sighs and climbs on to his lap, a smug grin pulling at his mouth as he shakes his head. “I was fully aware you weren’t a blushing virgin, and even then, not to believe all the crap people wrote about you. Just makes it all the better that my ass made the cut.”
Derek fights a smile and slips a hand into Stiles’ back pocket. “It’s okay I guess,” he agrees seriously, and Stiles pinches his side until he jerks. “Okay! Okay it’s phenomenal! Best ass ever,” he says tightly, as Stiles leans in close enough to kiss.
“Damn right it is,” he agrees, breath warming Derek’s lips. “And even better than that - it’s free.”
____
“He hasn’t said anything for ten minutes.”
Scott leans closer. “Stiles? Come on, bro, I’m sure there’s a completely logical explanation for--”
“Really?” Lydia cuts in. “Defending Derek? That’s the angle you’re going for on this?”
Stiles’ dad sighs. “Can you two give us a few minutes alone, please?”
They both acquiesce without a fight - which Stiles thinks is only down to the fact that his dad was the one issuing the order.
“Talk to me, son,” he says, lowering himself on the bed with a weary grunt. It’s not like he’s old - Stiles is still just twenty-five, so his dad must be, what, forty...seven?
Why is he thinking about this?
Oh, right.
“My first thought was ‘at least he’s okay’,” he says at last, staring at the carpet. It’s only gotten uglier in the hours he’s been here. “Pathetic, huh?”
When he looks up, his dad has a fond crease to his eyes. “No, not pathetic. In fact, I’d say it’s pretty amazing - and reasonable - considering you love this idiot enough to marry him.”
“Even if he’s cheating on me.”
His dad narrows his gaze. “Do you think he is?”
Stiles mulls it over, and realises. No. In fact, at no point in the time since he read the article did he actually entertain the idea that it was actually what it looked like.
He shakes his head. “Mostly, I’m just pissed he’s letting Jackson back into his life for whatever reason. I thought we were past all of this, and I don’t want him getting hurt.”
His dad looks at him thoughtfully, then - his eyes sad and his lips thin.
“What is it?” he asks, a crease on his brow. His dad shakes his head.
“Nothing, I just-- I guess I didn’t do too terrible a job with you, did I?”
Stiles’ nose wrinkles. “Well obviously. I’m fantastic.” He looks down. “Most of the time.”
A nudge to his shoulder. “All of the time.”
“Then where the hell is my fiancé?” he bites out, more angry at his own self-pity than anything - and mad at Derek for making him feel it.
“Something tells me, kid, that whatever Derek’s got going on, it’s because of his own baggage, and not yours.”
“So what, I should just welcome him back with open arms? Pretend it’s totally fine that he went AWOL seventeen hours before our wedding?”
There’s a thudding on the door then, and Stiles hates himself a little for recognising it - and a little more for the way his heart skips behind his ribs at the voice calling out.
“Stiles? Can-- Can I come in? Please? I can explain.”
He looks to his dad, who holds up his hands to wash them of the situation and sighs.
“Are you in there?” he asks then, less urgent. “I know you are - I can hear Bob’s Burgers playing on the TV.”
“Fuck,” he bites out softly, pissed at how fast his resolve is melting, and sends a pleading look to his father.
He walks to the door, opening it, but blocks Stiles from view. “Better have one hell of an explanation, son.”
“Joh-- Mr. Stilinski," he amends, "I’m sorry. I’ll explain everything, but I think it’s better I talk to Stiles first.” His voice is that stiff, professional one Stiles remembers from when they first met.
He hasn’t missed it.
His dad lets out his umpteenth sigh and shoulders past Derek. “I’ll be down the hall. If I hear so much as a raised voice I’m pulling out the badge, you hear me?”
“Yes sir.”
The sickness that’s been threatening Stiles’ stomach all day roils up and he’s stumbling to the bathroom before Derek so much as clears the doorway, his dad already gone.
After a few dry, fruitless heaves over the toilet bowl, he leans back against the tub.
There’s a gentler knock this time. “Are you okay?”
Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and wonders what the correct answer is.
“Look, I know you know I saw Jackson, but it’s not what you’re thinking.”
He scowls at the door, because Derek has no freaking clue what he’s thinking, if that’s the conclusion he’s drawn. Jackson hasn’t been a factor in their lives for close to five years, even after he got done serving his reduced sentence for throwing Peter under the bus, and Stiles isn’t that much of an idiot to think Derek would revisit that avenue.
It’s the secrecy that hurts the most.
“I wanted to tell you, but-- fuck. You’ve been there for me though so much bullshit that I wanted to take this one thing and protect you from it.” He lets out a breath, like he's bolstering his confidence to continue. “Peter got in touch with me from prison.”
Stiles almost - almost - opens the door at that, but his movements hesitate before he can even fully realise them.
“He’s - Stiles he’s more disturbed than I even thought. He’s messed up and it’s so fucking obvious now, after everything that happened, but he’s still trying to use whatever cards he’s got up his sleeve.” There’s a soft thud then, and Stiles can imagine him; forehead pressed to the door, shoulders hunched. It makes him ache.
“He read our wedding announcement in the paper. Told his lawyer he wanted to pass on his congratulations, or some crap to make it look like he’s rehabilitating himself, I don’t know. It took about thirty seconds on the phone to realise he’s out for some kind of twisted payback.”
Stiles chews at his thumbnail, throwing anxious glances at the door as the story unfolds. It’s actually worse than he thought - and his brain had gone through every possible scenario since he learned Derek was still alive.
“He told me he’s still got it. The... the tape, I mean. Wanted to know how much I’d do to get rid of it once and for all, since I’ve got so much more at stake now.” Derek’s voice turns gruff, angry. “It was one thing, threatening me... but bringing you into it-- I-- Stiles I couldn’t even process someone trying to tear apart what we have. So I panicked, and I went to Jackson, because I had to know if there was even a real threat to deal with.” There’s a pause then, and Derek seems to calm himself. “Jackson never let Peter have the tape - didn’t even let him see it, thank god... so all that stuff he was saying was nothing but crap to get my attention. Jackson destroyed the only saved copy years ago... He's different, now, without Peter. And.. And Peter - he's sick, but he’s deluded... so...”
There's a beat of silence, then, and Stiles lets it all sink in.
"Can you say something?" Derek says, before letting out a bitter little huff of a laugh. "It freaks me out when you don't talk. Guess I got used to your noise and how everything in your head gets sent straight to your mouth, and-- I'm sorry." Stiles shuts his eyes. Derek's voice is barely a croak. "I'm so fucking sorry, Stiles. For everything."
He doesn't respond - too raw and bruised after all he's been though today, and the worst part of it is how he wants nothing more than to open the door and pull Derek to him, say it's all fine - but his body won't cooperate.
There's a rustling of cloth at the other side of the wood, and he can hear Derek taking a step back. "I guess you need, I don't know, some time. And I completely understand," he says, voice shaky, "but you have to know that since the day I met you I haven't been able to even look at anyone else. There is no-one else." He swallows. "So if you want to postpone, or cancel, that's-- it's not fine, but I'll take it, because you deserve better. You always did. I just-- I'll be waiting for you. At the end of the aisle, I'll be there, and if you'll have me, I'll spend the rest of my life making you believe in me again. I'll help you decorate the apartment in tacky Marvel characters and won't bitch when you flood the bathroom and I'll rent out Times Square to let everyone know that you're it for me. I'll be better, just-- please. Please be there today. Please marry me."
Stiles chokes on air at the sound of his departure, his chest tight, and he takes a long moment to lever himself up, look at himself in the mirror, and get it together.
---
"These toes are mine," he says tugging at the little left one. Stiles raises a sleepy brow over his shoulder.
"Oh yeah?"
"Mhmm. Calves too." He presses a kiss to the leg he's holding, stubble scraping the skin. "And your weird, knobbly knees."
He cracks an eye open. "My knees are manly and majestic, shut up."
"Nope, you have the knees of a grandpa at Disney World." He runs his fingertips just a little higher, and Stiles shivers. Derek still preens at how powerful it makes him feel, affecting Stiles so much he can't hide it. "These thighs, though..."
"What, you gonna insult my thighs now?" he grumbles into the pillow, "didn't hear you complaining in the shower yesterday. I Cirque Du Soleil'd that shit."
He concedes a bloom of a laugh into the flesh of Stiles' ass. "Sure did. No, I'm a fan of the thighs."
"Damn straight."
Derek runs a reverent hand over the swell of Stiles butt, tracing back over his own path painstakingly slow. "Now this--" he pauses to kiss the skin by his fingers, "--this is definitely mine."
"Your possessive streak is a turn on, if a little redundant."
"Just letting you know where I stand on certain matters," he replies easily, nuzzling a cheek into the small of Stiles' back.
Stiles nudges him back to roll over, naked skin goosing up in the chill. "Yeah, I'm all yours, I get it," he smirks. Derek looks up at him from his pillow - the flesh of Stiles' stomach - and tamps down on the ridiculous urge to punch the air.
"Do you?"
He rolls his goddamn Disney eyes. "Yeah, promise I do, you dick." There’s a furrow of his brows. "But you get that this means you're all mine, too, right? Nobody else?"
Derek pushes himself up, bracketing Stiles' body with his arms, and crawls up the bed.
"I should fucking hope so," he says, and kisses that smart mouth, because he means it.
--
Derek closes his eyes to tune out the curious looks being thrown around through the opened door. Their guests are there, talking among themselves, no doubt about the crap someone with no real job wrote about him and almost tore his life apart.
No, it's probably not right to blame anyone but himself. Or Peter.
Lydia hasn't said a full sentence to him since he got back; Scott and Allison trying to stay neutral, but Derek can see the tight coil of anger beneath Scott's composure, and he would be grateful that someone cared so much if it wasn't making him feel so bad.
Andrew had sent his regards from set, regretting that he couldn't make it - maybe it's just as well.
Laura had slapped and then hugged him, and Erica had sat in on the lecture she gave him while styling his hair and straightening out his clothes.
He balls his hands into fists and resists the urge to stuff them in his pockets that years of coaching told him would ruin the line of his tux.
He wants to see Stiles in a tux again. It's been two years since he was Scott's best man and Derek still uses the memory of ripping it off of him for the nights they're apart and missing each other.
He doesn't know if he'll have the right to that memory anymore.
His stomach knots,
He was so stupid to gamble like that, but Stiles-- the fucking idea of losing him was enough to send him half-crazed, turning to one of the last people he should have for help, but Jackson had grown a lot in the intervening years, and hadn't stood in the way of his being with Stiles since those first months. Derek just needed to trust someone to not be out for themselves, trust that they could change - really change - because he still woke up most mornings convinced that everything he had and everything he'd become since meeting Stiles was some elaborate dream he'd cooked up in his own despair.
Stiles was so perfect that sometimes he didn't seem real.
A calming breath does nothing to help, and though everyone's here, and he's pretty sure Scott wouldn't be standing at the altar if there were no actual best man duties to attend to, that knot below his ribs winds tighter with every second that Stiles isn't there.
The curious looks are interspersed with reassuring smiles, but it's still not enough - not when his hand is empty and his side is cold and he doesn't have a fucking clue what he's going to do if he's messed this up once and for all.
It's only when Danny turns in his seat and beams that he looks around, and watches with awe as Stiles sidles up to him, eyes front, looking like something straight from Derek's imagination.
"We have so much more to talk about," he mutters, just as the music starts up, and slides his hand into Derek's. It feels so right there, that he resists the swell of emotion welling up in his chest, and squeezes back, running his thumb over a knuckle. "But first, I keep my promises." He turns his head to look back at him, eyes red-rimmed and tired, but soft and loving - just like they always have been.
Right then, with the completion of that sentence, something in Derek’s chest releases.
"And I promised to marry the shit out of you, Derek Hale."