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“I knew something was going on. Jackson can’t play it cool to save his life.”
Derek snorted. “He really can’t. I’m pretty sure he died a few times.”
“Uh…” Danny blinked, unsure if Derek was joking or not. It was hard to tell, what with the eyebrows and the brooding. “Yeah. Anyway. We need to talk.”
Derek squinted at Danny, wondering what this human could possibly need to discuss with him that required a smirk and a cocktail. In fact, Derek was wondering what he was doing here to begin with. Scott had called and said the pack was having a night out, and he expected Derek to come.
He glanced around the club, easily spotting his pack mates. Lydia and Allison were dancing back-to-back, drinks raised above their heads, laughing and singing and gyrating to the beat pounding out of the speakers. Scott and Stiles were wolf-whistling at the girls and dancing together. Well, if you could even consider what they were doing as dancing. It was…kind of indefinable. There were moves from just about every decade being thrown into the mix, from Saturday Night Fever’s iconic diagonal pointing game to the Robot and Christ on a cracker, was Stiles twerking? Derek quickly focused back on Danny.
Whose smirk had grown into a full on grin. It was almost smarmy. Had Danny been taking lessons from Peter?
“What,” Derek muttered.
“I think you know.”
Goddammit, that smirk was getting really annoying. How did Ethan put up with this kid?
“Danny, I’m a werewolf. An increasingly impatient one. I’m not a mind reader. If you have something to tell me, just spit it out.”
Danny sipped at his drink, eyeing Derek with a frankly uncomfortable intensity. And that eyebrow climbing his forehead was kind of insulting.
“Ok then.” Danny set his cup down on the bar and leaned in a bit closer, making sure Derek’s full attention was on him. “I’m staging an intervention on you.”
Derek barked out a surprised laugh. “I’m sorry, you’re what?”
Danny looked dead serious now. It made Derek a bit nervous, not that he’d ever admit to it. Especially out loud. He made his eyebrows look as menacing as possible.
“Yeah, that doesn’t really work on me, Miguel,” Danny sighed and rolled his eyes. “I guess we’ll do this the hard way then. Fine.”
Derek shifted minutely on the stool he was currently parked on and leaned back a little, not liking the laser beam gaze Danny was focusing on him.
“Stiles has told me a lot about you. More than I really needed or wanted to know. During those long, long conversations, I figured a couple of things out. Things that you don’t seem to have cottoned onto yet. Being the amazing friend I am, I’m going to do Stiles a favor here. To be honest, I’m also doing this for myself because if I have to listen to him wax poetic about your scruff and your shoulder-to-hip ratio one more time, I may have to physically shut him up.” Danny paused and swept his eyes slowly down Derek’s body. “Not that he’s wrong about any of it.”
Derek fidgeted with the napkin under his drink, and prayed the low lighting hid his blush. He was pretty sure it didn’t, if Danny’s sudden grin was any kid of indication.
“Derek, do you know why none of your relationships have worked out?”
What. Derek growled and opened his mouth to tell this little shit exactly where to shove this little talk when Danny waved a hand in dismissal, snapping Derek out of his righteous anger.
“Bitch, please, don’t even try it. You’ve been with what, two women? We’re not counting what happened in your high school years.” Danny’s face softened. “I am sorry about that. No one should ever have to make those kinds of choices. You didn’t deserve that.”
Derek looked down to where his hand was gripping the bar hard enough to crack the wood. He made a conscious effort to ease his grip, took a few deep breaths through his mouth (because breathing deep in a club was never a good idea when your sense of smell was supernaturally enhanced).
“And I’m not going to even talk about the others. I’m not trying to make you mad or upset. I’m trying to help you. Now. Do you know why it never worked out with those women?”
“Because they were psychotic mass murderers, Daniel. You don’t need to rub this shit in.”
Danny’s bitchface was actually kind of hilarious, and Derek felt a childish stab of glee from it.
“First, never call me Daniel. Second, I’m not rubbing anything in. I’m trying to make a point. That,” he pointed over Derek’s shoulder, toward the dance floor, “is why it never worked out.”
Derek had half a mind to ignore Danny altogether, but his curiosity won out. He glanced over his shoulder, eyes immediately finding Stiles and lingering on the long lean lines of his body. He tracked a bead of sweat as it slid down Stiles’ face, traced down his neck, over his collarbone and disappeared into the deep v of his shirt. Fuck, he kind of needed to follow that same path with his tongue. Like, right now.
He shook himself, sealing away the surge of lust he got every damn time he looked at Stiles these days.
“Dancing? Bad music? Strobe lights? That’s why I end up with sociopaths?”
Danny upped his bitchface to level ten. “Honey, you’re lucky you’re so pretty.”
Derek made a sour face and picked up his drink, intent on shutting this ridiculous conversation down as soon as he finished his vodka. Hey, it may not do anything to his sobriety, but he enjoyed the burn and the sweet-bitter bite of the lemon twist.
“You’re in love with Stiles, and you have been for the past two years.”
Derek choked, spitting half of his drink across the bar, much to the disgust of the guy on his left and the cruel joy of Danny on his right.
“What the fuck, Danny.”
“You can sit there and try to deny it all you want. I’m telling you that you’ve been playing for the wrong team. You need to get your shit together, and give it up. Stiles is your ideal batting partner, so get off your ass and go ask him to rattle your cage.”
“Oh my God, you can’t say that shit out loud,” Derek whisper-shouted as he focused on mopping up the remains of his drink, studiously ignoring that damn smirk Danny was pointing his way again. “He doesn’t—I don’t think of him like that. He’s a pack mate, a pain in my ass, and it just wouldn’t—he can’t—“
Danny shook his head, dismissing Derek’s admittedly lame protests. “Yes, he does. Did you miss the part where I told you he won’t stop talking about you? And how it needs to stop because I know way more about you than either of us want me to know? I really don't think knowing what size and brand boxer briefs you prefer and that your toes are always cold and that you prefer organic honey on your toast on Sunday mornings and extra crunchy peanut butter the rest of the week is something just a friend would know. Derek, trust me. He definitely thinks of you that way and I know you’ve been wanting to drag him out of the club the moment we got here. Your snarls and growls every time some guy tries to dance with him are less than subtle. So!” Danny clapped his hands and pushed Derek off the stool. “Go get him tiger. Er. Wolfy. Whatever.”
Derek blamed his lack of balance and coordination on shock because really, there’s no excuse for a werewolf to fall off a stool like that. He regained his feet and glared at Danny for good measure. Too bad Danny wasn’t paying any attention to him anymore. It was one of his more violent glares, the kind that used to make people cower away from him in terror, and it was totally wasted on the back of this kid's head. Dammit.
Derek huffed and looked out on the dance floor again. This time Stiles saw him looking and jumped up, waving and beckoning him over. Derek couldn’t help smiling at Stiles’ antics. He shook his head but pushed through the crowd to Stiles anyway.
Stiles leaned into him, bringing his mouth right up to Derek’s ear. “Dance with me.”
Derek shivered from the tickle of Stiles’ breath and the hand Stiles laid on his hip.
Maybe Danny was right after all.