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Derek blames Laura for everything.
His life is going fine until she shows up one day in late October. “Surprise!” she says at the airport, and shoves two suitcases into his arms.
“You know,” Derek grumbles as he follows her out to the car, “most people don’t fly across the country to move in with their brother on less than a week’s notice. I didn’t even know that was possible.”
“Hey, I can do anything I set my mind to, baby bro. And I’d already sold the loft and filled out some paperwork and quit my job. I just kind of forgot to tell you.”
“And most people ask first.”
“Well, I thought I’d save us both the trouble.” Laura shoots him a grin over her shoulder. “I mean, I already knew you’d say yes. I know you must have zero social life in New York, living in that big apartment all by your lonesome, and I’m here to fix that.”
Derek thinks she means she’s going to fix the problem by moving into the spare bedroom, and she does mean that, but it turns out she also means matchmaking.
“Who are you and how did you get in here,” Derek says the first time it happens. He’s just unlocked his door to find a strange woman in a red dress sitting at his kitchen table.
“Oh, Derek, hey,” Laura calls from her room, “hope you don’t mind I invited Tanya over for dinner!”
The woman—Tanya—gives him a little wave and actually winks at him. Derek shoots her a tight smile and makes a beeline for Laura’s room.
“Laura,” he hisses as he shuts the door behind him. “What the hell?”
She smiles sweetly as she puts in a pair of dangly earrings. “I’m going out, got a dinner date, but I’m sure you can keep Tanya company. She’s really very nice, and she likes dogs.”
“Laura.”
“And Derek, you like dogs. So you’ll have lots to talk about! And did I mention she’s single?”
Derek sags back against the door, running a hand through his hair. “Make her go away.”
“No.”
“Dammit, Laura, I’ve had the most stressful day today and all I want to do is collapse on the couch and indulge in a Star Wars marathon and some popcorn.”
“I bet Tanya would love to watch a movie with you,” Laura says. “Maybe you could watch something a little more rom-commy, though, just to set the mood. I think we have The Wedding Planner lying around somewhere.”
Derek would laugh, but she’s completely serious.
“Have fun tonight, Der-bear,” she smirks. “I ordered you guys some pizza. Should be here in about ten minutes, but you can make small talk till then, I’m sure.” And then she’s pushing past him, breezing out of the apartment.
Derek thinks this has to be some kind of punishment, but for what, he’s not sure.
*
The strangers keep showing up, sometimes as often as three times a week, no matter how often Derek asks Laura to stop.
He starts staying later at work.
In a roundabout sort of way, then, he has Laura to thank for his promotion.
They move him up one floor to Account & Media Services, take away his office, and give him a cubicle instead. The new department has higher pay but less of everything else, like privacy and personal space. Admittedly, his old office is about the size of his new cubicle, but at least the office had actual walls.
“The higher-ups here at BRMF think this layout promotes creative thought and collaboration in the workplace,” the woman charged with showing Derek his new desk is explaining with almost creepy levels of cheerfulness. “You’ll find that we have lots of opportunities for self-improvement in this department . . .”
But Derek’s not really listening anymore. He can’t help but let his gaze wander to the hall behind her, where a skinny guy with tousled brown hair, an impish nose, and a “Vote for Pedro” T-shirt has just stepped out of a room down the hall, throwing his head back to laugh at some remark from his companion, a brunette woman in a blue dress. Absurdly, Derek wonders what they’re talking about and whether he could make the guy laugh like that, too.
He watches as they stop at the water fountain by the bathrooms, as the guy bends down to refill his water bottle. Those jeans should be illegal, Derek thinks. The guy straightens, tilts his head back to drink, and Derek stares at the long line of his throat, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.
And then the guy turns a little, catches sight of Derek staring at him, and promptly chokes on his water.
Derek smirks and turns away, tuning back into the tour just as the woman is finishing her speech.
“. . . enhancing valuable communications and ultimately making everyone more productive. It’s a stimulating and interactive environment for our employees. I’m sure you’ll love it.”
Derek frowns.
“Well, then!” She smiles, oblivious. “Let me show you the break room.”
*
Derek has never been one to display framed photos or squirrel away candy bars in the top drawer for surreptitious snacking, nothing like that, and he’s always meticulously organized, so it takes him only one trip to move all his stuff to his new desk. He plugs in his laptop, his desk lamp, and his scanner, puts his coffee mug on the little overhead shelf, stashes his briefcase under the desk, and gets to work filling out the last of the forms for his new position.
He’s been at it ten minutes when a tiny paper airplane soars over the flimsy beige wall to land on his keyboard.
When Derek unfolds it, it’s one of those “Hello, my name is: _______” nametag stickers.
After a moment’s hesitation, Derek writes his name in the blank, refolds it as best he can, and sends it back over the cubicle wall in what he thinks is the right direction.
He doesn’t have to wait long. Almost immediately, the Vote-for-Pedro guy pokes his head over the wall. After looking left and right rather dramatically, he extends a hand over the divider, holding out, of all things, a miniature cactus in a little red plastic pot.
“It’s for you,” he says patiently, when Derek just stares at it.
Grudgingly, Derek takes it. It’s ugly, bulbous and squatty and kind of greenish-brown. He puts it on the shelf beside his coffee cup.
“Finstock told us we were getting a new guy up here today,” the guy says, reaching out to poke idly at the cactus’s spines with the pad of one finger, “so I decided to give you a little housewarming present. Cute, isn’t it?”
“It’s going to die,” Derek says.
“Well, aren’t you just a ray of sunshine. That’s really inspiring, Derek. Truly.”
“I mean, thanks, but I don’t really have a green thumb. I’ll never remember to water it.”
“That’s why I got you a cactus, dude. They’re like, unkillable. And if it is about to die, no worries, I’ll just pop in and water it for you. I’m Stiles Stilinski, by the way—”
“Bilinski!” someone roars off to their right, and Stiles jumps, almost knocking the cactus into Derek’s lap. “Stop fraternizing and get back to work!”
“That’s Finstock,” Stiles explains in a rush. “Our manager, if you haven’t met him.”
“I thought fraternization was kind of the idea behind these cubicles,” Derek surprises himself by saying.
Stiles grins delightedly. “Oh, you got the speech, too, huh? About a stimulating interactive environment for increasing worker productivity blah blah blah? Don’t worry, it’s just a rumor, we don’t actually get anything done around here—”
“Now, Bilinski!”
“Got it, boss!” Stiles shouts back. He gives Derek a parting thumbs up before dropping back into his chair.
Derek’s eyes settle on the cactus, and he can’t help but smile, just a little, as he goes back to work.
*
Derek’s on the end of a row, right by the hall, so he only has two neighbors besides Stiles Stilinski: on his right, Isaac Lahey, and across from him on the left, Allison Argent, the brunette Derek saw with Stiles earlier.
Isaac’s hobby—no, obsession—is fashion, and he consistently finds Derek’s lacking. But that’s putting it mildly. Derek’s quickly discovering that Isaac’s fashion advice escalates the longer you know him.
The first time, Isaac’s casual and helpful, just dropping by the entrance of Derek’s cubicle to say a quick, “You know, I think a moss green scarf would look really good on you, especially with that aubergine Henley you’re wearing today. It’d really bring out the green in your eyes.”
Two weeks later, all Derek has to do is show up for work in his leather jacket with the extra long cuffs, or his red shirt with the thumbholes in the sleeves, and Isaac will appear as if by magic to say, “You know, I’d pay you to donate that to Goodwill,” or even a more succinct, “Please burn that.”
Isaac hates Stiles’ fashion even more, though, with his seemingly never-ending supply of Size L graphic tees and ugly plaid button-ups, so Derek doesn’t really take it personally. Really, the only one not getting fashion advice seems to be Allison.
Even Derek has figured out she’s Isaac’s other obsession. Objectively, Derek can see the appeal: she’s got perfectly curled brown hair, and dimples, and a smile Stiles describes as “literally sunshine,” and to top it all off, she’s the only one in the office Finstock is afraid to yell at. In short, she’s sweet and beautiful and fierce. To Isaac’s eternal frustration, though, she’s also dating Stiles’ best friend, a veterinarian named Scott.
Derek has never met Scott, but he ends up getting a pretty good feel for his and Stiles’ friendship regardless because the two of them text each other throughout the day. For the first week of his new job, before Derek really knows anything about his coworkers beyond their names and how they like their coffee, all Derek knows is that Stiles’ phone blasts part of the chorus from “Hungry Like the Wolf” every time Stiles gets a new text, which is every half hour or so. It’s loud enough that Derek can hear it perfectly in his cubicle, but not so loud as to draw Finstock from his office, and after about the third day of hearing it, Derek finally leaps up and marches around the corner into Stiles’ cubicle and demands to know what keeps making that noise.
Stiles just snorts into his fist and turns the phone so Derek can see. It’s a picture of a laughing guy with moppish brown hair and a crooked jaw. He’s pointing at the camera and holding up a poster that says, “To me you are perfect.”
aw, i think you’re perfect too, you little teacup, Stiles texts back as Derek reads over his shoulder.
He clears his throat awkwardly. “That’s, uh, romantic. So is he your, um, your boyfriend?”
It’s a while before Stiles can stop laughing long enough to answer. “No,” he finally wheezes, “Scott and Allison are getting married next fall. I’m just the best man in this relationship. The Robin to his Batman.”
And Derek absolutely does not feel relieved at that. He doesn’t. Really.
Pretty soon, Stiles is broadcasting a lot of his and Scott’s texts to Derek at random points in the day. “Look, Derek, come look at this,” he’ll call over the cubicle wall, “Scott just met a guy at the vet clinic who looks exactly like Dumbledore!!” or, “Scott has just observed, very accurately by the way, that you only have three facial expressions, based on the candids I’ve sent him of you: ‘intensely Edward-Cullen-stalking you,’ ‘death glare,’ and ‘OMG, you’re so annoying, Stiles.’ I think I like the Edward Cullen one best. You could definitely be Edward Cullen.”
That one had made Derek flush to the tips of his ears, because he hadn’t thought he was that obvious, okay? And it wasn’t like it was intentional. It’s just that it’s hard not to notice Stiles walking by, or mentally track his movements from his cubicle to the break room to the elevator just by the sound of his voice as he talks to Allison, or maybe peek around the edge of his cubicle wall to watch Stiles’ hands flying animatedly as he delves into yet another scarf debate with Isaac in the hallway, or time it so that he’s heading out at the same time as Stiles and they can ride the elevator down together at the end of the day. Derek doesn’t think he can be blamed for any of these things. It’s not his fault that Stiles is endlessly distracting.
Sometimes, seeing Stiles’ fingers flying over the screen as he crafts a new text, Derek even gets distracted thinking about the fact that Stiles definitely tells Scott about him. It’s pretty easy to tell when Stiles is talking about him because as soon as he spots Derek coming over, he does a double-take and fumbles his phone into his pocket and tries to look casual, thrumming his long fingers on his thigh or spinning around in his chair to shuffle the nearest papers on his desk into random piles.
In these moments, Derek is always torn between rolling his eyes in fond amusement as he continues to his desk, or stopping to stare in a completely work-inappropriate way at how nicely the rolled-up sleeves of Stiles’ black Oxford draw the eye to the corded muscles and prominent veins of his forearms. Derek kind of chooses both reactions and nearly walks into the wall of his cubicle.
*
Stiles is friendly with everyone in the office, or at least, everyone who’s not Isaac or Finstock. On the one hand, this makes him a pretty approachable guy, and fairly popular despite his habit of making bad puns. On the other hand, Derek finds it extremely difficult to tell if Stiles really likes him or is just a pro at faking it. And even if he does like Derek, how much more does he like him than the other people he knows around the office?
Like Isaac, for example, who doesn’t even attempt to hide the fact that he thinks Stiles is an asshole. All the two of them seem to do is get into petty arguments, yet he still seems to know Stiles better than Derek does.
Like the time Stiles calls over the cubicle walls, “I bet that silk scarf brings all the ladies to the yard, eh, Isaac?”
Isaac casually shoots back, “Yeah, like you’d know anything about that.”
“Touché,” Stiles says, and then they go back to what they were doing like this is no big deal.
Derek, meanwhile, is left trying to figure out if Isaac means Stiles is gay (if so, hallelujah) or just that Stiles doesn’t get many dates with women. But how could that be the case? Derek can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t want to date Stiles. He should be everyone’s type.
Well, granted, his personality is not everyone’s type, as Isaac proves, but Derek can’t imagine anyone not seeing Stiles and at least wanting to make out with him for a little bit.
Anyway, the point is that even Isaac knows something—which is 100% more than Derek knows—about Stiles’ love life.
And that’s nothing compared to Allison and Stiles’ friendship. If Derek didn’t know Allison and Scott were happily in love, he’d probably think Allison and Stiles were in the midst of a secret office romance. He can’t help but envy the way she can whisper something in Stiles’ ear during a meeting and he’ll duck his head, hiding a laugh, or the way she can touch his shoulder or the back of his hand in passing, casual and familiar, and Stiles will shoot her a quick smile and go back to whatever he’s doing, not giving it a second thought.
Derek’s never touched Stiles. He’s not sure how to do it, at least not without it looking super obvious and intentional. Allison makes it look so easy, so natural. It’s not.
Derek almost tries it once.
Stiles is making coffee in the break room, earphones on, oblivious to the world. Derek comes up behind him. Hesitates with his hand hovering over Stiles’ shoulder blade. All he’d have to do, he thinks, is slide his palm over the ball of Stiles’ shoulder in brief greeting, and then let go and make his coffee like it’s no big deal. He doesn’t think Stiles would mind that. But then he can’t help but picture how awkward it would be if he messed up, if Stiles turned around and asked him just what he thought he was doing, and so he ends up just standing there like an idiot with his hand held out until Stiles leans forward, away from Derek, to reach for a couple packets of sugar from the bowl on the counter.
Derek backs away before Stiles can notice him.
Allison is standing in the doorway when he turns to leave, and from the way she raises her eyebrows at him, shooting him a knowing smile, he knows she saw. He blushes furiously and brushes past her, not meeting her eye.
*
By February, Laura has started dating a woman named Lydia whom she met at a Barnes & Noble. On the positive side, this means Laura’s out of the apartment a lot of evenings and has eased up on the blind dates for Derek, so he can finally come home to dead quiet and just relax. On the negative side, when Laura and Lydia aren’t together they’re constantly sending each other a barrage of Snapchats and texts and emails.
When Laura accidentally leaves her phone on the Subway, then, she declares it a crisis, especially because tomorrow is Valentine’s Day and Laura can’t be AWOL on Valentine’s Day. She’s almost in tears as she explains this to Derek.
“Just buy a new one tomorrow,” Derek advises, not looking up from the book he’s reading. He doesn’t understand getting so worked up over something like that. It’s just a phone. It’s not great news, sure, but Laura has more than enough money to buy an iPhone.
“But I have to work tomorrow! I won’t have time until tomorrow evening, and that’s a whole day without talking to her, Der, and it’s not just any day, it’s Valentine’s Day, and I won’t be able to see her in person because she’s on a business trip in California until Tuesday.”
“I’m sure Lydia will understand,” Derek says mildly. “Just shoot her an email tonight letting her know the situation, and go buy a new phone after work tomorrow. Simple.”
As far as he’s concerned, that’s the end of the matter.
Apparently Laura disagrees, because the morning after the Subway incident, she “borrows” Derek’s phone while he’s in the shower so that she can send Lydia a good morning text. Somehow, she ends up dropping his phone in the kitchen sink in the process.
He knows something’s up as soon as he comes out of the bathroom, toweling his hair, and sees that Laura’s made him blueberry pancakes for breakfast. Even more suspicious is the completely foreign, humble-good-sister expression she wears as she puts the plate down at his place at the kitchen table.
“What did you do,” he says, dread pooling in his stomach.
“Nothing that can’t be fixed,” Laura says quickly, biting her lip, then takes a deep breath and blurts, “IkilledyourphonebutitwasanaccidentandI’llbuyyouanewoneIpromise.”
Normally, Derek would go to the gym and run his Laura-inspired frustrations out on the treadmill. Today, though, he has to leave for work in twenty minutes.
He’s still fuming about it as he heads to his cubicle. He never invited Laura to live with him, he didn’t want a roommate, why does she have to live with him, why can’t she get her own damn apartment, he can’t stand the way she’s always touching his stuff and just assuming Derek won’t notice, and what gives her any right to interfere in his love life and why can’t she ever listen to him and why can’t she ever act like an adult? Now that he thinks about it, everything about her drives him crazy: her phone pinging with a new text from Lydia at 3 in the morning, her tendency to leave her clean laundry in a huge pile on the sofa for days instead of actually folding it and putting it away, the passive aggressive notes she leaves on the fridge, the fact that she hangs the new roll of toilet paper upside down every single time . . .
Derek stops short, all thoughts of Laura banished, because there, taped to the wall above his laptop, is a glittery pink heart the size of his head garishly declaring, “Edward Cullen is my Valentine.”
All the anger and the frustration just drains away as Derek looks at it. In its place, a kind of panic comes rushing in. The card’s from Stiles, of course. It has to be. Is this some kind of declaration? Does Stiles even realize—
But then Stiles pokes his head over the cubicle wall, and he’s grinning, and oh, it’s just a joke.
Derek pulls himself together long enough to scowl. “What is this garbage.”
“Glad you like it, babe,” Stiles laughs before catching sight of Finstock and ducking down into his cubicle.
Of course Stiles had to put the thing at eye level, so that Derek’s left staring straight at it while he waits for his laptop to boot up.
It’s hideous, and Derek can’t quite bring himself to take it down.
*
Stiles’ cubicle always looks like something exploded in it. Derek has never actually seen Stiles’ desk under all the papers and the snacks and the ever expanding collection of clutter—the full rainbow of post-it notes, the year-round Christmas tree lamp, the various highlighters and gel pens and Sharpies, the shark-shaped stapler, the Finding Nemo paperweight . . . The mess extends up the walls like some kind of creeping vine: fortune cookie fortunes, movie stubs, photos, calendars, memos, mini movie posters. The only organized patch of cubicle is the crowded overhead shelf, where Stiles proudly displays his math nerd clock (where you have to solve for every number, like i4 for 1) and his X-Men action figure collection.
Derek’s cubicle, by contrast, is Spartan, neat and no-nonsense (aside from the cactus).
This is apparently too much of a temptation for Stiles to resist. After Valentine’s Day, it’s like the floodgates have opened. First it’s themed pens—a syringe, a banana, a candy cane, Darth Vader. Then it’s a nose pencil sharpener. (A pencil can be inserted up either nostril, as Stiles happily demonstrates for him.) Then it’s a lava lamp (“because everyone needs a little color in their life, Derek, even you”), then an aromatherapy wall plug-in since Derek is apparently being a “grumpy butt,” then a cup to store spare change for the vending machines because Stiles has noticed Derek’s weakness for those little bags of Chex Mix.
When Derek finally gets the nerve to give Stiles something in return (a poster that says simply, “Come to the dork side, we have pi”—Derek’s a little embarrassed to admit how many hours he spent shopping for it on his computer), Stiles proudly puts it up in the place of honor on his overhead shelf, right beside his math nerd clock. Derek absolutely does not have warm, fluttery feelings of He liked my gift!! for weeks afterwards whenever he sees it, except he kind of does.
Eventually, Stiles starts loaning him books every Friday, leaving them on Derek’s desk when he’s not there. They’re paperbacks, mostly, with creased spines and dog-eared pages and lots of highlighted passages. Derek always returns them to Stiles’ desk on Monday after underlining his own favorite lines and occasionally writing little comments in the margins.
It’s the nicest and certainly the most interesting thing to happen to Derek in a long time.
But sometimes Stiles can be a bit of a prankster, too, like the time he thought it would be funny to temporarily disable Derek’s mouse with a Post-It Note, and it drives Derek crazy, makes him want to pin Stiles against the nearest wall until that playful smirk slides off his stupid face. But then Derek imagines Stiles’ perfect mouth parting, his eyes flickering down to Derek’s lips, his hips shifting against the wall, and nope, nope, nope, not going there. At all. Ever.
Or at least, not until he’s safely in the shower in his apartment, trying and failing to think of anything else.
*
The day Stiles wears The Shirt, Derek finally accepts that he’s well and truly fucked.
Most of Stiles’ shirts are baggy, and really, the only flattering thing in his wardrobe is his skinny jeans. Derek has gotten glimpses, hints that Stiles might be hiding a nice body under those clothes, but it’s never been enough, not nearly enough, to prepare him for the day Isaac finally convinces Stiles to wear something that fits.
Or, more accurately, something a size or two too small.
When Stiles comes in that morning, Derek is standing by the copier, collating some documents. He looks up, catches sight of Stiles stepping out of the elevator, and nearly staples his thumb to a spreadsheet.
The Shirt is, quite frankly, obscene—the way it hugs the gentle curve of Stiles’ biceps and outlines the surprising definition of his pectorals, the flatness of his stomach, the breadth of his shoulders tapering down to the slimness of his waist, and fuck, fuckety-fuck, it’s only 8:30 in the morning and Derek can’t handle this.
By ten a.m., he’s already almost gotten his tie sucked into the paper shredder.
By the time lunch rolls around, he’s got a small burn on his thumb from sloshing his steaming coffee when he was walking back from the break room and happened to see Stiles leaning back in his chair, The Shirt riding up just enough to reveal his happy trail.
By 5 o’clock, Derek’s been sitting at his desk half-hard for what feels like hours.
That morning, before the appearance of The Shirt, he’d been planning to stop by Lombardi’s after work and pick up some dinner, but now frustration and need are crawling under his skin and he doesn’t feel like facing anyone, not even long enough to order a pizza.
He heads straight home, stomping into the apartment and saying something curt to Laura when she asks what’s wrong, and locks himself in the bathroom to take a cold shower.
What’s wrong, he broods as he stands under the spray, is that Stiles can be an ass at times, he can be annoying, but he’s quirky and funny and intelligent, too, and surprisingly kind, always sensing somehow when Derek’s in a rut and trying his damnedest to make him feel better. What’s wrong is that Stiles is the closest thing to a friend Derek has, and Derek always feels like a perv for jerking off to the thought of him. Especially when their relationship is, on Stiles’ end at least, completely platonic. What’s wrong is that Derek can’t remember ever feeling this intensely about someone before, obsessing over the shape of Stiles’ mouth, the way he moves, the things he likes, the things he laughs at, the ways he might kiss. . . .
But Derek knows Stiles can’t possibly feel the same. He can dream up a thousand different happy endings with Stiles, but he knows that’s all they’ll ever be: daydreams.
Derek sighs and angrily soaps up his hair. His life sucks.
*
Four months after Derek first starts working in Account & Media Services, he gets yelled at by Finstock for the first time.
It’s not like Derek doesn’t deserve it. He thought he’d reported to the client that her ad campaign would cost an estimated $10,000, but he sealed the letter and sent it off Thursday morning without proofreading it, and turns out, he’d accidentally typed “$100,000” instead.
On Friday, Finstock storms over, waving a copy of the letter in the air and yelling about inaccurate reporting and blockhead employees and upset clients threatening to take their business elsewhere. Derek winces and sinks lower in his desk chair, imagining everyone in the office turning to look at them, to watch Derek screw up.
It takes almost ten minutes for Derek to satisfy Finstock with effusive apologies and the promise that he’ll call the client right away to explain the mistake.
Not exactly right away, though, because first Derek has to thunk his head against the edge of his desk a few times.
It's Stiles who interrupts him, coming over and pulling a Snickers out of his pocket. "Hey, it happens,” he says quietly, putting the candy bar down cautiously by Derek’s laptop. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. Your face is way too pretty for that.”
Derek reluctantly lifts his forehead from his desk.
“And I mean,” Stiles continues, “it’s not even half as bad as the time I accidentally called one of my clients who had a big nose ‘Cyrano’ instead of ‘Sam.’ ”
Derek bites his lip to hold back a grin.
Stiles grins back. “It was just a nickname I had for him in my head,” he explains. “I never thought I’d slip up and say it out loud. And just my luck, he got the reference right away. He didn’t tell my supervisor—thank god for small miracles—but he did request that his account be reassigned, and god, I just wanted to crawl in a hole and die, I was so embarrassed. So, anyway.” Stiles shrugs. “If it makes you feel any better, at least your mistake has an easy fix and doesn't involve you making an ass of yourself.”
“Yeah.” Derek looks down at his lap, fiddling with the wrapper of the Snickers bar to hide his smile. “It does make me feel a little better. Thanks.”
Stiles shrugs again. “Anytime. So, hey, I’m going to make a run by Subway for lunch. Want me to pick up anything for you? Help fortify you for calling this customer back about the typo?”
“Yeah, that’d be awesome. Surprise me?”
“You got it.”
By the time Stiles wanders back to his own desk, Derek’s bad mood is long gone.
*
Stiles often comes up to Derek’s desk to chat for a minute or ten, usually until Finstock yells at him, but it’s weird for him to make a beeline for Derek’s desk as soon as he comes in on Monday morning.
Derek’s just taking off his jacket to hang over the back of his chair when someone clears their throat behind him. He turns and sees Stiles standing there, looking unusually hesitant and frazzled, hair messy but not in its usual styled way, the beginnings of dark circles under his eyes.
“Are you okay? You look like shit,” Derek says, dropping his jacket on the desk and coming over.
Stiles ignores the question. He seems to steel himself for something, and Derek waits until finally Stiles nods to himself, looks Derek in the eye, and says, “Can we talk?”
Derek’s stomach lurches because when is that ever a good thing to hear? He swallows, takes a steadying breath, and says in what he thinks is a pretty reasonable tone, “Sure. I’m all ears.” Meanwhile, his mind is racing, replaying Friday afternoon. What had he done wrong? They’d gotten sandwiches, they’d eaten together in the break room, and Stiles had slipped a book into Derek’s briefcase at the end of the day, per their usual Friday tradition. Derek had said bye before heading home, and Stiles had said it back, spinning around in his chair to give Derek a little wave. Derek doesn’t think anything was off about it.
“No,” Stiles sighs now, grabbing Derek’s elbow and tugging, “I mean, in private.” He’s already moving them out into the hall. “Can we talk in private?”
“Uh, fine, that’s fine.” Derek’s a little distracted by the fact that Stiles is touching him, his long fingers slipping down to wrap around Derek’s forearm, then his wrist, heat seeping into Derek’s skin at the contact.
Stiles leads him around the corner to the conference room, which is deserted this time of day. Derek tries not to be too nervous about the fact that Stiles closes and locks the door behind them and pulls down the shades.
Derek looks around the room, trying to calm himself a little, telling himself this is probably nothing, probably just Stiles being overdramatic—and when he looks back, Stiles is right there, standing almost toe-to-toe, nose-to-nose with him.
Derek freezes, his eyes locking with Stiles’. He can see the individual flecks of gold in Stiles’ irises and the delicate curl of his eyelashes, sense the heat coming off his body. Stiles exhales softly, and Derek feels it against his lips. He shivers.
Stiles lifts his hand, seeking Derek’s, and with a monumental force of will, Derek breaks eye contact, angling his head enough to look down at their fingers intertwining, Stiles’ thumb brushing against the back of his hand. He feels Stiles shift on his feet and looks up, and just like that, Stiles’ breath catches and his mouth is pressing against Derek’s. Derek closes his eyes, electric, shocked, hyperaware of Stiles’ grip on his hand tightening, of their chests brushing, of the soft, tender slide of Stiles’ lips against his own, of the little trembles of Stiles’ body.
After a few seconds, Stiles steps back, hand sliding from Derek’s, and Derek blinks at him, dazed. “What was that for?” he asks hoarsely. His knees feel like jelly.
Stiles looks away, at some point over Derek’s shoulder. “You know. The letter.”
“The typo letter?” Derek asks, terribly confused. “The $100,000-should’ve-been-$10,000 letter?”
“No, the love letter, obviously. The one you asked Allison to give to me on Friday.” Stiles looks at him like Derek should know exactly what Stiles is talking about now.
Derek doesn’t.
He studies Stiles, trying to decide if he’s playing some kind of practical joke, if maybe he guessed how Derek feels and is being uncharacteristically or perhaps unintentionally cruel about rejecting him. But Stiles looks dead serious.
“The love letter,” Derek repeats, just to be sure.
“Yes.” Stiles nods, but he seems a bit uncertain now. There’s a blush creeping its way up his neck.
Derek frowns. “Honestly, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
For a minute, they just stare at each other blankly, until Stiles groans and turns away, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Dammit, Allison, I’m going to kill you,” he mutters, kicking the door for emphasis. “Bet you thought this would be funny. Ha. I’ve never been this mortified in my life, oh my god.”
Derek isn’t quite sure what to do, so he just stands there, hands hanging at his sides.
“I should’ve known it wasn’t really from you,” Stiles goes on, his voice muffled through his hands. “It said ‘Dear Stiles’ and you’d never say ‘Dear Stiles,’ you’d just write ‘Stiles,’ and shit, this probably counts as sexual harassment, I’m going to get fired, god, I'm so stupid, why would I ever think you'd want me of all people . . .”
Derek gets it, suddenly, and the feeling of lightness that rushes through him is nearly overwhelming. Stiles is in love with him.
Stiles is in love with him.
Derek doesn’t really think about it any further, just crowds Stiles against the door and pulls his hands from his face and kisses him. Stiles makes a startled little noise in the back of his throat, but then his brain catches up and he throws himself into it, fisting his hands in Derek's shirt and kissing back hungrily. They kiss and kiss, and Derek runs his fingers through Stiles' hair, mouths at his jaw, hears Stiles breathe out a "Fuck, yeah" as Derek grinds their hips together and drops one hand to tease at the waistband of Stiles' jeans. It's unreal, everything Derek never thought he could have.
But then Stiles is wriggling, pulling back, and Derek has a split second to think he went too far before Stiles says, "C'mon, you're taking a sick day and we're going back to my apartment. Right now."
"Yeah," Derek says, eyeing Stiles' mouth. "Okay."
Allison gives them a thumbs-up from her cubicle when they emerge from the conference room. Isaac just rolls his eyes and says, just loud enough for Derek to hear, "About time."
Stiles ignores them both in favor of tugging Derek towards the elevator. Derek has no complaints.