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Beacon Hills just keeps getting farther and farther behind them, and Derek has to admit there's a weird sort of contentment as they drive. He closes his eyes, the first hints of sunrise going dark behind his eyelids, and just listens: the sound of the road under the Jeep, the engine chugging along, Stiles's fingers tapping along to an unheard song against the wheel, Stiles's heartbeat, strong and steady. There's no hint of that too-fast pace from earlier, no scent of anxiety or frantic energy or even confusion and frustration. It's pleasant and soothing, and Derek's loose, relaxed in a way he doesn't experience often.
He's just starting to wonder when they're going to turn around and go back, when Stiles will make that call, when Stiles speaks:
"If you could just let go completely, do something dumb or wild, without consequences, what would it be?"
Derek doesn't open his eyes. He's done a lot of dumb things in his life—some stupid and trivial, some a hell of a lot more life-altering. But most of those weren't things he recognized as reckless until much later, if at all. The concept of intentionally choosing to do something free of consequences, no matter how ludicrous or stupid it was, is foreign. That's the kind of choice afforded to college kids, or maybe the majority of normal human teenagers, who aren't supposed to have to keep that sort of thing in check, don't have the responsibility of taming the part of themselves that can turn savage or dangerous, if not held in control. "I have no idea."
Stiles makes an annoyed sound, something like a scoff, and Derek feels the Jeep pull off to the right, slowing as it does. He has a moment of thinking that Stiles can't seriously stop and tell Derek to get out because he doesn't have an answer for a stupid hypothetical question, but then Derek smells gasoline and motor oil and he realizes they're just stopping for gas. Given that they've been driving for a few hours, and the Jeep is not the most economical in terms of fuel consumption, Derek's surprised they haven't had to do this already.
"You coming in?" Stiles asks. Derek hears him undo his seatbelt and fling it off and tries not to grin as Stiles nearly falls out of the driver's side. Even with his eyes closed, he can practically see the antsy dance Stiles is probably doing. Whether it's because he's been sitting for so long or just really has to take a leak, Stiles seems eager to get out of the vehicle.
"No, I'm good," Derek says, and he barely has the words out before Stiles's door slams shut and Derek can hear footsteps scurrying across the pavement. He opens his eyes and watches Stiles through the glass doors and windows of the gas station, seeing the way he darts to the back corner with the bright blue sign that points to the restrooms, and laughs softly to himself. There's that question answered.
By the time Stiles emerges from the building, Derek has already gotten out and filled the tank, settling himself back into the same position he was in when they'd pulled in. Stiles climbs in and Derek knows he's being stared at in a very pointed way. "Yes?"
"You didn't have to do that." When Derek doesn't answer, other than to make a slight face, Stiles huffs. "I went to prepay after I peed, and the guy said we'd already filled up."
Derek shrugs, finally opening his eyes to see Stiles indeed giving him the look Derek had envisioned. "I used my credit card. It's quicker and easier." Seriously, who prepaid in cash these days, unless it was one of those little mom and pop stations that didn't offer a pay-at-the-pump option? "Besides, the drive was my idea. I can pay for a tank of gas in exchange for tagging along."
Stiles looks primed to argue, which is a thing he often does for its own sake, Derek long ago realized, but then he sighs. "Well, thanks. Here." He brandishes a small white plastic bag at Derek and holds it out until Derek takes it. "Thought you could maybe use a snack."
Derek takes the bag and peers in, unable to keep his eyes from going wide when he sees that, in addition to a bottle of soda, there are three candy bars in there. While that's not exactly shocking, it's the particular items selected that make him feel like someone's squeezing his chest a little. There's a Whatchamacallit, which Derek admits he used to beg for as a kid, just because of the name. There's also a KitKat, which gives him a little pang of nostalgia, because it's what he used to get during car trips with the family when he was little—Laura always ended up eating at least one of the sections, and he used to nibble exaggeratedly on one for Cora, to make her laugh. And, at the bottom of the bag, sits a Caramello, which is his top guilty pleasure, when it comes to sugary things.
The only way Stiles could have nailed his top choices in candy bars any better would have been to include a Krackel, but Derek knows Hershey hasn't even made them in years, outside of the fun-size ones in assortments you find around Halloween. He's actually been in arguments with people (mostly Laura, no big surprise) who've insisted they're inferior to Nestle Crunch Bars.
Derek just stops himself from saying "I could kiss you," to Stiles, who's cracking open a bottle of Mountain Dew, and instead clears his throat and says "thank you," in a voice that sounds a little thick. It's stupid. This is candy, for fuck's sake. Nothing to have an emotional response like this over.
Stiles looks at him and gives a crooked little grin, like he's glad to have picked out something Derek will actually eat. "You're welcome. But, you know, one of those was a selfish choice. The KitKat was because I thought you'd look both ridiculous and adorable eating one of those, with your bunny teeth. Also, because I'm totally taking one of those bars, when you open that thing up." He's still grinning when he starts up the car, and totally misses the look on Derek's face, a combination of awe and thanks and something else he can't entirely name, but that goes along with the small ache in his chest that Stiles has been responsible for an increasing number of times in recent months.
Stiles reaches up to reset the trip counter, then fiddles with the crank to roll down his window. Derek doesn't miss the small hiss when Stiles moves his wrist a particular way—it's the third time he's made that noise since they've started driving, an apparent involuntary reaction to pain, and Derek remembers Stiles saying something about bruises and pain back in the forest. Thinking about it, he had grabbed Stiles's arm a little hard, trying to get that poker out of his hands and to Scott, who had a better angle for that sort of attack, and it's not like Stiles has the ability to heal like some of the rest of them do.
Without saying anything, Derek wraps his hand lightly around Stiles's wrist once he puts his hand on the gear shift, getting ready to pull out of their spot. He pulls the pain out easily, quickly, feeling the way the muscles in Stiles's arm go tense before relaxing drastically. He pulls his hand away when he's done, only then looking directly at Stiles, who's giving him a wide-eyed, surprised look. "Sorry," Derek mutters, feeling distinctly embarrassed. He hadn't thought about how weird that might be, acting more on the instinct to help, to make Stiles feel better. It's something he can do, a handy skill, and sometimes he forgets that sort of thing might be invasive or weird to humans. "I just thought, since that was my fault, I should.... Never mind."
Stiles is still gaping at him, but he snaps out of it after a couple of seconds. "No, dude, you're fine. Really. I just...didn't expect that. But thanks. I mean, it wasn't anything major, you know, but I'm not going to lie and say that's not better." He flexes his wrist a few times, rotating it around. "A hell of a lot better, actually." He gives Derek a look he can't read. "Seriously, thank you."
"Any time," Derek says, and he means it. God help him, he means it. Taking away such a small amount of pain is absolutely no consequence to him, physically, but even if it were something larger, more important, he'd still do it. Because this is Stiles. Stiles, who's been there when others have not. Stiles, who was going to, when it came down to it, cut Derek's arm off to save his life, despite barely knowing him at all and being squeamish around blood, to top it off. Stiles, who had kept him from drowning, had fucking dove back under the water for him after trying to get to his phone to get help. Stiles, who had been the only one to approach him after the other alphas had used him to kill Boyd, who had stepped forward and put his hand on Derek's shoulder in a gesture of comfort and support that had spoken more than any words possibly could have in that moment.
The list goes on, example after example, and it honestly terrifies Derek a little if he thinks about it too much. It hurts, makes him ache in a way that's a little like when he thinks of growing up with his family, hanging out with Laura back in New York, thinks about what it might have been like to have his mother around, be able to talk to her about important things right after Laura had died and he'd felt more alone than he ever had before.
"So you never did give me an answer," Stiles says after a few moments, easing the Jeep back onto the road.
"An answer to what?"
"What you would do if you could do anything absolutely, incredibly stupid, without having to worry about the consequences."
"So?"
"I just want to hear your answer," Stiles says, shrugging. "I'm curious. So sue me."
Derek bites at his lower lip. He can't give the answer that's just come to mind, a result of him dwelling on things for the last minute or two: that he'd just fucking act on the impulse that itches just under his skin some days, to lean forward a little more into Stiles's space when they're close, press their mouths together, and kiss him, just to see if he's crazy and has been imagining that Stiles is attracted to him. He's always been so absolutely sure that it would be crossing a very heavy line, something they couldn't come back from, some sort of game-changing action. And he doesn't want to risk what they've built over the last two years, a friendship that's weirdly tight, has them bound close, even if it lacks a lot of the hallmarks of other, supposedly normal, casual friendships. It's Stiles he knows he can go to if he needs help, needs someone to challenge him, needs someone to call him on his bullshit when even he recognizes his head's up his ass about something. And he really can't lose that.
"Come on. Whatever it is. Just answer. I swear, I won't judge."
"I don't know," Derek says, huffing. What's a typical irresponsible thing that people do? What sounds like the stupidest thing he could do, some life decision that's all-around acknowledged as a bad idea? "I guess go to Vegas, get drunk, get married." It's crazy, but that's sort of the point of the question, isn't it? It doesn't mean a lot to him personally, and his voice has just the slightest tinge of sarcasm to it.
Stiles is silent for a moment, then nods, looks over his shoulder at his blind spot—even though they're the only vehicle on the road right now, early enough that the sun's still rising and painting the landscape pink and orange—and turns the Jeep around. "All right."
"Wait, what are you doing?"
"What you said. We're going to Vegas. I don't know how we're going to get you drunk, but we can at least get you married. I mean, look at you. You'll probably have someone agreeing in record time. And it's not like it has to stick. There's always annulment."
This time, it's Derek's turn to gape. "You're serious."
"I am."
There's not a hint of lie to the statement. Whatever his reasons are, Stiles is serious. "I'm not getting married to some stranger. In case you've managed to forget, things tend to go badly when I rush into things like relationships with people I don't know well. I don't care if it's only for an hour—I'm not marrying someone I don't know and trust."
Stiles huffs loudly. "Fine. Then marry me."
"I—"
"What? Don't you trust me?"
It's not something Derek even has to sit and think about for a while. He knows the answer. "Of course I do."
"Then marry me. You know I don't have some dark, ulterior motive. I'm not going to turn around and go psychotic on you. Let's just go, do something incredibly stupid and impulsive, just to do it. Live a little, you know? We can get married, have some cake, and go right to one of the probably thousands of places in Vegas that do annulments and divorces. Hell, we might even find some little quickie wedding chapels that has someone like that next door, or even on staff, because it's fucking Las Vegas. Come on, just once, do something dumb without the consequences coming back to bite you in the ass."
Derek wants to argue, wants to tell Stiles he's clearly insane, that they can't possibly do this, but something deep down in him wants to just say 'fuck it' and do it anyway. It's got to be the stupidest idea ever, and yet it has appeal. It's totally out of character, something that would never even remotely sound like a possibility back in Beacon Hills, but he can't immediately come up with an argument Stiles won't be able to counter. And there is something inside of him that really, really just wants to do something that's the opposite of all the serious, life-and-death stuff they deal with so often back at home.
"All right."
"Yeah?" Stiles looks at him in surprise, but it's a surprise that's tinged around the edges with humor and happiness.
"Yeah. All right. Let's do this. Let's go to Vegas and get married." Maybe he'll regret this a little later. Or maybe, just maybe, it'll be a day he can look back on, where they did things without giving a fuck about anything important, and he and Stiles will have some shared, secret joke, an experience or adventure where neither of them were in danger of severe bodily injury or death.
Stiles grins at him, wide and warm, and Derek grins back, unable to help himself. He digs into the bag of snacks, opens the KitKat, and hands a piece over to Stiles, who grins even wider.
Yeah. This could be okay.