Work Text:
So okay, here’s the thing.
Derek? He is one hundred percent, perfectly fine.
Truly. He’s grown a lot in the past few years, done a lot of soul searching, all that daytime talk show stuff. He’s got himself a new house on the outskirts of the preserve with no break-ins so far, a new job at the sheriff's station. Derek even got himself a rescue dog: a three-year-old dachshund by the name of Blinky who’d been abandoned due to her recurring eye twitch.
What Derek means to say is that he has become a well adjusted adult, despite all of the terror and tumultuous events that shaped the entirety of his formative years. He files taxes and recycles. Hell, he even plays recreational baseball with his co-workers on a team - and they suck. It’s great. There is so much going on in Derek’s life right now that there isn’t time or reason to be anything but completely fine.
Derek will be the first one to admit that this level of relative ‘okayness’ took a lot of time and hard work on his behalf and he never, in his wildest dreams, thought he’d actually get to a point where he’d say that he’s somewhat proud of getting himself there. Somewhat proud, because he houses too many fractures to be perfectly put back together again - and for all of his fulfilling busyness there are still days of unshakeable, void nothingness that chain him to bed and silence. But overall, he’s alright.
As a matter of fact, one could say that Derek Hale, at this very moment, is rather content. Currently he’s sunken into his spot on his sofa with his feet perched on his coffee table, beer in hand. Blinky is nestled between his side and the armrest, her little face smushed into the cushions.
On his other side is Stiles in a similar position, slouched down and loosely cradling a beer in his hands, his thigh pressed against Derek’s as their socked feet intermittently knock against each other on the table, an episode of Scrubs playing on the TV before them.
It’s kinda their thing.
It probably would have surprised Derek’s twenty-three year old self that this is where Stiles and Derek would end up after a few years: side-by-side and enjoying each others company, free of fear and threat. In the beginning, in the thick of the worst of the lows, Derek could say with honesty that he thought that Stiles would play himself out like any comical horror movie character: goof around at the wrong moments and ultimately get himself killed.
But that didn’t happen, and then it kept not happening; not with Peter, not with the kanima, not with the Alpha Pack or Nogitsune or with any other threat that followed thereafter. In fact, these days it seemed like the biggest threat to Stiles life seemed to be his college finals, if the way that he’d slept for two days straight after they were over was any indication. That was only last week.
Anyway, what Derek means is that this, right here, is not the scenario his fragile younger brain would have cooked up - and, in hindsight Derek is utterly thankful for that.
Life has a way of being stranger than fiction and Derek doesn’t quite know what he did to deserve feeling comfortable and safe with Stiles head on his shoulder, the warm gust of his laugh tickling Derek’s collarbone every so often.
They’re on the sixth season of Scrubs, a favorite from both of their younger years and Derek knows Stiles has seen most of the episodes enough to quote them off by heart and so has Derek, but the experience seems new when Stiles snickers and oozes contentment by him, or when both of them try to hide the water in their eyes at one of the shows surprising, tender moments.
On screen, a heavily pregnant Jordan is consoling Carla in one of those heartfelt moments and Derek is almost touched by it, his heart strings sufficiently tugged. That is until Stiles snorts loudly near his ear and slaps Derek’s arm when Jordan threatens to eat someone.
“That’s you,” Stiles says, taking a swig of beer around his grinning lips.
“I am not Jordan,” Derek says, marginally offended. He punctuates this by taking a gulp of his own beer.
Stiles lifts his head from Derek’s shoulder and raises his eyebrows. “Right. When was the last time you gave a pep talk without an undertone of violence, hmm? Never.”
“You think my pep talks are touching,” Derek says, tilting his chin up a bit to scratch at the underside of his jaw. “You cried once.”
Blinky, who pried her face out of the couch corner in the disruption, wriggles out from her place between the armrest and climbs up to lay over Derek’s outstretched legs. Her tiny heart thuds against Derek’s thigh, quick and steady. Stiles picks up one of her soft ears and strokes at the short, brown fur as he answers.
“Nope, hate to break it to you, but I’d just gotten pepper in my eye.”
“Ugh, I’d just gotten pepper in my eye,” Derek mocks in a nasally voice, stroking his hand gently over Blinky’s back. “Sure, Jan.”
“Shut up,” Stiles laughs as the episode ends and returns to the main menu of the DVD disc. With a low groan Stiles points his toes forwards as he raises his arms up in a deep stretch, beer still in hand. The movement causes his shirt to rise up a few inches to expose the bare skin of Stiles stomach, pale and taut, a small mole just to the left of his bellybutton. Derek does his best to keep his glance furtive, quickly looking away when Stiles arms drop back down on the tail end of a yawn, heart beating a little faster.
So, here’s the thing: Derek is hot for Stiles.
There’s no other way to put it, really. Not with the way Stiles’ fingers sears Derek’s skin whenever they innocently touch, not with the way heat rises in Derek’s cheeks when he thinks of Stiles when he is alone, and definitely not with the way Derek’s insides both melt and ignite at the same time whenever Stiles looks at him just so.
Sometimes Derek thinks that the two of them might be building towards something. That maybe, Stiles feels something for him, too, with the way his fingertips or gaze sometimes linger on Derek, that maybe something will eventuate out of this thing between them.
All things considered, the timing is actually pretty good if Derek were to pluck up enough courage to ask Stiles out. Derek has his aforementioned stable, weirdly functional adult life and Stiles only has one year left of college before he plans to permanently re-settle in Beacon Hills. There is little by the way of supernatural disruption and, most importantly, they’re both single. Something holds Derek back though.
“Friends forever, we’re gonna be friends forever,” Stiles croons off key, voice cracking on the higher notes. “Hurry up, Derek, play the next one. It’s the musical episode.”
Great, now Derek was going to have that song stuck in his head for days. With a sigh Derek retrieves the remote for the player from under his butt and does as he’s told, giving Stiles a sidelong glance.
“Please don’t sing.”
“Why not?”
“You just really shouldn’t.”
“Or what, Derek?” Stiles challenges, shuffling impossibly closer and digging a thumb between Derek’s intercostals to make him squirm. “You gonna eat me?”
Derek takes advantage of his swift reflexes to grab the offending thumb and brings it up to his mouth where he has dropped his fangs, teasing the soft mound of flesh. Stiles tries to pull his limb back, smile taking over his face even as his heartbeat gets faster. He doesn’t smell of fear though.
Eventually Derek surrenders Stiles hand back to its owner and receives a retaliatory jab in the thigh. Derek considers pushing Stiles over, but Blinky ends up rolling her long body over to rest in the crevice between their thighs still pressed together, shoving her face into the back of the couch again. He doesn’t have the heart to disturb her, not when her little tail wags pendulously between them.
“Attention-seeker,” Stiles says to her affectionately, giving her butt a scratch before settling back to watch the episode as it begins playing.
Derek looks at them distractedly, heart expanding with so much quiet adoration that it softens in Derek’s chest in order not to burst. It’s only the fierce protectiveness that exists alongside it, unwavering and ironclad, that keeps his body from caving in from the intensity of it. Stiles doesn’t seem to notice Derek’s stare, mouthing along the words of the opening song, feet scuffling along to the rhythm of the beat on the coffee table, heart beating steady under the music in it’s own harmony. If he does notice, he doesn’t say anything or call him out on it, which Derek is grateful for.
The thing is, okay, that Derek has seen Stiles in love. He’s seen the ardor that threads itself into Stiles’ whole body and pulls him along, moving him like a willing marionette, how it crudely cups Stiles entire heart into its hands, always on offer for its intended recipient. It’s the kind of love that moves mountains and darkens skies, he’s seen it platonically in Stiles love for his father and in his devotion to Lydia. Derek wants more than anything for Stiles to feel that kind of love for him - the same kind of love that Derek feels. But even with this thing between them, this mutual attraction, that’s not what this is.
A buzzing comes from Stiles pocket and Derek watches from the corner of his eye as Stiles attention diverts when he pulls his phone out. Illuminated briefly on the screen is a text message, the sender reads in bold, black text: The Keeper of My Heart.
The reason that Stiles will never feel the same way that Derek does about him is because he already feels that way for Lydia.
The beauty, the banshee, who has been the keeper and sole occupier of Stiles love ever since Derek has known him. It doesn’t matter that Stiles and Lydia had a short-lived relationship a couple of years back before they parted ways for college. Distance can fuck up any relationship and time has strange ways of patching things back up like it did for Derek.
So while Stiles might be attracted to Derek, maybe even fond of him, Derek isn’t interested in rocking the boat. He’s happy just having Stiles closeby as a friend - his best friend. As long as they have this.
In Derek’s periphery, Stiles fingers move in quick, spider-like movements as he responds to the text and sliding it back into his pocket once he’s done, snorting almost immediately when his attention is back on screen. Two male best friends singing a heartfelt ballad to one another about their strictly platonic bromance. Derek smiles grimly.
It’s perfectly fine.
------
A garish yellow flyer is sticky-taped crookedly to Derek’s computer screen when he sits down at his desk at the station, the paper waving side-to-side when a nearby desk fan rotates towards it. Derek gently peels it off with one hand so it doesn’t leave marks on the hardware and clutches his full coffee cup with the other, curious about it’s content until he actually gets a good look at it and groans.
It’s a poster to commemorate the inaugural baseball match between the Beacon County Sheriff's Department and the Beacon County Fire Department, scheduled for this Sunday. It’s a charity fundraiser; all ticket sales are going towards upgrades at Beacon Hills Memorial, which sustained considerable damage a few months ago after a mostly harmless baby troll ran loose on the lower floors.
When the idea for the charity game was initially pitched Derek thought it was a neat idea and volunteered straight away. Such a good cause! A way to give back or whatever.
That was until Derek realized that his high school nemesis was on the opposing team: a ratty little asshole with a Snape-like visage called Joshua Jenkins. Sure, Derek was only at Beacon Hills High for two years and sure, they’ve both grown up and matured since then, but that guy pantsed Derek’s friend in front of the whole school once and called Laura a beached whale at least twice. Doesn’t matter that Laura tackled him afterwards, Derek still hasn’t forgotten.
Nope.
Not that it matters anyway. The department hasn’t got much of a chance at winning. Sure, also because it’s for charity; it’s not about who wins, or something. Except that it is.
“You getting pumped?” Parrish asks Derek as he walks by his desk, pointing to the flyer.
Derek shrugs as he types his password into the computer and brings up the system to begin typing up the report, sparing the flyer another glance.
“C’mon Hale, get excited,” says the officer who sits the desk over from him, Deputy Antonopoulos. He raises his fist high and swings his arms like he’s holding an invisible bat, narrowly missing hitting a pile of papers.
“I’m thrilled,” Derek deadpans whilst noisily tapping at his keyboard, typing a car accident report as fast as he can while his memory is still fresh. Three dead garden gnomes and one ruined lawn later, Derek did not have a good time having to hear why Old Mrs Markis thought she’d try driving without her glasses. Nor did Derek appreciate the way she squeezed his biceps and called him a handsome hero.
Parrish hums in amusement as he lingers by their desks, a sly smile on his face. “Hey Antonopoulos, what did you say yesterday? Something about what you were going to do at the game?”
“Oh yeah,” the officer says. “I’m going to hit so many homies, man. I’ve been practicing.”
Derek catches Parrish’s eye and his barely withheld grin. “Do you mean ‘homer’?”
“Whatever,” the deputy says breezily, tossing a pen up into the air and catching it. “Point is, we are going to kick their asses and win.”
“With all of our homies?” Derek asks, smirking into his coffee and taking a sip. Antonopoulos tells him to shut up and throws the pen at him mid-swallow.
The remainder of Derek’s morning passes in a similar fashion, with a flurry of never-ending paperwork, coffee and banter between his co-workers. Dry, slow days like these give the sometimes dangerous aspects of the job perfect balance, so Derek can’t really find it within himself to complain about the lethargic hands of the clock.
At around a quarter past noon the doors to the station swing open, bringing in Stiles and a hot gust of wind from outside. Weird, Derek thinks - the sheriff isn’t working today. Nonetheless, it makes Derek sit up in his seat a little taller and tug at his shirt to straighten it when Stiles starts to head towards his desk, a canvas carry bag clutched in his hand. Stiles waves to Parrish and a few other deputies before making eye contact with Derek and waving at him too.
“Your dad’s not working today,” Derek says as Stiles pulls out the chair opposite him and drops into the seat.
“I know,” Stiles replies, rolling his eyes. “I’m here to see you, Deputy Dumbass.”
Antonopoulos snorts somewhere off to the side.
Stiles digs around his canvas bag and retrieves a plastic carton, which he hands to Derek. It’s almost hot to the touch and the lid is clouded with steam.
“I brought you lunch,” Stiles says, digging out another carton for himself and passing Derek a plastic spork wrapped in a napkin.
Curious, Derek opens the carton to reveal what looks and smells like chicken tikka masala from the Indian restaurant downtown. “Uh, thanks,” Derek says, cheeks growing warm under his beard. It’s the heat of the food rising up, that’s all.
It must be true, because Stiles looks to be in a similar state, a light flush blossoming on his cheeks as he picks at his rice with interest. “I was out on Main Street anyway and I remembered you liked that place there, so…”
“How much do I owe you?”
Stiles waves his utensil at him, flicking a few rice grains onto Derek’s desk. “It’s on the house, don’t worry about it.”
“Wow. That’s surprisingly thoughtful of you,” Derek teases, enjoying the outrage written in the twist of Stiles lips and the widening of his brown eyes. It gets funnier when Stiles needs to chew what seems like a large mouthful of beef and rice before he can answer, holding up a finger to pause while his jaw works.
Stiles swallows and takes a deep breath. “First of all, fuck you, I am very thoughtful. Secondly, I’ll eat it if you don’t want it.”
“Nope,” Derek says quickly, dragging his carton closer and placing his hands on its sides protectively. “It’s mine.”
A few easy moments of silence fall in the space between them whilst they eat their respective meals, meanwhile Stiles retrieves a couple of cans of mostly-cold soda from his bag and passes one to Derek.
“What’s that?” Stiles asks, pointing to the yellow flyer still on Derek’s desk. His stomach does a weird, somersault thing.
“Nothing,” he says, “just some paperwork,” hurriedly shoving the flyer into his drawer with some other assorted papers, unsure of why he is trying to hide it. He can feel the weight of Stiles’ assessing stare on him which makes Derek’s ears go hot but thankfully, Stiles doesn’t push it further. Not that there is much point in trying to hide it, Derek realizes immediately with slight embarrassment, there are flyers everywhere and Stiles’ father is Derek’s boss and helped to orchestrate the damn thing.
Whatever.
“Uhuh,” Stiles says, finishing off the rest of his own can of soda and throwing it in the trash. “So, I have something to tell you.”
“Here it comes,” Derek mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. It’s hard to tell with Stiles sometimes; he hides both good and bad news behind the same front, recounts them both in the same tone and manner. Whatever he has to say doesn’t seem terribly dire though, if his countenance is anything to go by. Probably.
“So, the other day I got a call from Lydia,” Stiles begins, “and, um she --”
“Hale!”
Someone is yelling for Derek at the entrance to the station. When he looks over he takes notice of Parrish standing with a meek-looking woman who wont meet anyone's eyes.
“You available to take a report? I know you’re on your lunch break, but we’re a little snowed under...” Parrish asks, guiding the woman to Derek’s desk. Her hands are clasped tightly in front of her like she’s trying to make herself smaller and, upon closer inspection, Derek spots yellow bruising on her neck and hairline. Without being prompted Stiles jumps up from the spare seat and rounds the desk to stand by Derek.
Derek nods to Parrish and indicates to the woman to sit at the vacated chair.
“I, uh, better let you get back to work,” Stiles says, hand going up to rub the back of his neck.
“Yeah. Thanks for lunch,” Derek says, taking Stiles empty carton to place in the trash, their fingers brushing together.
“You still coming over later?”
“Yeah,” Derek confirms. “See you tonight.”
“Okay, uh, good,” Stiles manages, abruptly placing his hand on Derek’s forearm and lightly squeezing, scent speckled with nerves. “Um, yeah. Bye!”
With the swing of the station door Stiles is gone as quickly as he came. There’s little time to make sense of Stiles weirdness while he has someone to interview, so Derek swiftly schools his expression into something more professional, turning to smile gently at the woman waiting patiently.
“I’m Derek. What can I help you with today?”
---
On his way to the Stilinski residence later that night Derek thinks about his exchange with Stiles that day. It’s dumb, but he feels like he’s back in high school receiving a note from his crush in his locker. Derek reminds himself not to be stupid; all Stiles did was bring him lunch because he was walking past it anyway, it doesn’t mean anything. They’re friends.
Still though, the way Stiles touched him in a way that seemed more than casual had both of them undeniably flustered. It’s little moments like those that make Derek wonder if he’s wrong in not romantically pursuing Stiles, if maybe Stiles feels the way that Derek does about him. Wondering can be hazardous, though.
Outward cues are one thing, but Derek can’t scent love. Love isn’t a singular emotion: it’s an amalgamation of different chemosignals and neurotransmitters - and it’s personal to everyone. Sure there are usually some common base scents like arousal or happiness, but that’s not always the case. Love for a partner and love for a family member or friend is still love, just made of different components. Scent is unreliable. You can love someone and still carry a predominant scent of sadness or anger.
In any case, things with Stiles were fine as they were now. Who was to Derek to complicate it, especially when his life finally appeared to be stable for once?
Stiles opens the door with a cheesy smile when Derek arrives, clapping him heartily on the back as he crosses the threshold. They settle into the living room, Derek taking a seat of the couch while Stiles grabs a couple of beers from the fridge. It doesn’t take long for Derek to detect the lack of another heartbeat in the house.
“Your dad decide to work tonight?”
“Nah, he’s got a hot date with Melissa tonight,” Stiles replies, passing Derek a cold beer and taking the opposite side of the couch, raising his legs up to rest his feet against Derek’s thigh. He’s wearing mismatched socks, Derek notices, one blue, the other grey with a fraying hole at the heel.
“So, how was work? Arrest any bad guys?” Stiles asks, tapping his toes against Derek’s leg.
“I wish,” Derek grumbles, thinking about the woman he interviewed earlier and the timid way she held herself. “It was okay, I guess. What’d you get up to after you left?”
The question prompts a wide grin to appear on Stiles face as he leans his upper body back to settle against the armrest, arms coming up behind his head. He’s the very picture of self-satisfied and smug, the slow movement making him look like he’s on the cover of a magazine.
“Do I even want to know?” Derek rolls his eyes, digging his thumb into the sensitive arch of Stiles’ foot to make him squirm. “Please tell me you washed your hands after.”
“Maybe. Which time?”
“Each time, you unsanitary gremlin.”
“Do you wanna check?” Stiles asks, promptly leaning forward with his right hand outstretched to shove his fingers up Derek’s nose. Derek bats his hand away with a laugh, gripping Stiles wrist to prevent him from doing it again, not that it helps anyway. With a cheeky snicker Stiles leans in further and waves the fingers of his left hand around Derek’s nostrils until that wrist is seized too.
Derek releases his hold on Stiles wrists and delivers a sharp jab of his thumb to Stiles armpit which makes him laugh even harder as he tries to wriggle away. The way that Stiles joy bubbles out of his throat in short, breathy laughs with intermittent snorts made Derek’s chest feel hot and dense with unnamed feeling. It isn’t until he feels the corners of his lips falling moments later does Derek realize that he was smiling too.
“So I spoke to my dad this afternoon,” Stiles begins after he’s caught his breath, raising his eyebrows in the perfect picture of false innocence. Derek immediately gets a feeling of dread crawling up his spine like cold, cold fingertips.
“He told me something when I mentioned all these weird yellow flyers at the station. Something about some of the deputies in, oh, let’s say a charity baseball match? Then - get this - he said that you were playing! Cue my total surprise.”
“Christ,” Derek mutters, looking away when he feels heat crawling up his neck to his ears.
“Dude, why are you so embarrassed? You play like, every week.”
“I’m not,” Derek says defensively. “I just didn’t want you to know.”
Internally cursing himself, Derek winces at his delivery and the sudden, sharp sourness of Stiles scent.
“Okay uh, ouch…” Stiles says quietly, drawing his feet back and sitting up, leaning over to crack open his beer.
“Not like that. It’s just… we suck?”
“So? I’d still come watch. Cheer you on or some shit. Dude, I don’t care if you lose; I’m going to tease you regardless.”
Derek smiles down at his hands, grabbing and uncapping his own bottle of beer for something to do with them. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Stiles says, shifting closer to Derek to bump shoulders. “When is it?”
Fingers tingling, Derek replies, “Next Sunday. It starts at noon.”
The expression that instantly shutters over Stiles’ face is sincerely apologetic, mouth turning down in a regretful frown. “Shit,” he says vehemently, “I can’t make it.”
Derek rushes to assure him.
“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”
“No, no no,” Stiles says, covering Derek’s hand with his. His stomach does a weird upside-down thing. “If it were literally any other week I would, but for once I actually have plans.”
“Hey, it’s okay. I wasn’t going to invite you anyway, you’ll make me look bad,” Derek says, receiving a middle finger in return. “What’s your big plans?”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you today,” Stiles begins. “Lydia asked me to be her date to her Fellowship awards luncheon.”
Derek feels like a bucket of ice water has been tipped over him. He instinctively moves his hand away from Stiles’ to cradle it against his lap, ignoring Stiles look of confusion.
“Oh,” is all Derek says, realization dawning on him like claws slowly flaying off his skin. Stiles is going on a date with Lydia. Of course. It was only going to be a matter of time before Lydia realized what she was missing, Derek knew this. That’s….really great. That’s how it should be, right? They’re high school sweethearts. Derek knew this. He knew it with so much conviction that he didn't dare make a move on Stiles because Derek knew he’d only be in the way of Stiles being with the person he truly loves
So why does Derek feel like his chest is caving in?
“That’s great,” Derek manages when he feels he’s been silent for a moment or so too long. He thinks Stiles might have said something whilst his ears were ringing but he didn’t catch it.
“That’s really great,” he repeats.
“...Yeah…” Stiles says slowly, furrowing his eyebrows, looking at Derek strangely. “She’s like, super into it. That’s why I was on Main today, I was getting fitted for a suit.”
A weird, crooked expression comes across Derek’s face when he tries to hide a grimace. To be honest, he doesn’t really want to know how much Lydia is into Stiles. He knows that’s kinda selfish of him, but he’s going to need some time and space before he can say without lying that he’s happier for them more than he is hurt for himself. Undoubtedly Derek will adapt though, he’s practically a professional at that by now. A certified adaptor - adaptee? - quality tested to roll with the punches. Sometimes literally. It certainly feel like he's been punched - right in the solar plexus, it kind of hurts.
The hand that Derek snatched away from Stiles comes up to rub at his chest to try and soothe the ache blooming there. He rubs, but it doesn’t help, and the more he sits close enough to Stiles that he can smell him, hear the blood pumping around a heart Derek's beginning to truly understand that will never belong to him, the more the ache spreads.
“I have to go,” Derek says suddenly, standing up and setting his unfinished beer on the cluttered coffee table.
Stiles mouth hangs open in surprise. “But you just got here,” he says, sounding a little perplexed and standing up to follow Derek. “What’s wrong?”
“I forgot. I have to um, feed my dog,” Derek lies, hurrying for the door and avoiding Stiles bewildered gaze. “I didn’t feed her this morning.”
“Uhh, okay… ? I can just follow you to your place, then.”
“No!” Derek says, a little too quickly and loudly if the odious smell of hurt coming from Stiles was any indication. “She’s just being weird around others right now, you know how she is.”
“Sure,” Stiles mumbles, leaning against the doorframe as Derek swiftly moves onto the porch and putting enough distance between them as possible.
Derek's throat closes up with all the things he doesn’t know what to say, unable to feel his feet as he moves to his car, unwilling to look Stiles in the eye even as he starts the engine and reverses out from the driveway.
God, Derek is such a fucking idiot. Gripping the wheel tightly he scolds himself, curses at his own stupidity and incredibly typical lack of insight. Why does he always have to ruin everything? It’s not like Derek hadn’t always known that Stiles only had the heart for Lydia, that he was never going to love Derek more than a friend. Derek had told himself this a thousand times. Yet it seems that even though he’d convinced his brain of it, he’d somehow kept a small, almost imperceptible hope hidden deep in his heart; an ember of hope that maybe things would be different in another time.
It was the hope Derek hadn’t even known was there that violently split apart, making his chest throb with the fracture. He ignores it as best as he can on his way home, even as the heartache expands upwards and wraps itself around the lump in his throat. He’s so stupid.
When he gets home he half-heartedly greets Blinky, makes sure she has enough food and water and then heads straight for bed, numbly undressing himself and falling against the pillows. Distantly, he hears his phone vibrate from the pocket of his pants on the floor but he ignores it. He feels even worse when he thinks of how Stiles had seemed hurt when Derek just up and left, all because Derek can’t control his stupid, inconvenient feelings.
More than anything Derek doesn’t want to stand in the way of Stiles being happy, even if it means his own heart isn't.
It takes a long time for him to fall into an uneasy slumber.
---
The rest of the week follows in a similar blur of ignored messages and missed phone calls, working the day shift and walking his dog. At first, Derek was afraid that Stiles would come to the station and interrogate him before he had a chance to stitch himself back up, but a new case of two missing kids had him busy in the field.
It’s Sunday morning now and Derek supposes that Stiles has taken the hint because all of his attempts at contacting Derek stopped last night. It’s not fair cutting him off like that, Derek knows, but he just can’t face him right now. It’s too awkward, and if he’s honest, still too painful.
If only Laura could see him now, pathetically starfished on his living room floor, staring up at the ceiling. In his head he can imagine scenes of how happy Stiles is without him, how Lydia will make him laugh and how fucking perfect they’ll look together.
Lydia is nothing like Derek. She’s the same age as Stiles for one thing, and as incredibly beautiful as she is smart - a genius, even. A prodigy. Even after all she’s been through, she’s still so outwardly put together, she's been strong enough to achieve her dreams despite her grief and trauma.
Derek’s older, more broken, more prone to anger and melancholy. He's been through six therapists. Yeah, okay, he’s relatively smart as well - but he’s never going to win a Fields Medal or be recognized for changing the academic landscape in his chosen field. He never chose a field.
And while he knows he’s somewhat attractive now, he did see a couple of grey hairs sprout in his beard the other week - so he doesn’t even have that going for him for much longer. He’s going to be old and alone in the town where his family died, watching Stiles love someone else, playing on a baseball team that sucks.
Derek sighs.
The sound of the doggy-door flipping open and closed precedes the clacking of nails on the floor of the back door, all the way to the living room. Blinky, as if sensing her owners distress, pads over to Derek’s head and lays her furry face over Derek’s eyes, his nose digging into the underside of her chin. Blindly, Derek reaches a hand up to smooth over her ears gratefully.
Maybe he should get another dog.
All their nights together, watching TV shows and movies, playing games or reading books, or just talking all night, had been Derek’s erroneous way of keeping his feelings for Stiles at arm's length. Instead, it had just confused them up. Those were the nights that Derek had wanted him and Stiles to have before their mornings together. But Stiles wanted that with somebody else.
Someone else was going to capture Stiles’ beautiful lips with their own, make him happy, make him feel safe. Derek had to be okay with that.
His pity party is abruptly suspended when his phone alarm goes off, a reminder he set for himself to give enough time to peel his sorry ass off the floor and shower before the charity game. Gently, Derek prises Blinky off his face and onto the floor, standing up and stretching, bones cracking with the movement.
Alright, Derek thinks, time to snap out of it, if just for a few hours. They’re going to play a great game, that kid from high school is going to get their ass kicked, and they’re going to raise money for the hospital - a worthy, noble cause. What could go wrong?
----
They lose spectacularly.
There were no homers or homies of any sort from any of the deputies and Antonopoulos hit himself in the back of his head with his own bat, giving himself a concussion. Joshua Jenkins sneery, leery smug face echoes in Derek’s mind with every point Team Firemen got. The final score was 9-1.
And it began raining halfway through. Torrentially.
By the time Derek drags his soaked, muddy ass home he’s ruined the interior of his car and even Blinky won’t greet him for his foul stench and even fouler mood. Even his it’s for a good cause mantra is doing very little to appease him.
It’s not all bad, though. The indulgent long, hot shower he takes goes a long way to loosen his muscles and the sharp tension around his clavicle. When Derek dries and dresses, sweats and a ratty tank top, he feels raw still, hollowed out, but it’s softer. It’s still raining outside, hard and heavy, covering scents with it’s fall as much as it’s pitter-patter conceals a great deal of noise that Derek would normally pick up on. It’s nice, despite everything. Kinda soothing.
It’s just as Derek is settling onto his couch with a mug of chamomile tea that there’s a sudden, loud knocking on door.
Off like a rocket, Blinky runs to the door and jumps up with her long body, tail wagging frantically as she scratches at the wood. She yips, running back to Derek and then running back to the door. Derek has a sinking feeling of just who might be behind it.
Wearily, he unlocks it and turns the handle, his suspicions confirmed when a saturated Stiles is revealed, hair plastered to his head and fat water droplets dripping from his nose and chin. Derek stares. He’s visibly shivering.
“You gonna let me in, asshole?”
For a second, Derek contemplates closing the door on him, if only to give himself one extra minute to not have to deal with this, but he steps aside and gestures for Stiles to come in. And come inside he does, stomping past Derek with sodden shoes that squelch against the carpet with every step, droplets flying from his clothes everywhere.
“I’ll just uh, get you a towel,” Derek says, pitifully grateful for the excuse to get away for a moment to control the wild pounding of his heart. You’d think after a week of telling himself he’s not ever going to be yours and he doesn’t want you would help with that, but apparently not.
When he comes back to the living room Stiles has lost the tie and navy blazer, discarded somewhere off to the side, but he’s trembling where he stands. Derek hurries over with the largest fluffy towel he owns, deeply wanting to dry Stiles himself and wrap him up in his arms to get him warm again. But that’s not Derek’s place, so from a couple of feet away he awkwardly passes it over to Stiles who accepts it with a murmured thanks. There’s a minute or so of him patting down his hair, his face before wrapping it around his shoulders like a blanket. It’s going to smell like him after he leaves.
“So,” Stiles starts with an expectant tone, “you gonna explain why you’ve been ignoring me the past week?”
“I haven’t,” Derek starts defensively, but swiftly quietens at the sharp glare Stiles sends him. “I’ve just been busy.”
“So busy you can’t respond to a text? Return a call? No? What about working up the courage to admit that you’ve been avoiding me, huh? Did you get enough time for that?”
“No,” Derek admits quietly, sinking down onto the couch and gesturing for Stiles to do the same. He doesn’t want to do this standing, it’s a lot easier for it to evolve into a shouting match that way, in his experience.
“Then what’s your deal? Lydia said she tried to speak you yesterday but you crossed the street to avoid her too.”
Crap, Derek thinks. He’s pissed them both off. Regret sprouts up when he realizes that he’s probably ruined his friendship with his actions in the last week, at least with Stiles. All the excuses that come up in his head sound terrible and paper-thin, he distinctly remembers locking eyes with Lydia before turning and literally running away like a coward. But what was he supposed to say to her? She might not be psychic but she has incredibly good instincts. She’d know in a hot second that any congratulations Derek might have bestowed weren’t entirely sincere.
Derek clears his throat, hands itching to reach out to grab Stiles hands. He stops himself, desperate to salvage what he can between them. “I just want to start off by saying that I’m happy for you. You two are going to be great together.”
For a lengthy moment after he speaks there is nothing but dead silence. Even the rain stopped so Derek could fully hear Stiles heart trip.
“...uhh, what?” Stiles says, voice strangled. “Run that by me again?”
Derek flushes, afraid that he somehow misstepped. “You and Lydia. You’re perfect for each other and I’m really --”
“Happy for me, yeah I got it,” Stiles interrupts, brow furrowing in thought. “Huh. Ohh I see.”
“What?” Derek asks, a little thrown. “I am.”
Stiles scoffs. “I can tell when you’re lying, Derek Hale. I don’t need to hear your heartbeat for that.”
“I’m not --”
“You are, ‘cause you’re shit at it. Derek, Lydia and I are are not dating. Okay? Not now and hopefully not ever.”
Wait, what?
“But you said --”
“I went to the luncheon as her date, yeah,” Stiles affirms, shuffling a few inches closer to Derek, towel slipping off his shoulders, “but I was only invited as her date to make her colleague jealous."
"What."
"Yeah, dude. Lydia’s been crushing on him for months and she asked for my help. Also, free food.”
Oh. Mortification unfurls like a rash over Derek’s body and he turns his gaze at the black TV screen, staring into an abyss that he hopes to throw himself into. Thankfully, Stiles gives him a moment to process this information, sliding all the new pieces of information together in his brain.
“Sorry,” Derek says finally, “I know how much you love her, I just assumed you were back together. She shouldn’t have asked - wait, what do you mean ‘hopefully not ever’?"
Stiles shrugs, genuinely appearing undisturbed. “I just don’t love her like that anymore. Like a best friend, yeah, like how I love Scott, but -”
The pieces don't all seem to match up. “She’s listed in your phone as the keeper of your heart,” Derek argues in an effort to squash errant hope.
“Um yeah, because if I take a step wrong in life she will literally rip my heart out, cut it up into tiny pieces, marinate it overnight and then feed it to her dog. It’s...strangely motivating.”
“You’re so fucking weird.”
“I know. So you thought me and her were - that’s why you were avoiding me?”
Derek nods wordlessly as his worldview slowly re-arranges itself, like an inverted picture again becoming full color. Shifting to a new paradigm always feels like a gear changing roughly and this is no differnt. “I -” Derek clears his throat, “I didn’t want how I felt about you getting in the way of what you two have. Or what I thought you had.”
“Okay,” Stiles breathes, shifting closer again so their thighs are flushed close together. “So, I really hope I’m not reading this wrong, but dude, you have to know I’m fucking crazy about you.”
Derek’s heart skips a beat. He looks up from his hands to look at Stiles who is staring at him determinedly, despite the pink dusting his cheeks and neck and the almost tangible waves of embarrassment wafting off of him.
“Yeah?”
“I didn’t know, I mean, I’d thought - I’d hoped - you felt something for me too, ‘cause, y’know. We have this thing, you and me. Then I think sometimes it’s just wishful thinking, y’know? I don’t know.”
Derek reaches out to take Stiles hand, gliding his thumb over the knuckles of the back of it. “I didn’t want to hope,” he admits. “I could have taken just being friends if it meant I could have you close. I didn’t want to ruin that, if that’s all it was.”
“What if I want this?” Stiles asks softly, reaching up with his other hand to cup Derek’s jaw with a feather light touch
“Well... what’s ‘this’?”
“Dates. Kisses. Waking up with you in the morning. Or just holding hands, I don’t know.”
“I think that could be considered suitable,” Derek whispers between them, his insides shivering despite the warmth shared between them. Stiles thumb strokes the bristles of his beard as it moves back and forth, the skin of his palm warm and solid.
Stiles smirks. “Yeah? You wanna kiss me then, big guy? My arm's getting kinda sore here while I hold you tenderly.”
“Baby,” Derek mutters, closing the gap between them and pressing his lips to Stiles in a slow kiss.
“Oh Derek, pet names already?” Stiles laughs a little against Derek’s mouth, tilting his head ever so slightly and pressing back against Derek to deepen the kiss. Large, warm hands trail down Derek’s face to rest lightly on his shoulders, delicately tracing the curve of his collarbone. It makes his whole body tingle, gives Derek the encouragement to wrap an arm around Stiles waist and presses him closer, the leftover chill from Stiles body seeping through his shirt.
“No,” Derek says, letting go of Stiles hand to cradle his cold cheek and kissing him again. “I mean you’re a big, whiny baby.”
“Ohh, yeah, that dirty talk,” Stiles moans lasciviously, laughter dotting their kisses. “Give it to me.”
Derek wants to push Stiles down on the couch and cover him with his body at the same time he wants to feel Stiles weight over his. He doesn’t want to overwhelm either of them and so settles for squeezing his arms around Stiles waist and breaking off their kiss to nuzzle at Stiles cheek, strangely comforted by the way Stiles breath feels against his skin, warm and damp. All the while Stiles heartbeat skyrockets, a drum that beats as loudly as Stiles talks, all definitive and unwavering.
Arms circle around Derek's own waist snugly in return and a sweet, soft peck is placed on the corner of Derek’s lips. Afraid to smile in case this this is all a dream, Derek busies his mouth with kissing a trail across the soft skin of Stiles cheek, down to the junction of his jaw and neck and then back up to Stiles full, wet lips. It's a heady combination of salt and nerves and relief.
They make out like this for a while, tentatively exploring the new ways they’re allowed to touch each other, noses sliding together, featherlight fingertips on throat columns, short and successive kisses that steal the breath out of Derek. Clothes stay on and hands stay above the belt, but it's the most intimate that Derek has felt in a long time.
They break away when Blinky starts pawing at their legs, whining at not being able to get up on the couch herself.
“Was that suitable?” Stiles asks, disentangling himself to pick her up and cradle her against his chest. She snuffles loudly right in Stiles face.
“Yeah,” Derek says, reaching a hand out to scratch her behind her ear. “We should um, do that everyday though. Just to be sure.”
Stiles nods, all seriousness bar the minute quirk of his kiss-swollen lips. “Yeah. Every damn day.”
Derek smiles.