Archive of Our Own

"Tragedy!" Stiles gripped his hair in both fists.

Derek straddled the windowsill, frozen halfway into the bedroom. The werewolf had been on his way in but seemed to be considering changing his mind.

Stiles was in the midst of a minor meltdown of epic proportions. That was not contradictory in the slightest. In his book, a major catastrophe involved at least one mentally unstable werewolf and a distinct lack of baseball bats, mountain ash, or chains. This ranked somewhere between the untimely cancellation of a favorite show and the power going out for a week. It was big news. Bad news. Awful, terrible news, and why had no one told him earlier?

"Regretsy exists no more!" He shook an impotent fist toward the callous ceiling.

"...what?"

"It closed down. Kaput. Creator moved onto other things. New projects. Greener hills. My life, as we know it, is over, and dreams are merely dreams," Stiles railed with more enthusiastic despair now that he had a captive audience. True justice had died.

"I'm sorry?" Derek tentatively set one foot followed by the other on the floor.

Stiles slumped boneless in his chair. What good would mourning a website do him? Pitching a fit wouldn't bring Regretsy back. He doubted even a viral petition could revive the site from its untimely grave. "It's okay. Not everything is your fault."

Derek hovered by the window, appearing unconvinced. "But...you really wanted to get onto Regretsy."

Heaving a sigh, Stiles let himself slip even further down in his seat. His shirt rode up, but alas, he lacked the will power to pull it back down. This angle was about as unflattering as a person could get. Perhaps he would gradually slide until he flopped tragically on the floor. Despair did that to folks.

"It is true. That was my dream. All would look upon my handiwork in a combination of horror and awe. Who, they'd say to themselves, would think that this was a good crafting idea to foist upon unwary consumers. I'd laugh at them all the way to the bank." He sniffed morosely for effect. Now, no cheesy daytime TV shows would have him on to chitchat about the popularity of cock-shaped jewelry and whether it could be construed as a prettified form of castration.

In the grand scheme of things, one site shutting down was far from the end of the world. But, man, he'd have liked to have pulled it off. Joining Regretsy's hallowed hall of infamous Etsy sellers would have been glorious. He felt like a failure to the cause. What would his fans think of him and his mediocre penis brooches? Well, they probably assumed he was banging his super-hot Sad Etsy Boyfriend or vice-versa. Ugh. He was making himself even more woebegone.

A tentative hand settled on his scalp. Stiles blinked and stared plaintively up at a very awkward Derek who proceeded to cautiously pat his head.

"Are you...offering solace via petting me?"

Derek shrugged but didn't stop. Stiles was so far gone down in his chair that Derek bent over to make contact. "...seemed more reasonable than asking if you'd like for me to hunt this woman down and force her to restart the site." At the opportunistic glean in Stiles's eyes, Derek shook his head. "Staying on the right side of the law. That was my resolution for the new year."

"Drat. Your conscience has lousy timing." Stiles settled for relishing Derek's ministrations. This was actually pretty damn nice. While it wasn't a werewolf-led mission to restore Regretsy, it did its share to right his universe a little. Derek ceased petting in favor of winding miraculous fingers through Stiles's hair. Getting lazy about restoring his time-honored buzz might be worth this experience.

His head lulled to one side in hopes of coaxing Derek to a spot behind his ear. It worked. "Mmm," Stiles hummed approvingly, his eyelashes fluttering shut of their own accord. At this rate, he was going to be reduced to a puddle of happy goo.

"Dork," Derek said, sounding almost fond to Stiles's ears.

Bring on all of the name-calling. Complaining was the last thing on Stiles's mind as long as Derek continuing combing through his hair. He thought of an ill-advised joke regarding grooming and dogs but vetoed sharing it in favor of nuzzling at Derek's wrist as Derek moved to working on his temple.

And then, without any warning whatsoever, the hand abandoned him.

"Hey," Stiles protested, blearily looking around from his limited perspective ensconced in his chair. Derek was gone. Abracadabra. Of all the freaking nerve. He twisted around as best he could and caught sight of his open door and someone who was totally not Derek. "...Dad." He smiled brightly, like he'd purposely drawn out the greeting for ten seconds.

"What are you doing, Stiles?" Sheriff Stilinski inquired. It was the disapproving dad voice. Stiles hated the disapproving dad voice.

"...stretching." He threw his arms up in the air to add some substantiation to his claim. The movement caused him to slither down a few more inches.

"That's supposed to be good for your posture?"

"No? I mean, yes. It's like...the reverse of straightening up? You sort of...go parallel to the floor." Since his dad oozed skepticism, Stiles allowed himself to gradually move from chair to floor so that he ended up lying partially under his desk with his head propped on the base of the chair. Pure dedication should earn him a point or two of validity.

"Right. And is the new hairstyle supposed to be punk?"

Stiles winced and reached up to explore the disaster Derek had left in his wake. "S'not a good look, then?" His dad slowly shook his head back and forth.

----

The rate at which Derek climbed through Stiles's window should have earned it a little commemorative plaque engraved with Derek's name or a tapestry-esque welcome mat. Neither of these things had happened. Yet.

Derek Hale was the worst Sad Etsy Boyfriend ever. Fake or otherwise. Stiles possessed extremely strong feelings on this matter. Should anyone want to debate the topic with him, he was prepared with a list of complaints a mile long. The role of heterosexual life partner had been filled by Scott. Okay, thanks, he did not need two of them.

Here was the thing: Derek regularly came over to knit, but that's all he did. Knit. And no, that was not a sly code word for anything more salacious. Very literal, no nonsense knitting went down in Stiles's bedroom on a semi-weekly basis.

The progression of their relationship had reached a platonic standstill.

Which, fine, Stiles was happy to count Derek among his friends. If that was what Derek wanted, then he could learn to be content. His tendency toward all-consuming lust and sappy, romantic fantasies would be his problem. Some things never worked out according to ten-year plans. Case in point, he enjoyed being friends with Lydia. Basking in her dazzling intellect and engaging in witty banter was awesome.

He'd just thought that...things were shaping up differently with Derek. First came modeling Etsy wares, then came mutual crafting. Next came sexy make out sessions with no fear of the baby carriage?

Shut up, it made sense in his head.

A scarf was not tantamount to a declaration of love. A scarf was a scarf even if it also happened to be the first thing Derek had ever knitted. Hadn't Stiles callously sold off that lumpy, orange scarf he'd first made? Derek hadn't stood to make much of a profit, which wasn't to say that the mammoth scarf wasn't cozy or nice. It emanated sentimental value.

Meanwhile, the old bat who owned the yarn store was on a first-name basis with Derek Hale. Agnes baked Derek cookies. Hell, she even made Derek's favorites after some prime interrogation that would have done Sheriff Stilinski proud. Peanut butter with chocolate chips. How stereotypical for someone of canine ancestry. At this rate, Derek would be dumping him as mentor and joining the senior citizen knitting club.

Agnes thought she was oh so clever, slipping Derek that flyer on the side, but Stiles had seen. He was like motherfucking Sauron. Plus, the paper was pale pink and liberally covered with doilies. (Seriously. Who made a flyer and went, this could use doilies? Agnes.) And as luck had it, Derek had missed how those gnarled hands had discreetly tucked the monstrosity into the bag with his purchase. That left Stiles free to send Derek out of the Jeep on an urgent snack run while he balled the offending flyer in his fist, tried to eat it (for speedy disposal and free fiber), gagged, and settled for making slobbery, pink confetti.

What Derek didn't know couldn't hurt him. Or, y'know, eat up their valuable craft time.

By the time Derek returned with five bags of potato chips (each a different flavor for the sole reason that Stiles needed to guarantee the task took a while, even for a werewolf), the evidence had been destroyed.

Perhaps it was petty of him to deny an old woman company. Really though, wasn't he doing her a favor? Those who got mixed up with werewolves were in for a whole lot of trouble. The elderly broke their hips left and right without getting knocked around by the supernatural. What would she do when surly hunters showed up on her doorstep? Or if Derek went all snarly over a tangled stitch? (That wasn't happening as often lately, but it still happened. If you've never seen an adult werewolf rip out stitches using his teeth while growling, then you are missing out. It was all sorts of adorable.)

Yeah, the first part about "protecting" Vampire Granny was a load of bull.

Derek Hale had only room for one knitting mentor in his life. Stiles wasn't about to let go of the remaining angle left to him. Those were his afternoons with Derek. How dare she think she could simply steal the Alpha away with her cookies and a century's worth of yarn wisdom? He was allowed to be greedy and needy and immature about this. He shared his best friend with Isaac, and his Jeep racked up mileage on behalf of the pack. With the influx of teen werewolves on the lacrosse team, he hadn't a prayer of ever getting on the field again. So, excuse him if he balked at Agnes encroaching on what limited territory he had.

What Stiles needed to do was take proactive measures. If Derek refused to make the first move, then so help him God, Stiles would.

----

"Did you knit me a condom?" Derek's voice had a peculiar edge to it. Both eyebrows were raised to maximum levels of skepticism. Disbelief made palpable. Stiles rocked back on his heels from the sheer force of it.

That was not the appropriate reaction to an incredibly thoughtful, homemade gift. He cast a glance down at the where the shredded blue and white wrapping paper made a pathetic pile on the floor. The glittery snowflakes seemed to gaze back up at him forlornly. They spoke of short, unfulfilled lives. Things had reached a dire point when he could relate to discount wrapping paper on an intimate level. And the fact that he was personifying it only worsened the situation.

"Yes. Indeed, I did," Stiles replied with a grand air of solemnity. The present was pinched between Derek's forefinger and thumb as if the werewolf wanted as little to do with the atrocity as feasible. That was such a hurtful attitude to take. What remained of his pride gave a feeble twitch. The gift hung there limply, red and green to match Derek's eyes in both forms. (He imagined a werewolf might have some difficulty to sticking to a single form while caught up in heat of the moment.) Plus, those were totally festive colors that suited the holiday season.

"And how did you determine what size it should be, Stiles?" Derek asked as he reluctantly took hold of the other end to hold it out to its full length. Held aloft like that, it could have been a misshapen sock. Taking into account the rest of what Derek had to offer had inflated Stiles's expectations.

Also: porn. There were some truly excellent Derek-look-alikes online. Not that he'd gone searching. Nope, not him. Couldn't be. If he had inadvertently stumbled across a brilliant cinematic piece featuring a stubbled pizza guy delivering a sausage special to a very lucky frat boy, well, accidents happened. So maybe no one had twisted his arm when it came to looking up and then systematically watching every piece the actor had ever been in, including an artsy, silent porno that had involved train tracks and legitimate mustache twirling. The latter included a warning to viewers that only trained professionals should engage in kinky sex on railroad tracks due to safety concerns.

Derek cleared his throat, evidently still waiting for an answer that did not involve Stiles's eyes glazing over.

"I guesstimated."

Derek's ears had gone a fetching shade of pink. This fiasco might not be an entire loss, assuming Derek didn't resort to wringing Stiles's neck. "...you...guesstimated the size of my dick?"

Never mind. This was the worst game of twenty questions in the entirety of Stiles's life.

What had he thought might happen? That Derek would whip off his pants to try the present on for posterity's sake? Be a sport and do a little test-run?

"No, I measured it with a ruler when you weren't paying attention." He huffed. "Yes. I guesstimated." His cheeks were heating up. At this rate, they were going to be a matching set of shame and degradation. Stiles thrust a hand toward Derek's crotch, because, okay, he had had it on his mind way too often these past couple of weeks. Clearly just for sizing purposes and nothing else. "Honestly, you don't leave much to the imagination by wearing jeans two sizes too small."

Now, it was Derek's turn to sputter. The Alpha almost cupped his crotch as if to shield it from inspection. Veins stood out as Derek clenched his fist around the limp condom.

"This strikes me as a very ineffective tool if you want me to achieve safe sex." The condom looked extra limp and sad now that it had received the strangulation by werewolf treatment. Stiles could relate. Derek potentially had a valid point. Yarn wasn't precisely known for its ability to fend off STDs or prevent pregnancy.

"Perhaps it's more like a cozy," Stiles amended, studiously looking over his handiwork. Whatever he had hoped to achieve was obviously failing to pan out. Oh, God, Derek had just said sex. Jokes had always been his salvation. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Derek joining him in staring at the gift.

"...you made me a penis cozy."

"Yes. The coziest of jockstraps. Minus the strap, of course." Stiles tutted softly under his breath, perfectly aware of how Derek could hear him. "Your lack of appreciation for the finer arts in life grieves me to the core."

"I like the ribbon," Derek said dryly.

Stiles drew himself up to his full height. An inch to go until they met eye to eye. Or maybe, a final growth spurt would grant him the invaluable second inch that'd leave him taller. Stiles could dream. "It's a little bow tie." He reached out to tap a finger against the red adornment. "See? It'd go right beneath the head, exactly like a real one."

The choking sound the werewolf emitted was sweet, sweet music to his ears. Stiles grinned.

At least, when he failed, he did so in a spectacular fashion. It was not so much crashing and burning as a meteor striking the Earth in a manner that rivaled the extinction of the dinosaurs.

----

Stiles was many things, but a quitter was not one of them. So the condom had backfired. Drastically. Another gift could do the trick! Something less lewd and distinctly more romantic might be just the ticket. Derek deserved to be courted properly. Well, not werewolf style. Stiles was not about to drop by the local pet shop to purchase a live rabbit to deposit outside Derek's front door. (Not that that was a tactic werewolves actually used. That he knew of.... The pack tended to clam up about certain aspects of werewolf lore. Courtship ranked chief among things they refused to speak of because they were curmudgeons who wanted to doom him to a lifetime of abstinence.)

He waited about a week or so in order to lull Derek into a false sense of security. An hour into their usual crafting time, he casually tossed a package at Derek, who automatically caught before it whacked him in the head. God, he loved those trusty Alpha reflexes.

"Surprise." Jazz hands were performed. Special occasions required them. Stiles narrowly avoided poking himself in the eye.

Honestly, judging by Derek's face, you'd have thought he had bestowed a live bomb upon him.

"Come on. Unwrap it," Stiles prompted helpfully. He'd gone with more laidback wrapping paper for this second attempt. It was plain red. No sparkles. No implications of holiday cheer. Not even the tiniest of happy birthdays.

"...tell me what it is first." The demand was accompanied by a certain amount of wariness. Give a man a condom once and evidently, he'll never trust you again.

Stiles blew out of his cheeks and pushed off against his desk so that his chair rolled toward the bed. The chair lost velocity halfway there, leaving him abjectly stranded. "What? No. That's not how this works. That defeats the purpose of wrapping paper." He pushed along with his foot until the armrest bumped against mattress. "Don't be such a spoilsport about this."

Derek scooted back on the mattress to put new distance between them. When Derek glanced at him nervously, Stiles smiled encouragingly in return. For some reason, it didn't appear to soothe the rattled werewolf.

Holy shit, he actually scared Derek Hale. Karmic retribution was a beautiful thing. To be fair, Derek seemed more intimidated than fearful for his life (or his dick's dignity).

"Do you need a helping hand? Because I have two." He winked and generously held them up while splaying his fingers. The power might have gone to Stiles's head a little. It gave him a boost of courage sufficient to clamber onto the bed so that Derek was forced to back up further until he was plastered against the headboard. This was both hilarious and fun.

"Fine, fine. I'm opening it. Stop hovering." Derek went at the parcel with admirable dexterity. Bits of paper floated in the air. Stiles eagerly leaned forward, not about to miss the priceless moment when Derek saw what he'd made for him.

Baffled was the best word to describe Derek in a nutshell. Derek's eyebrows drew together as he stared down at the contents of the second gift. Stiles waited good-naturedly.

"What...is this exactly?"

"A flower crown."

Derek tilted his head like Stiles had spoken in a foreign language.

"It is a crown made of flowers. You put it on your head." Stiles motioned with his hands, miming crowning himself so as to provide a helpful demonstration for his mystified houseguest. And because he was a good person, he so did not think about how Derek was sitting on top of his pillow. When he went to bed that night, he'd be putting his face against fabric that had once touched jeans that encased Derek Hale's perfect butt. Talk about a weird game of degrees of separation.

Derek's response was immediate. "Not. Happening." Each word was punctuated separately. Too bad clear enunciation was an ineffective tactic when it came to Stiles.

"Humor me!"

"No."

"Just for one quick photo?" He pointed toward his camera, which sat patiently atop his desk. All of the good flower crown tutorials had ended with copious photo-shoots. This one deserved the full treatment.

"No." Derek dumped the flower crown on the bed and crossed his arms over his chest, which resulted in a pair of admirably bulging forearms.

Dammit, Derek was like an overgrown toddler who'd skipped naptime. It was really unfair of the guy to look half as attractive as he did while doing so.

Stiles couldn't believe the nerve of him. It was a cute present. The Internet agreed with him. Not that he had sought out advice online. His carefully cleared browser history betrayed nothing. "After I used artificial flowers out of respect for your sensitive werewolf nose too."

This was one guilt trip that Derek refused to board. Stiles's pleading earned him a steely-eyed glare and a subtle shake of the head.

Stiles reined in his instinct to refer to Derek as a callous buttface aloud. Once he devolved to name calling, there'd be no salvaging the situation. And he really, really wanted Derek to put on the dumb crown. It was a matter of pride. Of principle, even.

"Oh, come on! Do you know how many times I stabbed myself with the wire?" He waggled his fingers in Derek's face. His left thumb and right index finger sported bandages. Flower crowns entailed an astonishing amount of hard labor. The dedication involved was not to be underestimated. Floral wire was evil. Whoever came up with floral tape was inept. Tape should be sticky. He'd put up with all that suffering for Derek. "Don't let my sacrifice be in vain. Don thy flowery headgear."

"No."

Fuck monosyllabic answers. There was no bulletproof explanation for why Derek refused to put the crown on for a measly second in the privacy of Stiles's bedroom. It was a perfectly respectable flower crown. Stiles had picked out the silk flowers in person. The blues and violets would look especially becoming against Derek's dark hair. He'd purchased fancy wire cutters. In Polynesia, a floral wreath represented affection or respect. And yes, they were physically located in California, but the spirit of the gift remained the same.

Stiles scooped up the unloved flower crown from the bedspread. It had a singular purpose in life. Whether Derek liked it or not, he was going to fulfill it. He threw Derek a calculating look. Between the headboard and Stiles, there was very little wiggle room left for his target.

Stiles bodily launched himself at Derek. The clash went down accompanied by the squeak of mattress springs and thump of a pillow going overboard. Alas, the element of surprise did Stiles little good in the face of werewolf instincts. Stiles found himself flat on his back with two hundred pounds of Derek Hale on top of him. The flower crown faired far worse in the struggle judging by the silk petals strewn all over the place, most predominately in Derek's hair.

He panted raggedly while Derek at least had the decency to appear disheveled.

"When I say no, I mean no," Derek said in a tone that brokered no argument, eyes flashing red.

Oh, so scary. Not. Stiles had long ago built up immunity to such tactics. "Yeah, got that." He squirmed, but as long as Derek pinned him, he wouldn't be going anywhere soon. God, Derek was the worst with his stupid everything including those muscular forearms braced on other side of his head and the beginning of a smug smirk curling the corner of Derek's lips.

The insufferable asshole seemed content to take his sweet time disembarking the Stiles Express. You'd think Derek relished holding him hostage. Wait, hold up.

Stiles took stock of the situation again.

Here he was, splayed out on his mattress with Derek lounging atop of him. There was minor skin contact going on and beyond that, a limited number of layers of fabric separating the rest of them. One of his arms was pinned somewhat uncomfortably behind his back, and the other was trapped between them. This position afforded him a very nice view of Derek's face that highlighted his jawline and throat.

Stiles licked his lips and noted with elation how Derek's eyes darted downward. A certain someone was interested; denial be damned.

"What do you plan to do with me now that you have me at your tender mercy?"

"Debating between suffocating you or..." Derek trailed off.

Stiles watched Derek's dawning realization of the compromising position they'd assumed. This time, there was no rogue Kanima to blame either. Derek's body tensed, and Stiles could actually feel the ripple of muscles. It was a marvelous sensation. Appearances were not the slightest bit deceiving when it came to those abs.

When dealing with a flighty creature, one should stick to slow movements for fear of frightening the target. Stiles kept still. It was a feat of self-control considering how badly he wanted to angle his hips just so....

"What's option number two? Curious souls want to know," Stiles prompted.

Derek shifted closer; his breath was warm against Stiles's face. They were so very, very close.

A pink petal drifted down and landed squarely on the tip Stiles's nose. It tickled. He went momentarily cross-eyed before sneezing...directly into Derek's face. Derek jerked backwards, dragging a hand down his face while groaning in disgust.

Moment ruined. Pseudo-seduction kaput. Stiles had successfully cockblocked himself. Derek, having untangled himself from their predicament, beat a hasty retreat with some mumbled excuse about overdue books. Stiles banged his forehead against the mattress about twenty times to no effect. He lacked the will to get to some alternative hard surface such as the wall.

----

Derek Hale disappeared.

Some might have called it inevitable. Beacon Hills was steeped in tragedy for the Hales. How could Derek hope to eke out a new life over the smoldering ashes of the old? Rumors flew. The mysterious young man had returned to New York City. No, he'd taken to a life of crime. Or perhaps he'd been scouted as a model or a porn star.

The pack knew otherwise. Derek wouldn't simply abandon them without warning. Something must be wrong. But with no readily available clues, there was little they could do. It was as if the werewolf had vanished without a trace. Every scent trail in town led nowhere. All they gleaned was an insight of what Derek did all day to busy himself. There were frequent trips to the local library and the grocery store. Unsurprisingly, Derek appeared to like long walks in the woods and keeping an eye on every inch of his territory. They looped in circles by the high school for hours.

The freshest trail stopped at the yarn store. That was all of the proof Stiles required that Derek had every intention of coming home. Stowed beneath his bed was the Alpha's latest project. It was the best hiding place if one wanted to prevent a certain curly-haired snooper from discovering it.

Even the lucky streak of Isaac's favored purple scarf could only last so long. Derek had determined to knit him a new one after an infestation of pixies had left everyone's wardrobe a little worse for wear. (Lydia mourned her cream cashmere top quite vocally for weeks following the incident.) A good Alpha took care of his Betas...even if that meant feeding their unnecessary accessories habit.

It was going to be Derek's grand outing. The Alpha was going to come out of the crafting closet.

No way in hell would Derek leave when the scarf was three-quarters finished.

So Stiles rallied the troops. Normally, the latest stint of rallying happened after Scott reassured him that they'd know if Derek was dead. Betas knew these things. It was a pack perk.

This did little to diminish the growing bags beneath Stiles's eyes or alleviate Isaac's twitchiness. Erica and Boyd were practically attached at the hand. Jackson limited himself to a single asinine comment per hour, and Lydia policed this quota with admirable ferocity. No one called Peter. Allison promised her dad had nothing to do with this, but Chris Argent's track record for being honest to his daughter left something to be desired.

Every day after school they parted ways to continue the hunt. Stiles dug out a fresh map of Beacon Hills and filled it with marks and a bright assortment of pins. Great swathes of the town were covered in 'X's. (In this case, 'X' did not mark the spot.) Search as they might, Derek could not be found. Morale suffered, but Stiles refused to give up. They'd dealt with worse. This time, Derek needed them, and they weren't going to let him down.

That was why Stiles was up at an ungodly early hour on a Saturday, staring morosely at the last ball of royal purple yarn. It was by its lonesome now that it had been booted from the reserved shelf. Derek would be pissed if someone else bought it. There was no predicting when Agnes might order more or if the next lot would perfectly match the rest of Isaac's scarf-to-be.

Stiles fingered the crumpled twenty dollar bill in his pocket. He'd been retracing Derek's last day for the umpteenth time when he'd noticed that the yarn had migrated from the privileged shelf of destiny back to the regular shelves. Anyone could waltz in and purchase it, thereby delaying the completion of the scarf by weeks if not longer. Stiles frowned, torn between wondering if he jinxed Derek more by buying it (thus preventing Derek from returning to do so himself) or by neglecting to do so (guaranteeing that Derek would be cranky when he did get back and couldn't resume work on the scarf immediately).

In the end, Stiles didn't get to make a decision. This failure on his part had more to do with getting clocked upside the head by a blunt object than indecision.

----

The first thing Stiles noticed when he regained consciousness was the distinct scent of old people. It was thick enough that he could taste it, musty and dried out beneath the clogging fumes of herbs. He scrunched up his nose. Had he fallen into a coma for sixty years and been shuttled to an old folks' home? That was a thing that could happen. In a daytime soap opera. And his life.

The sight that greeted him when he opened his eyes screamed of the elderly. Antique furniture decorated the cozy room and fading wallpaper adorned the walls. A bowl full of hard candies of an indeterminable age sat on a small table to his left. A cat clock with a swinging tail ticking off the seconds hung above the hearth, which was lined with withered, dark green bouquets.

He was seated in a particularly plush chair that seemed intent on engulfing his rear end. Like his thighs were angled above his crotch because his posterior had vanished so far into the depths of the cushion. The fabric was a faded yellow and embroidered with white flowers. A dull, persistent ache nagged at his arms. He noticed it around the same time that he realized that his hands were tied to the armrests that curved inward so that his elbows jutted out to either side.

Stiles had woken up in some pretty bizarre positions before, but this may have topped the competition. Randomly passing out from sheer exhaustion and contorting his body were strengths of his. He figured that flexibility would come in handy someday, and okay, now was not an appropriate time to think about sex.

His ankles were strapped to the chair legs. And not in an awesome, kinky way.

A shadowy figure loomed in the doorway. (Loomed might have been an exaggeration.) The gears clicked into place.

Who tied up a person with yarn?

...how about the woman who owned a store dedicated to the stuff?

Agnes stepped into the room, cast in yellow by lamps that were in sore need of replacement bulbs.

Stiles gasped audibly.

An old lady in a lacy cardigan had taken out Derek Hale. She clocked in at five foot nothing with curlers. For all he knew, her perfect rows of pearly whites were dentures. No one was ever going to believe this. God, and now she had kidnapped him. What was it with old fogies taking him captive? Stiles did not remotely approve of this trend.

"Did I fall asleep in the middle of a Scooby Doo marathon? You're the Big Bad? You abducted Derek freaking Hale?" Stiles sputtered. His hands jerked against their restraints because this really was the time for wild gesticulations.

"You took away my Snowball!" Agnes accused in a shrill voice.

Stiles blinked. Wait, what? People had accused him of many things, but this qualified as a rare first. It shocked him out of gloating about how he had been oh, so right about how she was evil. (Gotta trust those Stilinski instincts.)

"Lady, I did not touch your cat," he protested. Wriggling his wrists got him no closer to freedom. The knots were as secure as they were scratchy. This was the stuff of torturous sweaters designed to cause wearers to break out in itchy welts.

Agnes performed a live demonstration of giving a person the evil eye. It was twitchy and bulgy and terrifying. His soul might have been seared a little in the process.

"Snowball isn't a cat," she informed him primly once she was done attempting to melt his brain.

"Uh...small, yappy dog? Poodle? Honestly, whatever Snowball is, I don't go around nabbing pets, lady. That's not my M.O." Technically speaking, that wasn't entirely true. But that time with Prada shouldn't count. There had been some confusion about whether Lydia's dog was possessed by a body hopping demon with a taste for toes. And the debacle with Jackson in the back of the police van differed vastly too.

Agnes wasn't even paying attention. She'd turned around and was rifling through an overstuffed cabinet. Craning his neck afforded him a glimpse of yellowed papers and doe-eyed figurines shaped like wildlife.

Maybe she had dementia. That happened to old people. Christ, he was practically starring in a modern adaptation of Arsenic and Old Lace minus a bride and crazy brothers. Derek very well could be moldering in the basement. Soon, Stiles's corpse would join him. He was going to die a virgin. Agnes would use their bodies as fertilizer to grow begonias after investing in some quality UV lamps.

When she turned around, she had an ancient photo album clutched between her bony fingers.

Oh God, she was going to treat him to a session of staring at photos of her MIA pet. What had he done to deserve this inhumane treatment?

She flicked through the pages, squinting down at their contents and seemingly unaware of how her glasses were propped up on her hair. If he had been feeling kinder toward her, Stiles might have pointed that detail out. As it was, she had tied him to a chair with yarn, so no, let her strain her feeble eyeballs. 

Every inch of skin that was in direct contact with the yarn itched. It was maddening. Why even make yarn this uncomfortable? He whined under his breath and squirmed with renewed vigor.

Agnes shushed him. Or she might have hissed. He couldn't really differentiate between the two.

Finally, she located the page.

The first photo was of Agnes, white-haired and wrinkled with a small, white fluffy ball situated in her lap. They were wearing matching lavender sweaters. Agnes appeared to be waiting for Stiles to fess up to his awful, pet-nabbing crimes.

Stiles looked blankly from the photograph to Agnes. The fluffy creature lacked any convenient identifying features. "Uh...Snowflake's a gerbil? Hamster? Guinea pig? Tribble?"

"Don't be absurd," she reprimanded. "And his name is Snowball." He bit his lip to refrain from retorting something snotty. And then, she turned to the next photo. Snowball had hit a growth spurt and had to stand beside Agnes instead of perching in her lap. If, by growth spurt, you meant the former puffball had grown seven and a half feet. The shaggy white coat. The cruel, yellow fangs. Wickedly curved claws and beady, black eyes.

Stiles's jaw dropped as he performed his best fish out of water impression.

"Oh my God." His gaze darted from the picture to Agnes and back again. "Oh. My. Fucking. God. Snowball's the yeti!?"

"He prefers abominable snowman," Agnes corrected, prim and proper in the face of his shock.

"My apologies to Snowball. How insensitive of me. Oh wait, he almost strangled me with my scarf a couple of months ago!" Other creatures had tried to kill him since. Someone in their crew faced imminent death on a weekly basis. Snowball had made a lasting impression though. Sprinting through the Preserve during the aftermath of a blizzard with a yeti hot on his heels stuck with a person.

"That wasn't his fault. Snowball must have been frightened out there by himself. My poor baby, lost in the wilderness, and then, you ruffians set upon him." She glared at him and snapped the album shut.

Stiles flinched. He wasn't one to be intimidated by villains. Well, technically, he was, but he never allowed for that to shut him up. "And what, you abducted Derek as your replacement pet?" Adopting a new cat from a shelter was one thing but stealing a person (human or otherwise) was uncool. The same went for keeping large, wild animals as pets. Stiles watched documentaries. This sort of stuff ended with a lion eating a neighbor's face.

"That was an unrelated matter. Derek needed a good home, and now, he finally has one with me. He's going to be much happier here. Snowball always was before you fiends got your hands on him." Agnes spoke of Derek with tenderness…as if the guy was a helpless, woebegone kitten who was the leftover runt of the litter abandoned in a rain-soaked box. Dude was plenty capable of fending for himself. Hello, Derek was the one who had kicked Snowball's fluffy ass. The slam of the album being returned to the cabinet betrayed Agnes's underlying rage.

"Lady, chances are that Snowball's needs for bloodlust weren't being met if he escaped and went on a rampage. Did you see the truck he totaled? It's a miracle no one died!" 

"Snowball did not run away. We were in the backyard, and the blizzard got him a little overexcited." Agnes tidied up some of the figurines, rearranging them to her satisfaction.

Stiles gaped at her, outraged on behalf of citizens everywhere. It was a paltry defense if he had ever heard one. From the way she talked about Snowball, you'd think he was merely an exuberant dog who had never clued into the fact that he had outgrown his lapdog days. Look, he had a soft spot for the supernatural himself, but he never forgot that his friends were capable of eviscerating him when they shifted.

The yeti hadn't seemed to have a softer side. Weeks passed before the black and blue marks faded from Stiles's throat. He had worn turtlenecks. Worse than that, he had purchased turtlenecks for the sole sake of hiding said bruises because they failed to resemble hickeys. Anyway, anyone who might have cared about Stiles scoring some hickeys already knew that he had really almost been killed by a Sasquatch.

"Do you even listen to yourself?" He tried to calm down. "Okay, so where did kidnapping me come into the picture? Are you going to rename me Spots and knit me a collar?" This was what it came down to: the ultimate payback for his nonstop dog jokes at the expense of his friends.

Agnes scoffed derisively. "Why would I want to keep you?"

"Um, ouch."

"You're my insurance that Snowball will be returned home." Her smile was sugar and spice and altogether frightening. "My hostage, if you prefer. To guarantee your safe return, your friends are going to give my Snowball back."

Stiles let his head fall backward. "You have got to be kidding me."

Agnes perched on the nearby loveseat. From her pocket she withdrew a pale green handkerchief and a spool of white thread with a needle tucked inside. The needle was already threaded. Its tip glinted, causing his stomach to flip. Stupid as it was, Stiles disliked needles. Tremendously. They were sharp, little torture devices. His entire body contorted lest she proceed to torment him with acupuncture.

"Quit squirming. You are neither a toddler nor a worm," Agnes admonished him as she commenced stitching. 

"But-"

Agnes's glare cut him short. One should avoid arguing with an individual armed with something sharp…even if said weapon was an inch and a half long. There was nothing like the prospect of a mad woman sewing his lips shut to inspire a vow of silence. Despite common belief, Stiles could shut up when necessary.

She resumed embroidering the square of fabric. In went the needle. Out went the needle. This was actually making for a great intimidation tactic. Stiles verged on freaked out. A shimmery, white haze snaked out from the handkerchief, growing in size with each stitch. At which point, he was so beyond freaked out it wasn't even funny.

He might have loosed a hysterical squawk of laughter.

Agnes didn't look up. The needle flashed faster. "Names have power. Yet, we are dreadfully careless about whom we share them with." She paused to admire her progress before continuing. Meanwhile, the strange smoke rose and circled her, but held its form. "Once you have a person's name, there is no limit to what you might do. It makes an individual quite malleable."

Stiles had a suspicion about where this was headed. He did not like it...or how the vapor slithered toward him.

She ripped the thread with her teeth (dentures?) and tied it off with a tight knot. Finally, she held up the finished piece for him to see. Picked out in white against the green was his name in a looping cursive. Stiles Stilinski. If she expected him to praise her work, then she was more bonkers than he'd thought.

The mist tightened into silvery strands that coiled around him, looping about his limbs and torso. "Fu-" It billowed over his face, silencing him.

"Now, sit here like a good boy. Don't make a racket." She stood up and patted his face like she wasn't an evil, evil old lady who performed sinister monologues. Her skin was papery against his cheek.

Glowering at her did little to sway Agnes into simply freeing him and returning Derek. Despite that, Stiles persisted in glaring as she left the room and took a detour elsewhere. Her orthopedic shoes swished against the floorboards of the hall. When she walked past the doorway a second time, he glimpsed her elaborate shawl and massive purse (all the better for stowing balls of yarn and her pointy witch hat of doom) before she left the house entirely.

Stiles counted off another minute and then a second one, in case she had forgotten something and took her sweet, arthritic time.

It was like someone had poured a vat of syrup over him. A layer of magic oozed on his body, congealing in his joints, and making his head swim. The spell weighed him down worse than a humid day in late summer.

But here was the crux of the matter: he could still move.

"Like my parents named me Stiles." His voice came out like a half-choked whisper through the stitches of the spell.

If he could get his weight onto the toes of his feet, then maybe he could hobble his way to freedom like a two-legged turtle. Anything had to be better than staying put for Agnes to return. He rocked forward once. Twice. Midway through the third attempt, he realized that he had used too much force. The whole chair threatened to topple forward so that he nearly went over. Slamming face first into the carpet was not on the agenda for today. He might break his nose and drown in a pool of his own blood. Stiles frantically used what little leverage he had left to propel himself backwards.

Down went chair and Stiles in what felt like slow motion. The chair hit the floor with a crack that rattled his teeth in his skull. The cushions protected a majority of his body from the worst of the impact. Both of his elbows weren't as lucky. Nothing shielded them as they slammed into hard wood of the armrests in a manner that sent first bolts of pain followed by a tingly numbness.

He stared up at the ceiling and took a shaky breath.

This could be worse, he reasoned. His inner Black Widow forsook him. A chance remained that he could tip himself over sideways and pathetically crawl toward liberation.

Bracing himself, he flexed his fingers and winced. Funny bones, such a freaking riot.

His jaw ached a little too. He reached up to rub at it and promptly whacked his chin with the armrest that apparently had detached from the chair. "Oh, come on," he whined while pressing the back of his hand against his latest source of misery.

His eyes dropped thoughtfully to the rogue armrest. This worked in his favor. He raised his wrist to his mouth and located the knotted end with lips. Then, he gnawed. And gnawed. Tugged experimentally at the saliva-drenched string. And gnawed some more. The first restraint definitely ranked as the most cumbersome. After he freed his right hand, the rest were a breeze (relatively speaking). Wooly bits of fiber wound up trapped between his teeth, which was gross.

Stiles rubbed at his wrists and ankles, mentally making a note to avoid capture by nutcases ever again. He tore the handkerchief into shreds. The last of the strange heaviness bearing down on his bones vanished.

Armed with the splintery armrest, Stiles crept out of the parlor.

She'd stolen his phone. Actually, his pockets had been emptied out. His wallet and keys and half a pack of gum were all gone. So was the crumpled twenty. The paranoia ran strong in her if she believed he could have MacGyvered his escape with chewing gum.

A rotary phone sat on a table in the entry hall. He eyed the device skeptically. It looked older than him, than even his dad. For all he knew, it could be cursed. Agnes seemed the sort of soul to hate guests chatting on the phone. To his left was the unguarded front door. Leaving would be a cinch. He could run his ass off and return with backup.

This might be his only chance to explore the house with the guarantee that Agnes was out. Hell, it might be his best shot at finding Derek. She had to have stowed him either here or at the yarn store. His eyes flitted toward the staircase.

He took the stairs two at a time, clutching the armrest in preparation for the worst. Nothing jumped out at him though, and he reached the second floor in one piece.

In a stunning (as well as convenient) twist of events, the third door featured a neatly embroidered nameplate that read Derek Hale. It constituted as a work of art. Agnes had gone all out, adding flourishes to the letters as well as tiny paw prints throughout in pastel shades. Judging by the polished, wooden frame and spotless glass, he figured Agnes thought highly of her masterpiece too.

He gingerly opened the door and held the armrest aloft as he peered inside.

"Yo, anybody home?"

The strange sight that greeted him beyond the door had to be absorbed piecemeal. Stiles took in the pristine, collared shirt. It was as white as snow and as starched as fuck. Not a single wrinkle marred its surface. The argyle sweater vest fit to a T. It likewise screamed hot librarian. Like, really hot librarian who possessed glorious deltoids constructed for worshipping. The pattern featured a deep green that alternated with a rich brown in a manner (that he suspected) had been specifically tailored to match Derek's eyes.

There was fucking bow tie action going down too. Shiny, black loafers and khaki pants that were too short by several inches, thus exposing ridiculously thick, white socks completed the outfit. Black hair had been tamed via gel and slicked to create an honest-to-God side part. Agnes had achieved the impossible because Derek was perfectly clean-shaven.

Stiles swallowed drily.

"Oh, Derek, she really pulled a number on you."

Derek didn't bother to spare him so much as a passing glance, which, okay, rude.

"Um...hello? It's me, Stiles?" He tilted his head, waiting for a reaction. "Your knight in...a hoodie because armor's kind of hard to come by on short notice, and I didn't think I'd need Kevlar to stop by the yarn store." He approached the desk that Derek sat at with small, cautious steps. This was more than Derek's usual cold shoulder. He'd been snubbed before, but this was extreme.

The room matched the rest of the house in decor. A model airplane hung from the ceiling, and the bookshelves were lined with children's classics. Stiles recognized the titles on the spines. The twin bed was perfectly made and featured a sky blue comforter.

"Dude, ignoring me isn't going to change the fact that you're dressed up like a certifiable dweeb." Stiles poked Derek with the end of the armrest that didn't sport deadly splinters. He was irritated, not vindictive. He could have hit Derek upside the head with it for all of the reaction he got, which was nada.

He peered over Derek's shoulder at the desk.

It was a puzzle. Derek Hale was doing a puzzle. Not just any puzzle, mind you. This was one of those 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzles created by diabolical minds to drive people insane. It was of a garden filled to the brim with a dizzying array of flowers in every color of the rainbow. The sheer magnitude of it was astonishing as was the fact that Derek was about a third of the way done. Stiles leaned closer to peer at the piece held between Derek's forefinger and thumb. It depicted a fat bumblebee in front of an indistinguishable mass of green foliage. Derek's eyes traveled slowly over the assortment of pieces.

"Hi? Howdy? Can you hear me now?" Nothing Stiles did garnered a response. Not waving his hand in front of Derek's face or blowing into Derek's ear. When he casually swept an arm across the surface of the desk and knocked everything off, Derek stilled for a second and then started to sedately pick the puzzle back up, piece by piece.

"Be right back," Stiles muttered as he stormed out of the room, more irate with how he was an idiot than Derek's behavior. It was so obvious. He unhooked the nameplate from where it hung on the wall and set it down on the carpeted floor. Those itty, bitty paw prints seemed to stare up at him beseechingly. The embroidery must have taken Agnes ages.

"Sorry, not sorry." Stiles readjusted his grip on the armrest, raised it above his head, and brought it down. Glass shattered and as he battered it, shards tore and rip the fabric. By the time he was finished, not a single letter was legible. Perspiration dotted his forehead.

He stepped carefully around the mess.

"Stiles?" Derek's voice sounded soft and uncertain as he straightened in his chair.

"Oh, good. You're you again. Welcome back, Big D."

"...never call me that again." Derek drew a finger along his throat, but the impact of the implicit threat was weakened considerably by his attire and how the guy couldn't quit yawning. It made sense that even Derek would need some recovery time. The werewolf had been under Agnes's spell for much longer, and she'd had his proper name.

"Whatever you say." Stiles beamed and plopped down on the bed, heedless of the slivers of glass that sprinkled the blanket when he set the armrest down beside him. It wasn't as if anyone would be spending the night there. He was too thrilled that Derek was fully himself. Werewolf tonsils proved as pale and pink as any human's. "How are you feeling?"

Derek opened his mouth, paused, and frowned as he surveyed his surroundings. The room had thrown the werewolf for a loop. "My head aches."

"That makes sense. You've probably been under an enchantment for a week and a half now. Can you remember anything?" Stiles knew they should get going pronto, but Derek obviously needed a minute or two.

Derek rubbed at his temples and leaned back in the chair. It creaked alarmingly. "Agnes told me that a delivery of yarn of had been made to her house by mistake. She asked if I could help her transport it to the store. The box was too heavy for her to manage." Derek shut his eyes, and his forehead creased. "She gave me a glass of milk and cookies in the kitchen after I loaded the box into her trunk." A sigh of pure aggravation followed. "After that...it gets foggy."

"This is what happens when you act like a gentleman. Terrible things. Awful things." On one level, it was great that Derek was relearning how to be a decent person who did favors instead of skulking in dark corners. On the other hand, the guy should have trusted Stiles's instincts.

Derek flicked a puzzle piece at Stiles's head, which bounced off of his forehead. It was a cold, cruel world when that was the thanks Stiles got for his efforts.

"Oh, yes. How could I fail to guess that Agnes wanted to forcibly adopt me?" Derek glanced around uncertainly at the room. A prison cell it was not. The window lacked bars. There was nothing to indicate that Derek couldn't come and go as he pleased. Derek's fingers discovered the bow tie, which he subsequently ripped from his throat, along with a few unlucky buttons.

"It's your bad boy element. Even older women feel compelled to reform you," Stiles said matter-of-factly. He tried to ignore the inverted triangle of exposed chest. The hot librarian look hit kinks he had been unaware of until now. And really, Derek wasn't helping matters by dragging a hand through his coiffed hair, spoiling the part so that it was all rumpled and sexy. Stiles bit the inside of his cheek as Derek unsteadily got to his feet, stepping on the puzzle pieces.

Stiles restrained himself from tackle hugging Derek. It wouldn't help to crowd him. Instead, he basked in his relief. Derek was okay.

A few laps around the room while Stiles caught him up on the last ten days and Derek was ready to go.

It was a grand escape. Stiles insisted on peeking around corners because Derek's enhanced senses weren't at their peak and when they passed the parlor, Stiles took a fast pit stop to show off the chair he'd freed himself from. The way Derek rolled his eyes definitely meant that the guy was impressed. Derek agreed that the rotary phone wasn't worth the risk, not when they were basically out.

They got as far as the front porch.

"Derek Hale, what are you doing out of your room?" Agnes's voice rang from where she stood on the path that led up to the house.

Derek stiffened next to him. Stiles rearranged his grip on the armrest. Bashing an old lady in the head in broad daylight struck him as wrong. Like...super villain wrong. His conscience was faulty, but even considering the action made him feel bad. True, Agnes abducted people against their will, but it was merely to feed them cookies and force them to complete jigsaw puzzles. On the scale of evil, it was more of a moderately wrong.

Agnes perched both her hands on her hips and glared up at them. The lenses of her forgotten glasses atop of her hair glinted in the sunlight. "I am waiting for an explanation. And why in heaven's name are you with that miscreant?"

"Who are you calling miscreant, lady?" Stiles's temper flared. All he had ever done was pay her good money for yarn. He'd been a great customer! This was flagrant ageism.

An arm locked around Stiles's waist, drawing him into Derek's side so that their hipbones collided. It was a drastic, bold move, and Stiles did not understand. Was Derek planning to leap over Agnes's head with him in tow? He glanced over at Derek, careful not to turn his head because they were close enough that he would have hit his nose on some cheekbone at least.

"Stiles is my mate." Derek pulled off the declaration with his typical poker face.

"Wha-?" Derek's fingers dug into the soft underside of Stiles's belly. "Ow-oh, right. Ha. Cat's out the bag. God, Agnes." His gaze flitted from Derek's unreadable profile to Agnes's pinched expression. "Forcing us out of our cozy closet. Where we are mates. Derek and me. In a closet. Together."

Agnes owned a giant purse. It seemed the older a woman got, the bigger her handbag became until it contained everything a person might need at the drop of a dime. He theorized it had something to do with the conspiracy revolving around the lack of decent pockets in women's clothing. Now that Stiles had gotten to know Agnes better, he legitimately feared the contents of her bag. Its pale blue sides fairly bulged, and her ropy veins stuck out all over the translucent skin of her hands as she strangled its straps.

"Him?" The disgust in Agnes's question tangible.

Stiles narrowed his eyes. That sort of attitude didn't fly in Beacon Hills. "Excuse you. I'll have you know that two dudes b-" he can't quite bring himself to say 'boning' aloud to a woman old enough to be his grandmother, "doing it is totally legal. Same goes for ladies. Welcome to the 21st century, Agnes."

"Oh, that doesn't bother me an ounce. Esther and Roberta have been at that for over fifty years. Why, just last week-"

"TMI!" Stiles screwed up his face because if Esther and Roberta were the two ancient broads with the matching spectacles who special ordered rainbow yarn, then he was a hundred percent supportive of their lifestyle and never, ever wanted any visuals of what their current sex life was like. Their wrinkles had wrinkles.

Agnes sniffed. "As I was saying, you could do so much better than him." She gestured dismissively at Stiles.

Well, that was rude.

Before Stiles could even think of a scathing retort, Derek stepped forward to position himself in between them as a very muscular barrier. "Agnes, do you realize how much trouble Stiles went through to save me?" Derek paused, allowing for the old woman's twisted lips and Stiles's shock to fill the silence for a few seconds. "Don't you think he must care about me? What more could I ask for in my mate?"

Agnes didn't have a response for that. Neither did Stiles, who turned a splotchy beet red. Derek rarely did compliments. Overlooking the minor detail regarding how he wasn't actually anyone's mate, the rest of the spiel was pretty nice. And while the flattery was uplifting, Stiles was more caught up in the fact that Derek had noticed that he cared and considered that concern a good thing. There was a huge gap between noticing physical signs that indicated Derek liked him and a verbalized confession. This was the closest Stiles had gotten.

"I ask you to respect my choice for mate and let us go without a fight." If Agnes was unimpressed by Derek's ability to behave like a mature adult, the same could not be said for Stiles. He wished the speech had an ounce of truth to it. That sliver of proof that their attraction was mutual and Derek might not be totally opposed to it: that he could work with. The back of Derek's head wasn't giving him any hints.

"But Derek, you haven't met Snowball yet. You two would be perfectly compatible." Agnes accompanied her grand revelation with a honeyed smile.

Stiles was forced to bury his face against Derek's shoulder to hide the fact that he was about three seconds away from cracking up. The loose strands tied together. Agnes wanted to play matchmaker for Derek Hale and her crabby yeti. She had abducted Derek and given him a dorky makeover in order to fan the flames of romance. Maybe Snowball had a thing for puzzles and sweater vests. The whole scheme was absurd enough to be hilarious.

"Erm. I did make…Snowball's acquaintance in the Preserve." Derek pinched Stiles to discourage him from snorting. It was admirable of Derek to try. Stiles shook with silent laughter. His fake relationship with Derek was secure. The guy couldn't risk fake dumping him at the moment. That would free him up for Snowball.

"And?" Agnes probed hopefully.

"I wouldn't call it love at first sight?" Derek hedged in an effort to let the old woman down gently. It was enough to make Stiles wish all of their dramatic encounters with villains could end like this. Who needs bloodshed and epic werewolf fights when you could have the Alpha tripping over his words while his ears flushed a becoming shade of pink?

God, he'd missed Derek. And Derek's peanut ears.

"Such an understatement," Stiles whispered, unable to resist the chance to be the terrible voice in Derek's ear. He emitted a muffled yelp as Derek stepped on his foot. Maybe he deserved that.

"Prove it." Agnes's voice brought Stiles back to reality. A strange reality to be sure, but reality nonetheless. And in this reality, little, old ladies demanded that Derek Hale prove his love for Stiles Stilinski.

"What?" Derek and Stiles asked in unison, then side-eyed each other because come on.

Agnes jabbed a finger at them. "If you two are a couple, then you wouldn't shy away from a tiny demonstration of your affections."

The logic of this statement was dubious. In Stiles's opinion, it was 100% unfair. Both of them were recovering from stressful situations. Rescue make out sessions worked in the movies, but things were different in real life. Normal villains don't wait around for the heroes to finish smooching. Of course, normal villains also didn't order their victims to kiss either.

And then, Stiles couldn't see Agnes anymore because Derek had turned around to face him, blocking the old woman from view entirely. He opened his mouth to speak, but Derek subtly shook his head. Agnes would hear anything they said. Derek's hands rested on his shoulders, heavy yet gentle.

Derek arched his eyebrows in a silent request for Stiles's permission.

Stiles's jaw dropped. (The sight could not have been attractive. Molars rarely were.) Was Stiles game to play a team version of gay chicken with Derek as his partner? Could he take one for the pack?

Um, duh.

This was the calling in life that he had failed to foreseen.

Stiles gave a minute nod of his head, set his glass-studded armrest down, and tried not to hyperventilate. This shouldn't be too hard. It'd help if Derek didn't look so grim-faced. It was too much to ask that Derek be happy about kissing him, but based on appearances, the werewolf had called upon the type of determination a regular person used to go have a cavity drilled.

The first kiss consisted of a tentative brush of lips, dry and fast and soft. Derek pulled away before Stiles did. When Derek exhaled, it was a warm blast on Stiles's face. Stiles emitted a quiet sound of impatience because he had not signed up for a chaste peck. Kissing Derek Hale wasn't like Stiles expected. For one thing, there was no scratch of scruff against his face. Agnes was to blame for depriving him of beard action.

They got the angle better for the second attempt.

By the third, Stiles's confidence had increased enough to part his lips, encouraging Derek with teeth and tongue. The overall sloppiness skyrocketed, but Stiles was fine with that development. Derek appeared to be cool with it too, judging by the handsy route the werewolf had taken.

Stiles nipped Derek's lower lip, earning what was either a groan or a growl or some combination of the two. The porch post had somehow wound up behind his back, offering much needed support as Derek pressed against him. There was a well-placed thigh that had him close to whimpering. His fingers clutched at Derek's sweater vest, which proved as soft as it appeared.

"Ahem."

They both whipped around to look at Agnes who was observing them with an unamused expression. Nothing like an old lady standing watch to serve as an immediate boner killer. Stiles would have leapt away, but he was kind of wedged between Derek's body and the wooden post. Both were equally unrelenting. But the porch definitely wasn't the one groping his ass.

"I think you boys have made your point. That will be enough." While Agnes seemed to still disapprove, she also came across as resigned to the matter. She'd set the terms, and they had fulfilled them. When Derek and Stiles stayed frozen where they were, she heaved a sigh and irritably swatted at them from a good five feet away. "You may go now."

Derek jerked back from Stiles but not before grabbing hold of Stiles's hand. Stiles was too surprised to put up much of a fuss as Derek led him down the stairs to the path. They had done the thing. Multiple things. His lips throbbed, and his head buzzed pleasantly.

"Don't think this is over yet. I will have my Snowball back," Agnes reminded them.

Derek stopped at the foot of the stairs. "You took advantage of my trust, Agnes. I won't forgive that lightly." The warmth had drained from Derek's voice. Repeated betrayals had left their scars, but nothing could make each new violation easier to bear. "Never cast a spell on me or any of those I care about again." The threat was implicit. Derek may be letting the old woman off of the hook this time, but that courtesy had its limits.

If Agnes hadn't realized how much she had screwed up, she did now. Derek squeezed Stiles's hand and resumed walking.

Stiles couldn't resist sticking out his tongue at Agnes as he passed her because he was forever five years old at heart. She flashed him the middle finger. So that round might have gone to her, but he had reclaimed Derek, and therefore, he was the winner.

----

Stiles rapped on the front door with his elbow because his hands were full. Nerves had him bouncing on his toes. As the saying went, third time was the charm. A small part of him wanted to drop this newest endeavor and run for the hills for which Beacon Hills was purportedly named. (As opposed to the supernatural beacon of doom aspect.) Let Derek find and harangue him later if he disliked it.

The door opened slowly. Derek stood in the doorway, his broad shoulder lodged against the doorframe to prevent entrance.

Derek eyed him for a full ten seconds before deigning to speak. "Don't you have a key?"

"Well, yes. But only because I borrowed Isaac's and made myself a copy." Stiles smiled sheepishly but likewise not about to apologize. It was sensible for him to own a key to Derek's loft. Utilizing ulterior methods to obtain one shouldn't strike Derek as a bombshell. Honestly, he couldn't be expected to scale an apartment building and enter through the skylight, which, sure, he could totally pull off through sheer ingenuity if forced.

"Borrowed implies you asked permission. The word you're looking for here is stole." Derek looked comfortable leaning there with his arms crossed over his chest and his hair the tiniest bit rumpled. Based on the wrinkled Henley and the bare feet, Stiles suspected he had interrupted a nap. The couch did get bathed in a warm wave of sunlight around this time. He curled his toes inside his sneakers.

"I'm sure it was just a gross oversight that you neglected to give me one. So, I took it upon myself to correct it. You're welcome." After all, Alpha duties could keep a person quite preoccupied.

Derek finally took notice of the surprise Stiles held. For this latest attempt, Stiles had decided to ditch wrapping paper altogether. (It seemed Derek associated shiny paper with trouble.) Instead, Stiles settled for folding it as neatly as possible, hoping that would suffice.

"I crafted again." Stiles held out his arms toward Derek, who stepped backwards warily.

"What did you do this time?" Derek's hands were raised, palms facing forward as if to fend Stiles and his present off.

"Calm down. You're going to like this one, I swear." Stiles took this opportunity to step inside the loft.He used his heel to slide the door shut behind him. Since Derek didn't appear to be willing to simply accept the gift like a reasonable person, Stiles shook out the present to prove nothing ominous was hidden among its folds.

He craned his head to the side to peer around its edge and watch Derek's face for clues. Bolting might work when they were at Casa Stilinski, but Stiles suspected Derek wouldn't jump out of the window of his own home. It was a long fall, even for a werewolf.

The tension gradually drained out of Derek. His eyebrows only jumped once before settling into a skeptical arch. "A blanket?"

"Mmhm. A quilt to be precise. Everyone contributed something," Stiles explained, surveying Derek's examination of the various square patches. The needlework was sloppy in places but picked up in quality once Stiles borrowed a sewing machine. He had chosen a simple pattern. In his defense, it was his first time quilting. A majority of his time had been spent obsessively rearranging the squares. There had been no hope of making the diverse sections somehow follow any reasonable design visually. Since he lacked the delicate nose of a werewolf, he couldn't organize them by complimentary scents either.

He liked to believe that he hadn't done a bad job despite his limitations. Jackson's square was consigned to a far corner so that one could easily banish him to the stinky foot zone. He'd paired Boyd and Erica's together and so forth.

"Thanks," Derek murmured while fingering a familiar plaid square.

"No problem." Stiles beamed. It took a monumental effort not to fist pump, perform a celebratory jig, or throw his arms up into the air. Derek freaking liked the quilt. Honest to God liked it. At long last, he had intentionally crafted something that Derek didn't detest upon sight. (The fingerless gloves failed to qualify since he hadn't made them with Derek in mind, and the dude had stealth bought them from his Etsy store.)

Bragging could be saved for later. Truly, this was a victory that deserved to be passed down for generations. Scott was a good sport for tolerating his gloating. The rest of the pack would want to learn firsthand in great detail that the quilt had been a triumph.

The quilt counted as a group effort. Each member had dedicated an article of clothing, something that that person wore enough for their scent to thoroughly work itself into every fiber. Somewhere along the line, it had come to symbolize the group as a whole. The pieces of their motley crew came to form, well, a blanket if you wanted to get literal, but it was representative of their bond.

Derek lifted the quilt from his arms, handling it with utmost care. 

Stiles's cheeks ached from smiling so hard. When he sold stuff on Etsy, he never got to witness the customer's reaction firsthand. Reviews could only convey so much. This though? This was a feeling he wished he could bottle up and savor.

"Come on, don't you want to test it out?" Derek had already made some headway toward the couch and looked back expectantly at Stiles over his shoulder.

Stiles bobbed his head. "Hell yes. I am an excellent guinea pig when it comes to curling up under blankets." He jogged in Derek's wake, unable to believe his good luck.

The couch was wide enough to comfortably seat three people if you wanted to limit it to one person per cushion. Otherwise, you could plausibly cram five people together without anyone needing to sit on someone's lap. The pack had done every combination known to mankind short of an orgy. In Derek's loft of mostly bland colors, the couch was a nice splash of blue.

Stiles hesitated, uncertain where on the couch he should sit. It would be weird if they took opposite ends. Lately, he worried that what had happened on the front porch had set them back years. Every time they met since, they'd maintained a safe distance of three or so feet. Stiles wanted to respect Derek's personal space. Who knew what Derek wanted? 

His thumbnail had worked its way between his teeth where he chewed it ruthlessly. Werewolf-related stress exacerbated his nervous habits. His poor nails had only recently grown back from the ordeal of Derek's disappearance.

"You're not going to be tested on the deeper meaning of your seating preferences," Derek said, interrupting Stiles's internal meltdown.

Stiles blinked at Derek. 

Derek sighed in return. "You like the left corner."

"…I do?"

"Yes. That spot always smells like you. Now sit."

Stiles obediently planted his ass as dictated, watching wide-eyed as Derek sat next to him and spread the quilt over both of them. Their thighs were touching. That was it. The quilt was the best idea ever.

A silence descended. Stiles was uncertain whether it was awkward or comfortable. Was it possible for it to be both? Derek seemed content to sit back and relax without uttering a word.

Stiles lasted two more minutes. "I went to the yarn store earlier today." He snorted at Derek's alarmed expression. "It's cool. Roberta and Esther are temporarily in charge." It had been a pleasant to discovery that not all old ladies found him a menace to society. Esther had given him tips about yarn types while Roberta wrote a list of craft help books he should check out of the local library. The head librarian was a close friend of the couple's. (Stiles made a mental note about the geriatric network potentially controlling the town.)

In the end, he'd bought ten balls of yarn and a pair of new needles when he'd only come in to snoop around, so maybe they'd pulled one over him with their tag-teaming sales pitch. Stiles didn't really mind either way. "Agnes is out of town on a trip. They mentioned Alaska, so I'd say she's gone to visit Snowball."

"As long as she isn't planning to break him out," Derek groused. It was going to take more than fifteen pairs of knitted socks for Agnes to work her way back into his good graces. She had sent a care package every day of the week. Isaac kept tabs for the rest of the pack.

"I'm sure they have tight security. I mean, the staff members are reformed hunters."

What do you do with a giant yeti who hasn't killed anyone in cold blood but is temperamental and unsuited for living among humankind? Ship him off to a secret wildlife sanctuary that specialized in supernatural creatures. Not every hunter who learned about their heritage took up a crossbow or a handgun. Running a sanctuary dedicated to mythological monsters employed a hunter's skillset minus an exorbitant amount of bloodshed.

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose. "Your ability to be reassuring is something else."  

"Word through the veterinarian grapevine is that Snowball has found himself a sweet Sasquatch beau. Agnes won't dare break up true love."

Derek let out a half of a laugh before catching himself and cutting it short. It was rusty and surprised and Stiles loved the sound of it.

They fell into a slightly more comfortable silence for a few more minutes.

"You never put any new items up for sale on Etsy."

Stiles glanced at Derek in astonishment that the other had noticed. "Oh, uh. I've been preoccupied." He trailed off. Admitting that he had channeled all of his crafting efforts into wooing Derek would be too embarrassing.

They could only put off this inevitable conversation for so long. Well, maybe Derek could last for years and years, but Stiles had reached his exploding point a while ago.

Stiles drew in a deep breath. "Look, you're my fake Sad Etsy Boyfriend, and I'm your fake mate. And when our powers combine, our sexual tension shoots through the roof, and we're compatible when it comes to kissing under duress. We share a number of hobbies, including but not limited to: knitting, fighting evil, and playing chess. Maybe the universe is trying to give us a subtle hint to dump the fakes and make it official." Stiles pressed his lips together to prevent a rambling speech. His romantic delivery could use some work. He couldn't bring himself to look at Derek. Instead, he fixed his gaze on a square that had once been one of Scott's older jackets.

Derek's fingers found Stiles's hand beneath the quilt.

"I wouldn't be opposed to a trial-run," Derek said quietly.

"Yes. Okay. Wait, what does that mean exactly? Are you conducting a scientific experiment?" Stiles's fingers agitatedly flexed and curled around Derek's.

"We start with one date and see how it goes from there." Derek's thumb traced lazy circles along Stiles's palm.

"…that sounds promising. I am down. When is the date? Do I need to dress up? Are we going bowling? Or to the movies? Let's not do the ice rink. Or the yarn store. Ester pinches cheeks and not the ones on your face."

Derek put a stop to Stiles's babbling with a fast kiss that left Stiles dazed.

"It starts now. Are you okay with Chinese takeout?" Derek pulled out his cell phone with his free hand. Stiles didn't judge him for having the restaurant on speed dial.

"Um, yeah. Sweet and sour chicken. Please tell me you're getting beef chow mein." Stiles bobbed his head up and down before frowning. "Are you ashamed of going out with me in public? Wait, did Scott tell you about the walrus tusk chopsticks incident, because I swear, that only happened once."

"My life doesn't revolve around adhering to humanity's werewolf stereotypes. That is why I'm ordering the duck. Your dad is the sheriff, you're seventeen, and I don't want to get arrested."

"Right. Makes sense. I'm cool with slow. We'll embrace our inner tortoises. Our plan will be like...fifty years. Slow and steady."

Derek squeezed his hand. "Quit worrying. I'm nervous too."

And that was a relief. Derek's track record may have been atrocious while Stiles was just lacking any track record whatsoever, but they were going to do this anyway, one date at a time.

----

Isaac stood in the doorway gaping at them. There was nothing to see here. Just two fully-clothed dudes cuddling on a couch beneath a quilt with a pile of empty takeout containers littering the table. Stiles was working his way through his fourth fortune cookie.

"Hi Isaac! Derek likes the quilt!" Stiles shot him two thumbs up, mindful that he didn't elbow Derek in the face.

"This is the flaw of a loft, Derek." Isaac chose to ignore Stiles in favor of addressing the Alpha. "The lack of walls defeats the purpose of telling you to get a room. Just text me when it's safe to come home." He flipped the end of his new scarf over his shoulder, turned around, and exited.

A drowsy Derek barely mustered an eye roll before settling into the crook of Stiles's arm.

"Next time, we'll hang on a sock on the doorknob!" Stiles called after Isaac, depending on those werewolf ears to hear him through the door.

"Or that stupid penis cozy," Derek muttered, clearly wishing Stiles would turn down the volume back to an indoor voice. Loud teenagers were not conducive to post-meal naps.

"Does this mean what I think it means? Did you keep it? Did you try it on? Did it fit?"

"Stiles, I will use that condom to gag you if you don't shut up." Derek's glower might have been more threatening if he wasn't doing it with the blanket pulled up to his chin.

Stiles grinned and mimed zipping his lips. There were a number of things he'd do for Derek's sake whether it was encouraging his knitting habit or wooing the guy with homemade gifts. This was just the beginning. Maybe next they could collaborate on a project or something sappy. Who knew? Perhaps he'd obtain Derek's legit measurements eventually. For today though, he was content to snuggle Derek like a goofball.