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“Come on, Derek, let a little loose, have a little fun,” Erica says, throwing him a look before she checks her rearview mirror. Derek is already regretting not having asked Boyd to pick him up instead. “It’s just a party at a bar. I’m gonna be there, Boyd’s gonna be there, Isaac’s gonna be there, too. You won’t even be alone.”
Derek scoots a little lower in the seat, crossing his arms over his chest. He knows she strategically planned to have this conversation in the car where he can’t run away from it.
“My definition of fun does not include Valentine’s Day parties at questionable establishments,” he points out. “I’ll happily go out with you any other day as long as I don’t have to socialize with other people.”
Erica huffs. “The entire point is that you socialize with other people, Derek.”
He rolls his head to the side to look at her. “It’s a Valentine’s Day party, Erica, it is specifically targeted at desperate single men and women. While I appreciate that you don’t want me to die alone and loveless, I don’t feel the need to mingle in a pool of people who see this party as a sort of last resort, or an opportunity to find a quick fuck just so they can tell their friends they didn’t spend Valentine’s by themselves.”
Erica glances at him with a softness in her eyes that makes him swallow. “I see your point,” she concedes after a beat. “But, babe, when’s the last time you had fun?”
“I always have fun when I hang out with you guys.”
She rolls her eyes. “Derek, don’t play dumb. You know what I mean.”
“If by fun you mean sex—and right now I don’t know if that’s what you mean because your voice isn’t doing the thing—then—”
Erica makes a frustrated noise, which is a rare thing happening. It means she really is fed up with him.
“I don’t just mean sex, you moron,” she snaps, cutting him a quick annoyed glance. “Although when I say fun, sex is included but not limited to it. I mean fun in the broadest sense of the word. When’s the last time you felt exhilarated, excited, giddy?”
Derek turns his head away from her and rolls his eyes, so Erica doesn’t see. He is so not in the mood for this. “Look, going to this party isn’t going to make me feel any of that.”
“That still so does not answer my question,” Erica says. They’re at a red light and she’s fixing her lipstick. She looks over at him with a raised brow, clearly expecting an answer that Derek can’t give; or rather, doesn’t feel comfortable giving because it’s been a hell of a long time since he’s last felt any of what she asked. It makes him wonder what the fuck he’s been doing all this time.
His life, Derek comes to realize at that, has become boring. Unwilling to admit this to Erica, unthinking, he says the first thing that comes to mind. “Look, I didn’t wanna say anything because I didn’t want your pity, but I was seeing this guy a couple of weeks ago…and I thought that thing between us was going somewhere. He didn’t. I was excited about that, and now I kinda want a break.”
Derek stares at his hands, wondering if he lost his mind too when all the excitement had left his life. As far as doing dumbass things go, this might be the dumbest fucking thing he’s ever pulled. Erica’s a walking bullshit detector if he’s ever seen one, adding to the fact that she’s known him all her life, so chances of fooling her are rather slim. More importantly, he knows she would’ve been understanding if he’d told her the truth. As much shit as she gives him sometimes, she has a feeling for when to push him, and when to be gentle and sympathetic.
“Oh,” she says, though, after a stretch of silence. Derek closes his eyes, relieved, despite himself, that she bought his story. “I’m sorry, Derek.”
He shrugs limply, putting on his best disappointed face. He needs to sort his shit out. Erica is silent, but she keeps glancing at him with worry. Derek doesn’t pay it much mind until he notices her expression morphing into something else; an expression, he has come to learn, that never bodes well for him.
“Where does he live?” she asks before Derek can come up with anything to say, and it startles him.
“What?”
“Where—does he—live?” she repeats, enunciating every word carefully, a dangerous gleam in her eyes.
Derek panics. Blindly, he points at a house up ahead. “There. Why?”
Erica cuts a quick glance at the back seats before reaching there with one hand. It comes back holding a carton of eggs. She stops on the street across the house, turning to look at Derek with a wide, vindictive grin.
“Because you’re going to egg his house.”
“Are you kidding me.”
“Come on, Derek, don’t tell me you don’t want to take revenge just a little bit,” Erica says, pushing the carton of eggs into his hands. “Plus, you loved egging houses when we were younger.”
“Erica, are you out of your goddamn mind?” Derek hisses, pushing the eggs back at her. “I can’t egg his house. I’m not ten anymore.”
She rolls her eyes. “So what? Look, the entire house is dark. Nobody’s even home. You’ll be in and out, and no one will know. And, I bet you’ll feel so much better after.”
Derek should’ve known that his lie would come to bite him royally in the ass faster than he’d like. He could just come clean, of course. That’s the easiest and quickest option. An option that doesn’t even cross his disturbingly making-things-far-more-complicated-than-they-have-to-be wired mind. It is a disease, quite possibly. Or maybe some weird strand of masochism. Derek should have someone look into it.
The other option, and that one is the one Derek’s brain flags as the only viable one, is to commit to his lie. Derek is—he feels it deeply in his bones, in the very core of who he is—unable to confess to Erica that he is a ginormous loser who only just realized how boring his life is; in fact, so boring that he’d rather make up a fake ex-potential-boyfriend than admit that he could use a little more excitement in it.
God, he is such a poor bastard.
Erica is holding the carton of eggs out to him.
“Fuck it,” Derek says as he grabs it and gets out of the car. He crosses the street.
The house is all dark and there’s no car in the driveway. There is a garage, however, but since there are no lights on anywhere he assumes no one’s home. Derek gets picks up an egg, closing his fingers around its smooth surface. Erica was right: he loved this when he was a kid. It had caused him enough trouble and it’s debatable whether or not it’s a good thing when children egg houses, but then again—he was just that: a dumb kid. He isn’t anymore now, but it’s either this or owning up to his shit. And honestly? Derek’d rather egg a house.
He has matured quite nicely. Mom would be so proud if she knew what he was pulling right now.
He throws the first egg. The sound of it connecting with the facade makes him wince but when he looks over his shoulder back at Erica she only motions him to continue. Derek turns back to the house, purses his lips, takes a deep breath to brace himself against the absurdity of this very much self-inflicted stupid situation, and throws the next egg.
Oddly enough, by egg four, it does start to feel—good. He’s not proud to admit it—which he never will, anyway—but it does revive memories of his childhood; and even if this is all make-believe and fake, he’s always had somewhat of a vindictive streak in him that makes him giddy with the feeling of getting revenge, even if it’s a fake revenge on a fake ex-boyfriend.
(There’s definitely something wrong with him.)
The feeling lasts until a car pulls into the driveway that he didn’t even notice coming, too wrapped up in his own made up vendetta. It is, because Derek’s just that lucky, a police cruiser. Derek’s frozen on the spot, poised to throw the next egg, and a tiny alarm voice in his head is screaming at him to run, but the shock paralyzes him. This is what it feels to be a deer trapped in the headlights, Derek concludes.
It takes him all the time between the car pulling into the driveway, the cop getting out of the car and coming to a halt next to him that Derek realizes that the officer didn’t specifically seem to be here for him. From the casual and unhurried way the policeman moves, Derek’s (fake- (as so many things today)) fight mood brain deducts, he lives here. He lives in this house. In the house Derek is egging.
Derek’s egging a cop’s house.
His eyes fall on the star on the man’s chest, and yes, Derek has officially hit the jackpot. He’s not just egging a cop’s house, oh, no no, he’s egging the sheriff’s house.
He might start weeping. It’s a close call.
“Son,” the sheriff says, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looks like he’s a second away from an aneurysm. “Put the egg down.”
Derek obeys. In fact, he wants to simply throw the entire carton away; though, not at the house, of course.
The sheriff give him an inquisitive once over, then continues to stare at Derek with a scrutiny that makes him want to die. He’s actually willing his racing heart to go into arrest but it doesn’t comply. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that his lie would snowball into something that literally buries him in his own fucking idiocy.
“I assume a grown man such as yourself has a good reason for egging my house,” the sheriff prompts as Derek continues wordlessly staring at him.
Derek straightens. His brain is still offline from the sheer amount of panic that continues to wash over him, and he can practically hear Erica’s hysteric hyena laughter as she, most likely, cowers in the car.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Derek manages, with little help from the crisis management center of his brain. “I wasn’t aware that—it’s just—your son cheated on me…”
Derek’s pretty sure there’s actually a red alarm light blinking brightly inside his head and he can see its reflection behind his eyeballs, but that might be the fear. It’s very likely that he’s digging his own grave at this rate, considering that he doesn’t even know if the sheriff has a kid and if said kid is of an age that would make them eligible for Derek to date them in the first place.
Derek is committed, yes. He’s also a fucking moron.
The sheriff looks him up and down once more before he claps a hand on Derek’s shoulder and squeezes it lightly in a manner that seems sympathetic.
“You’re one of those poor guys,” he sighs, deep, and starts herding Derek towards the front door. Derek’s too dumbfounded to do anything but let himself be shooed in, brain finally coming back online to fucking try and decipher what the fuck is going on.
“Stiles!” The sheriff calls as soon as they’re through the door. “You have a visitor!”
Now it’s Derek’s turn to almost have an aneurysm. So, apparently the sheriff does have a son of legal age, and Derek can’t decide whether he’s happy or scared shitless about it. On the one hand, of course, it means he’s more or less out of hot water with the sheriff; on the other, more pressing hand, he is about to meet his fake ex-boyfriend who cheated on him, apparently, and Derek doesn’t have the faintest of clues how to handle that particular situation. He has a brief moment to wonder how he even managed to get himself into such an absolutely bizarre scenario before said Stiles comes sliding down the banister.
Derek’s heart launches itself into his throat leaving him breathless for an entire other reason than being trapped in a magnificent lie: Stiles, as it turns out, his fake ex-boyfriend who doesn’t even know about his fake ex-relationship, is a waking wet dream in the dirtiest sense of the word. Derek didn’t even know he has a type until his eyes land on Stiles.
Stiles. Derek’s brain is eagerly repeating the name which makes it that much harder to form a game plan that would also make it possible to convey to Stiles to please play along. Stiles is as tall as Derek, with broad shoulders but slimmer build. His dark hair looks as if he’s been tugging on it relentlessly; there is white tape wound around several of his fingers. He’s pale, and over his skin there’s a spread of moles. What captivates Derek most of all, though, are his honey-colored eyes that fixate on Derek with a curious, inquisitive look, mouth (oh God, that mouth) slightly open in surprise. If Derek doesn’t pay attention, his dick will take it from here, and that might be unwise.
Stiles’ eyes wander from Derek to his father (the sheriff, his brain very unhelpfully reminds him), and then back to Derek as if he has no idea what’s going on. Which—he doesn’t.
When the silence stretches on for too long, Stiles finally asks, suspicious, “What’s going on?”
That what kicks Derek into gear. “What’s going on?” he repeats, and his voice sounds hysterical even to his own ears. “What’s going on? Do you have any idea what you—I’m fucking egging your house to get revenge!”
Stiles stares at him, dumbstruck. His eyes travel down to where Derek’s still holding the carton of eggs, back up, to his dad, and back to Derek. Derek can only begin to guess what’s going on in his head at this moment, but then Stiles’ expression morphs into something thunderous and he crosses his arms over his chest defensively.
“Revenge?” he hisses with narrowed eyes. “For what?”
Derek almost throws the carton at his face. “For wha—are you serious right now? For cheating on me, you spineless piece of—”
“Cheating!” Stiles explodes. “I never cheated on you!”
“Oh, don’t lie to me,” Derek spits, taking a step so he’s up in Stiles’ grill. Stiles doesn’t back down, just glares at Derek with a fiery look in his eyes as if Derek mortally offended him. “I saw you with—with that—God, I feel like such an idiot.”
“Well, you quite obviously are an idiot because I. Didn’t. Cheat.”
Derek snorts. “Are you really that much of a coward that you have to keep lying to my face?”
Stiles barks out a laugh at that, throwing his head back, and Derek tries hard to focus on the situation at hand and not at the exposed column of Stiles’ neck.
“You were caught by my father egging my house,” Stiles snaps and rolls his eyes. “For revenge. May I remind you that you broke up with me—”
“You cheated on me!” Derek almost screams it in his face. He can hear the blood rushing in his ears, the heat in his own cheeks, and his heart hasn’t slowed down since the sheriff caught him outside. Yet, he’s never felt so—exhilarated.
Stiles steps even closer, furious and beautiful. “How often do I have to tell you that I didn’t cheat on you,” he repeats, calm but fierce, and still so much anger in his voice. “I could’ve never—but you just assumed! And then you didn’t even confront me, you just decided—” His voice breaks suddenly, and he steps back, hurt flashing over his face. “You didn’t even give me a chance to explain.”
Derek deflates. He holds on to the carton like a lifeline. “You said we’d spend Valentine’s together,” he says quietly. “Do something that is decidedly very much un-Valentine’s because it’s commercial capitalistic crap.”
Stiles falls back against the banister, hands behind his back, and looks at Derek. There’s quiet anger in his eyes, but he seems hurt and disappointed, and Derek thinks he’s a great actor; wonders what kind of person Stiles is that he so effortlessly goes along with Derek’s charade without even knowing what’s going on.
“I didn’t cheat on you,” Stiles says again, casting his eyes down. “I don’t know who you saw me with—”
“That—woman,” Derek spits, heckles rising again as he thinks about that fake spotting. “You two looked very chummy.”
Stiles’ head snaps up and he snorts. “‘Chummy’? Are you for real?”
Derek drops his shoulder and looks up at the ceiling in exasperation and anger. He splays out his hands looking back at Stiles. “You wanted to explain? You just had a chance, but instead you were a baby about it.”
Stiles straightens, hands balled to fists at his sides. “Oh, you’re so mature yourself throwing eggs at my house for having your feelings hurt,” Stiles shoots back, voice taking on a mocking tone that drives Derek nuts.
They stare each other down for several moments during which neither of them says any more. It still has Derek’s heart beating faster with excitement. Nobody’s going to believe him if he ever told the full story. The entire situation is ludicrous, even now, to Derek himself, and he’d been sure that his fate was pretty much sealed. It’s probably a ridiculous amount of sheer dumb luck that he didn’t end up being arrested or exposed for the incredible loser he is, and he sure as hell needs to take Stiles out for drinks for going along with this when this is all over. Although, he’s sure he can come up with several other ways of how he could repay his fake ex-boyfriend.
Stiles scuffs his foot against the floor, clears his throat. “That woman you saw me with,” he starts, looking down, voice quiet. “She’s one of my best friends since childhood. Lydia. My dad can actually attest to that. So yeah, that’s probably why we looked—” Stiles pauses as he looks up, then rolls his eyes, and makes air quotes with his fingers, “‘chummy’. And if she knew you were accusing me of having cheated on you with her—” Stiles huffs out a laugh. “She would laugh and laugh until she was blue in the face.”
It’s dumb, really, but it kind of makes Derek feel horrible for having thrown that accusation at Stiles. Fake as it was. Derek clears his throat, swallowing.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Stiles throws his hands up, arches his brows. “Because you dumped me and told me not to call you!”
“Oh.” Derek blinks. He’s only a little bit offended that Stiles turned this whole thing around and pinned it on him but then again, Derek kind of dragged an unwitting Stiles into this entire mess, so. He shouldn’t be complaining.
“Anyway,” Stiles says pushing away from the banister and swinging his arms idly, awkwardly, as if unsure of what to do now that they’ve blown off all their steam. “For what it’s worth, I was really looking forward to spending Valentine’s doing decidedly very un-Valentine’s things with you. Now I got only this.” He holds up his hands and wiggles his wrapped up fingers. “Sores from pushing the controller for too long too hard.”
It’s an invitation. It takes Derek a second to realize because never in a million years he’d thought Stiles would leave it open like that. Here he is now, though, with Stiles not giving him a line to neatly wrap up their fake breakup, but instead to mend it. Derek’s heart beats a little faster, soars a little higher, swells a little bigger.
Except, he stalls. There’s probably so much he could answer to that, but nothing adequate comes to mind. Nothing that feels organic enough to transition into it. Stiles is looking at him with big eyes, a searching glint in them as if he was trying to gauge Derek’s reaction; if he offered the right branch or not.
Derek only manages, what he assumes to be, a pretty dumbstruck smile when Stiles’ father clears his throat from the doorway to the kitchen next to them, holding a beer in his hand. Derek almost jumps a foot.
“You can start spending Valentine’s together by grabbing some rags and a bucket of water and go clean those eggs off my house before they dry up,” the sheriff offers with a long-suffering sigh.
Stiles squawks indignantly. “I didn’t throw the damn eggs!”
His father fixes him with an unimpressed look, and Stiles deflates, grumbling under his breath. He steps forward, fists a hand in Derek’s shirt and pulls him in, staring at him with a fierce glint in his gaze. “You better come up with some romantic as fuck shit to make this up to me,” he says, softly, but with a clear challenge in his voice nevertheless. He lets go of Derek then, takes the carton of eggs and disappears in the kitchen.
The sheriff takes a swig from his beer as he raises his eyebrows at Derek. He taps his temple with a finger and says, “Communication,” then pats Derek’s shoulder once more and trots off deeper into the house.
Stiles returns with rags and water, ushers Derek outside.
As soon as the door is closed behind them, Stiles sticks a finger in Derek’s face. “Okay, you don’t know me, but if you did, you’d know that accusing me of cheating is ludicrous because I would never.”
Derek raises his hands in surrender. “I can’t believe you went along with this.”
Stiles steps back, a blinding smile on his face. He quirks a brow as he twirls and walks to the garage to get a ladder, as it turns out.
“I haven’t had that much fun in a while,” Stiles says with a grin. He also grabbed a flashlight and starts searching the facade for traces of egg. “I can’t believe you got caught egging the house by my dad,” he adds, laughing a little too hard, and Derek can feel his ears grow hot.
“Trust me, it was a wild ride from start to finish,” Derek mutters.
“Is it finished, then?” Stiles asks. He’s fiddling with a rag looking at his hands, and Derek catches it, that tone in his voice that sounds a little wavering, a little unsure, kind of hopeful.
Derek smiles, feeling giddy. “I don’t think it is.”
Stiles looks up at him, smiles brightly, and Derek’s breath hitches.
“Yeah? You gonna tell me all about it while we do decidedly un-Valentine’s things on Valentine’s Day?”
“Every little detail,” Derek promises.