Chapter Text
The first time Derek sees Stiles, he has his hands down Scott’s pants. Derek’s reaction, of course, is to turn bright red, do an about face, and march out of the room… only seconds before Stiles yanks his hand out of Scott’s boxers, and Scott gives a happy grin and says,
“Thanks dude, that tag has been bothering me all day.”
Stiles makes a face at him.
“Whatever,” he mutters, “I’m just glad no one saw. They’d think I have horrible taste.”
Derek might also catch a glimpse of the extremely undignified wrestling that follows, and may mistake it for something else entirely.
. . . .
Stile’s sees Derek for the first time two days later. They’re at a random house party (because as the youngest lacrosse captain in the history of basically ever, Scott is suddenly the hottest girl at the prom, and is subsequently being courted by all the best fraternities. Stiles is a packaged deal). Stiles turns to ask Scott a question and nearly chokes on his drink because holy sweet God in heaven,
“Who the hell is that?!”
“Dude,” Scott moans, wiping beer off of his face and yeah, okay, maybe Stiles did spit a little bit, “Him? That’s Derek Hale- you know, Laura’s brother?”
“The spawn of Satan has a brother?”
Scott stops inspecting his t-shirt for damages, and gets this hurt puppy look on his face,
“Laura is not the spawn of Satan,” he says, and Stiles rolls his eyes.
“Sure,” he mutters, “She’s nice to you,” Scott opens his mouth to object, but Stiles waves him off, “Dude, whatever, I don’t even care- just, how? I didn't even know she had a brother. I mean, he’s never even been to our place?”
Scott sips his drink.
“They don’t really get along.”
Across the room, Derek’s bicep flexes as he pounds a shot, and Stiles turns to Scott with a gleam in his eyes.
“We have to pledge,” he says, “Now.”
. . . .
Three days later, they’re introduced.
“Scott,” Stiles is riffling through his bag, one hand paused on the doorknob, “We’re going to be late for my dad, man, you know he hates that!”
“Just a sec!” Scott yells, head buried deep in one of the cabinets, “I have to find that casserole dish he lent us!”
“Ugh!” Stiles stamps his feet, punctuating each word with a sharp exhale, “Come. On.”
There’s a clattering sound, and then Scott is pulling himself out from the cabinet, hair sticking up from one side of his head,
“You don’t understand,” he stresses, wide-eyed and tousle-haired, “They were the. Best. Nachos. I need them Stiles, don’t mess with this!”
Stiles gives a dramatic eye roll,
“C’mon dude,” he sighs, “he’ll make you more even if you don’t return he dish. Let’s go.”
Scott shakes his head,
“I can’t take that chance,” he says solemnly, and dives back into the cabinet.
Stiles heaves a huge sigh.
“Fine,” he says, “Fine, I’ll wait outside, okay? Just don’t fuck everything up in there- I just organized that shit.”
And that’s the moment when he pulls open the door and almost falls into the ridiculously muscular chest of Derek Freaking Hale.
“Oh,” he says, righting himself and trying not to stare too obviously, “Um, hi?”
“Hi.” Derek growls, “I have a package for Laura. It came to my house.”
Stiles looks at the package. It has Laura scribbled across it in large black letters, and nothing else. Stiles blinks,
“Uh, okay?” he says, “Well, she’s not here right now but you could come inside and wait for her or-”
“Stiles!” Scott yells, appearing in the doorway beside him, with the casserole dish held triumphantly over his head, “I found your dad’s dish! Now we can give it to him at dinner.”
Derek gets a pinched look on his face.
“Nevermind,” he says, and thrusts the package at Stiles before leaping off of the porch and practically sprinting away. Stiles sags against the doorframe with an elaborate sigh,
“Man,” he says.
Scott is riffling through the package.
“Uh, this is full of packing peanuts?” he says, “And there’s no address. How did it even get to Derek’s house anyway?”
“I don’t know” Stiles gives the package a longing look, “But I hope there’s more!”