Chapter Text
“Enthusiasm, Hale. I need to know that you want to be here. Don’t you want to be here?”
He’s here during the first few weeks of summer break after finishing his exams, measuring the oxygen consumption of fish embryos in a basement lab within the anatomy building. A sarcastic ‘would I be here at nine o’clock on a Friday night if I wasn’t’ feels appropriate, but it won’t win him any favours with the locals. Neither would punching the other lab intern, trying and failing to muffle his sniggers in the stained sleeve of his lab coat. Why it was Derek, again, getting a lecture from their supervisor and not Stilinski, the over-excitable hurricane of careless limbs and energy who had narrowly avoided electrocuting himself during experimental set-up last week - was beyond him.
(Derek was convinced it was Stilinski who was responsible for the fire alarm before lunch today. Come to think of it, the one they had day before was equally suspect. How the kid had managed to get away with so much was beyond him.)
“I do, sir.”
"Then act like it. This is a valuable opportunity for you -" here he swivels on his heel, but miraculously, Stilinski is looking normal, for once; "- two to gain some experience running your own projects. You showed the interest, now work for it.”
He pivots neatly and makes his way across the lab as Stilinski raises an amused brow at his retreating back. Derek straightens his shoulders and makes his way past stiffly, trailing behind him until they reach his workstation and Stiles sidles right up beside him.
“So. What’d you do to set him off this time?”
The vein in his temple throbs, and Derek has to put down his things and breathe for a moment. When Derek does turn to face him, his expression must show some of what he is feeling at the moment, as Stilinski takes a step back, raising his hands as he adds: “not that I think you did anything, really. The guy’s a douchebag; he’s just looking for an excuse to vent.”
“He’s definitely not acting like a professional.”
Derek turns back to his bench, changing his gloves and grimacing at the stickiness of his fingers before he resumes clearing his workstation. After a moment, Stilinski – Stiles, he preferred Stiles - lowers his backpack and pitches in too, slipping on a pair of gloves and changing the biohazards bag, placing the tied-off old one by the bench while he fetches a new one. Derek pauses, watching his turned back as he finishes and slips off a glove, moving to carry the old bag towards the door, and – eventually – the dumpster outside - trying to parse him out.
It’s not as if they’d talked much during Derek’s time here; he’d gathered that Stiles was a summer student, pitching in between shifts of his part-time job, but they’d spent most of the time working on different projects. Despite that, Stiles had still managed to be a pain in his ass from day one, responsible for the majority of the mishaps around the lab that Derek would inevitably get the blame for – and with his smart mouth and penchant for mischief, Stilinski had earned his a reputation as a menace. Derek honestly doesn't know what to do with this side of him.
When Stiles gets back, Derek has just about decided on the best method of handling the enigma: ignoring it. Except- Stiles doesn’t seem to have the same idea, as he is returning to his previous position, leaning his weight comfortably against Derek’s bench and watching as Derek wipes down the surfaces between them. There’s a smirk playing on his lips when Derek’s cloth reaches his elbow, blinking innocently in the face of Derek’s glare before he pushes off from the desk, moving to a stool and swiveling to face him.
“So."
Derek glances up from where he was previously engaged in carefully stacking up empty embryo dishes when he doesn't continue, shooting him an exasperated look.
"Yes?"
"You never mentioned what happened earlier.”
He watches Stiles for several long moments, before exhaling in a long sigh. It’s not like it’s any sort of secret, but that doesn't mean he's particularly eager to discuss the details. Stiles is watching him though, legs swinging idly from his perch, obviously waiting - and it doesn't look as if Derek is going to have much of a choice. He turns back to the lab bench, bracing himself against the surface and considers walking away from this conversation.
There isn’t much point.
“There was an issue with the probes. They’re reading a different starting level, which means the internal membranes need replacing.” A brief glance back at Stiles face tells Derek that he’s not entirely following, and he lets out another sigh, collecting the stack of embryo dishes before he turns to face him fully, raising a brow as he elaborates: “it means we need to buy new ones."
Stiles expression clears. “Ah. Money, then.”
“Yep. Money.”
"Stingy bastard." Derek lets out a snort, turning his back on Stiles again before he begins to make his way across the room. He catches Stiles wry smile as he reaches the other side of the lab, a crooked upturned corner of his mouth. "Hell, at least he’s paying you."
Derek shoots Stiles a glance over his shoulder from where he's hovering over the sink, trying to work out the logistics with an armful of dishes cradled carefully against his chest. “What gave you that idea?"
Stiles lets out a laugh before he seems to realise that Derek isn’t joking and his expression sobers. “Wait. Seriously? You’re a graduate, and he’s not paying you for this work?”
Derek comes to a decision, shifting the dishes into one arm as he plugs the sink, turning on the tap – he’d not used any chemicals, it’d be easier to let them soak overnight. Once the water level has reached several inches deep, he deposits the dishes to the side of the sink, twisting his head to pitch his voice over his shoulder. “Technically, I’ve not graduated yet. I have one more month."
"Shit."
Stiles voice is closer this time, and Derek turns to find him a couple feet behind him, a hovering presence by the fume cupboard, mouth dropped half open and eyes wide with surprise.
"Why is this so surprising? You’re not getting paid either.”
Stiles shakes his head, tangling a hand in his hair as he tries to run his hands through the strands and gets them caught, adding more disorder to the mess of his hairstyle. He'd had gel in it this morning, as he had every morning, but it meant little by the end of the day due to the number of times he ran his hands through it. His hair always looked like a wild mess. “Just, I thought it was just the juniors he wasn’t bothering to pay."
He leans backwards against a nearby bench, his eyes bright as he considers Derek again, and Derek turns back to the sink, sinking his gloved hands into the lukewarm water and ignoring the flush that burns at the back of his neck under the scrutiny.
It's not long before Stiles throws him another question, his tone pensive. "What are you still doing here?”
“I’ve been here five years. Co-terminal masters. My rent doesn’t run out until September; I heard about this and thought, what the hell.” Derek raises a shoulder in half a shrug, grabbing the first dish and scrubbing lightly at the grooves on its surface, that looked - yep, permanent. They’d have to throw it out. More money spent replacing equipment, and yet another excuse for Harris to berate him. He tries to reign in his anger as he pulls it from the stack and tosses it into the biohazards bin. “I wasn’t quite ready to leave just yet.”
"Hell, this place looked good on paper. It'd be great if it wasn’t for Sir Tyrant, there. What an asshole."
Derek is startled into a laugh as he finishes examining the rest of the dishes - which are fine, thank god - and places them in the water, slipping off his gloves and chucking them into the trash. Well, he couldn’t argue with him there. “Yeah, he is.”
Stiles breaks into a grin from where he’s at some point splayed himself half-across the now-cleared work bench, before he gives a sigh, hopping off the table and getting to his feet. He brushes Derek’s shoulder lightly as he passes, giving a thumbs up and a wink when Derek eyes him with a frown.
“Buck up big guy! That’s you done, right? Want to grab a drink with me? I think we’ve earned it.”
Derek pauses, breaking from his last survey of his work area to glance at the younger man, narrowing his eyes at Stiles' easy smile. “What’s the catch?”
“What? It’s just a drink! No strings attached, I promise.”
Derek has every reason to distrust him, but something about the way Stiles looks: earnest, a small, honest smile playing on the edges of his lips as he fiddles with the strings of hoodie, breaks through to him; Stiles reminds him of himself, during his first few years of university.
“Please?”
And if he's honest with himself, a drink sounds like a really good idea right now.
A genuine grin breaks across Stiles features as if he senses the moment Derek relents and gives him a short nod. His excitement is almost palpable, buzzing in the air as they make their way to the lab's office together, and Derek pauses at the threshold, throwing a glance back at Stiles.
“I can't stay late," he warns, but Stiles doesn't look surprised, his smile unwavering as he leans against the other side of the door frame. He pulls a phone out of his pocket, an old model nokia that was probably invented before internet capability was a feature, spinning it idly between his fingers as his lips twist into a smirk.
“I didn't think you could. I think I remember someone mentioning you’d be out for the next week. Some big get-together?”
Derek is not surprised that he knows about it - he had told the lab at the beginning of the week - but he is somewhat surprised that Stiles had remembered. Stiles had a tendency to come and go in the lab, the demands on his time less stringent than Derek's, and he didn't think he'd paid much attention to the rest of the group.
He doesn't dwell on it, instead moving forward into their shared office to collect the rest of his things, Stiles presence hovering at his back.
--
Derek's just grabbing his coat when he hears a ‘ping’ of a phone notification, and he glances back to see Stiles checking his messages, idly twisting the strap of his bag in his grip with the other. In fact, he’s dressed and ready to leave, his lab bench cleared half an hour ago. He must have hung back after the others left, waiting for him specifically -- and again, Derek finds himself at a loss.
Why didn't he leave earlier?
He can't parse out Stiles' motivations, and it's easier to just cut to the chase. Straightening with his bag slung over one shoulder, he turns to catch Stiles gaze from across the room, gesturing at the empty office.
“Why are you still here? You didn't have to wait for me -- you could have grabbed a drink with the other interns before they left for the weekend.”
“I heard the lecture, and thought you could use a pint of something. I live close, like, walking distance, so it’s no biggie.” His smile wavers, growing sheepish as breaks away from Derek's gaze, staring down at his shoes awkwardly. “And maybe I wanted a chance to see you outside of the lab."
Derek tries to speak up at that, but Stiles raises a hand, flashing him a quick look that says wait. There's a steely light in his gaze and a stubborn set to his jaw, as if he expects a fight. "You haven't joined the group meet-ups once. You always hang back, spend your evenings here. I was hoping to change that."
He rolls his shoulders in a shrug, and finally looks away. "But, you know, I'm not forcing you to come out and have a drink with me.”
Derek's brows furrow into a frown, and he can't help feeling defensive as he crosses his arms over his chest. "It's not that. It just threw me.”
Stiles watches him for a long moment before he finally releases his lower lip from where he'd been toying with it with his teeth.
“That someone would want to get to know you?” His lips twitch into a small smile, before he gives his head a shake and his shoulders slump, losing the tension that had built there just like that. "That's funny."
The urge to roll his eyes to that is too great, and Derek gives into it wholeheartedly, forcing a laugh out of Stiles as a smile turns up the edges of his mouth again.
"So, you do want to come?" He twists his fingers together in front of him, the old battered phone spinning between his fingers once more.
"I said yes, didn't I?"
He nods again, even as his features soften, losing that defensive edge. “I do. Where do you want to go?”
“The bar on campus should still be open.”
“Are you sure? We could try somewhere else.”
Derek eyes him for a moment. “I really don’t think I have as much money as you think I do.”
Stiles glances at him askance, before sticking his tongue out between his teeth. “You know, that’s not the reason why I asked, but fine. The local watering hole it is.”
--
Drinks go surprisingly well, although the campus bar is still the loud, stinking brew-house it’s always been.
They’re lucky though, and manage to find an empty booth in a relatively clean corner of the bar where the music isn’t quite so loud and they can actually hear themselves talk. Alcohol helps with the initial awkwardness, but by the second round of the cheapest pints on campus, they're talking freely about anything and everything: the worst moments with their project supervisor; their favourite lecturers on campus. After the third round, the subject turns to sport, and it turns out Stiles played Lacrosse through high school. Stiles is fascinated by the fact that Derek's sport had been basketball, and when he mentions he'd played a game when his number was called up from the reserves during the first year of his undergrad, Stiles spends the rest of the hour peppering him with questions about it, and his reasons for not keeping it up.
When Stiles glances at his phone, cursing and clapping his hands together in apology with pleas of roommate agreements and time-locked security systems before belting it out the door, Derek isn't really surprised to find himself missing the company.
Finishing up, he glances at the clock above the bar, and he is surprised at how late it is. He’s going to be lucky to get a full eight hours before he hits the road tomorrow, and that’s if he leaves now and jogs back. He’s already decided to pick up the Camaro from the lab in the morning. He’s lucky he really does live just off campus.
Time to go. He gives a roll of his shoulders, leaving a modest tip on the sticky surface of the bar before he hits the road.
--
“No, I don’t think you do understand. Stop, Hale. Just stop.”
Derek looks at him aghast, then back at the list of reagents in his lab book, the calculations for their working solutions partially complete beside them.
“Sir..?”
“That’s enough for today. Pack it away, you’re out of time. We’ll pick this up again next week.”
Derek nods, and turns to leave before his name is called again.
“And Derek? I hope you aren’t expecting a good reference from me.”
Gritting his teeth, Derek gives a short nod before continuing forward, listening as the door of his supervisor’s office clicks shut behind him. When he’s sure he’s out of his supervisor’s line of sight, he collapses against the nearest lab bench, fisting his fingers into his hair.
“Fuck.”
It’s a Friday night; the first after his week break, and anything that possibly could go wrong has gone wrong. Someone had fiddled with the settings of his equipment over the week he’d been gone – he suspected one of the newer interns after he found a labelled pen lid (and just how many interns was Harris going to bring into his lab, anyway? He clearly hated them all; at least, all of them aside from that one student, the awkwardly studious British transfer who dyed her hair ridiculous colours) – and identifying and fixing the problem had resulted in the loss of the entire day. Harris was not pleased.
To top it all off, during the time he’d spent trying to fix an issue he hadn’t caused, something else had gone wrong on the other side of the lab, and they’d lost a member of their breeding stock. It was one of the few they'd brought back from Asia the previous summer, and as the most senior lab-member, Harris had made him responsible for the upkeep of the stocks within the lab.
Derek had a feeling he was at risk of losing his job. He couldn’t see how this day could really get any worse.
He’s bent over the sink scrubbing furiously at an embryo dish when he feels the presence of someone else behind him. He isn’t surprised – although he should be- when he sees Stilinski, fingers wiggling in a small wave, one gloved hand clutching a fistful of spatulas, and Derek shuffles over a few steps so he can reach the faucet.
Stiles steps in with a grateful smile, bumping their shoulders together companionably, a line of heat against Derek’s side. “Hey, buddy. How’s it going?”
“I’m considering drinking the entire contents of the fume cupboard.”
“That bad, huh?”
“You have no idea.”
“Well, I have a proposition for you that could make your day. First off: do you have any plans for this evening?”
“Aside from job hunting? No.”
Stiles smirks, leaning in closer as he glances around conspiratorially, although they are the only people left in the lab and have been for quite a while. “There’s a new place, just opened on the outskirts of town that I’ve been dying to try. They boast that their beer selection is the best in the state.”
Derek stacks the glassware on the drying rack before turning to lean against the sink, glancing at Stiles, considering. “Is that so.”
Stiles wiggles an eyebrow in response, gesturing at the stack of washing left to do. “I’ll even help you out with the last of this, and buy the first round.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
It doesn’t take long for them to finish up: Stiles taking care of the last of the washing as Derek carefully dehydrates the dead fish for later; he needed a specimen for sectioning and embedding for a series of stains he wanted to try anyway, and he might as well make the most of a shitty situation. When it’s in the freezer and the door to the lab has swung shut behind them, the day is finally over. The tension leaves his shoulders and neck, and he feels as if he can breathe easily for the first time that day.
The bar is just off the main highway on the outskirts of the town, a little independently owned bar named Emmet’s, a few stops down the line from the night bus that serves the area. Before they catch the bus across town, Derek drops his things into the trunk of the Camaro, watching as Stiles heads to the beat up jeep Derek had been side-eyeing for weeks. It doesn’t surprise him to learn that Stiles is the owner of that blue monstrosity, and he’s smugly pleased at the noises Stiles makes when he joins Derek by the Camaro (“Dude. I see you jogging into work most mornings. Why the hell would you bother when you drive a beast like that?!”).
Emmet’s is a small establishment decorated in dark wood furnishings, gold embellishments and leather sofas, with a bar that runs the entire length of the back wall and a busy team of bar staff . True to his word, Stiles covers the first round, managing to squeeze himself onto a corner of the bar and waving at a member of staff that Derek is surprised to find he recognises – the studious intern Harris favours, the pink tips of her hair fluttering behind her in a whirl of motion – and in no time at all, a pint of something is pushed into his hand.
The bar is crowded, with low lighting that gives everything a comfortable glow, and Derek admires it as he takes a sip of his drink, smiling at the fruity, rich taste of the ale.
Stiles was right; this place is good.
There’s a tap on his shoulder, and he glances back to find Stiles saying something, but it’s impossible to hear his voice over the loud thrum of conversation around them. Derek shakes his head helplessly and Stiles rolls his eyes, leaning in close until his breath hot against Derek’s ear.
“I said we should go and try to find some seats.”
They settle into a corner opposite the crowded bar, nabbing the two-seater chesterfield as its previous inhabitants make to leave. Derek catches Stiles’ eyes on him, contemplative as he fiddles with the edge of his straw, his teeth gnawing at his bottom lip. Derek shifts awkwardly under the scrutiny, before Stiles seems to realise what he’s doing and glances away, burying himself into his drink with a cough. There’s a pink tinge to his cheeks, and Derek raises a brow.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He shrugs, laughing a little nervously before he shifts around in his seat, facing Derek more fully. “I was just thinking. Our Glorious Leader seems to have twice the issue with you that he has with me.”
Derek closes his eyes, allowing himself to sink into his seat until his head rests against the low-rise back of the chair. “Harris is a psychopath.”
“I was just thinking that it could be, you know, your sparkling personality.”
Derek snorts into his drink, moving the glass away from his lips as he narrows his eyes at Stiles. “My sparkling personality?”
“Hey! I’ll have you know I’m a joy to be around.”
“That’s not exactly how I’d put it.”
“You love it, really.”
The harsher edges of his mood have smoothed down a lot since they arrived here, and Derek manages a smile. “I suppose I could be in worse company.”
“You’re fucking blessed to have me. Scott says I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to him.”
Derek glances at him, cocking a brow. “Your boyfriend, then.”
Stiles chokes on his beer, spluttering into his hands as he eyes Derek with something akin to horror. “Scott? Hell no. Yuck. Just friends. Best friends. Not that I don’t swing that way, because I do –both ways, equal opportunity here, but no.” He shakes his head vigorously, going for another sip of his drink before he freezes and shoots Derek an incredulous look. “Wait – are you implying that he only says that because we were- you bastard.”
Derek hides his smile behind his glass as Stiles grumbles into his drink, shooting Derek a dirty look before he lashes out with an accusing finger.
“You. You are not funny. You are not allowed to be funny.”
A laugh bursts out of Derek despite himself, and only laughs harder as Stiles half-heartedly jabs at him with an elbow.
By the end of the night, he thinks that maybe this day wasn’t so bad after all.
--
It soon becomes a regular thing, a quick pint after work when work is rough, or when they have a spare hour. They talk about the future, Derek’s plans now that he’s graduated – a year, possibly, of working for the family business if his PhD applications don’t make it through – and Stiles’ class selections next semester.
Derek finds himself telling Stiles about his family, about the pressures of living in such a large household, of the competition he’s felt with his siblings. Stiles talks about his dad, and how being an only child was kind of lonely before he met Scott; smart, hapless Scott, with a heart of gold and love of animals. He mentions the pact they made to live together in college, and Derek almost questions again whether or not the two of them are dating, before the conversation turns to the strain of their relationship with the pre-med workload, and Allison, and Derek’s curiosity is sated.
Stiles is all fast hands, wild gestures and teasing half-smiles; all bursting energy and enthusiasm. He’s dazzling, and in no-time at all, he’s wormed his way into Derek’s thoughts. Derek doesn’t realise the extent of his fixation, though, until a month later when he finds himself mentioning him to Laura.
She picks up on it, of course - Derek never mentions his colleagues, apart from Harris, whom he only refers to as ‘the Devil’ - and Derek only notices that he’s said anything when Laura asks him, faux-casual: “so, tell me more about this Stiles.”
Derek feels as if his tongue is suddenly three times larger in his throat.
“He’s- a colleague.”
“Uh-huh.”
“A friend.”
“Right.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Aww, Der-Bear, don’t be like that! Just bring him over next time you come down.”
“No- I just said- goodbye, Laura.”