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"So, Derek," Stiles says, scraping his fork idly over his mashed potatoes.
Derek looks up at him, lips quirked at the edges, and Stiles gets a sudden, horrific image of Derek making that same face when he’s crouching on the floor, hands on Stiles’s hips, lips brushing over the head of his dick.
Eric gives him a weird look.
"Uh," he says hurriedly, face flushing red. "Uh, how’s work going? You still a mechanic? Doing mechanic-y things?"
Derek snorts softly, nods his head. “Yeah, but it’s not easy. I accidentally got grease everywhere today,” he sighs, picking at a dark spot under his fingernail.
Stiles closes his eyes against the image. Greasy Mechanic Derek Hale may or may not be one of his Top 5 Jerk Off Fantasies.
"That sounds…horrible."
"It was," Derek agrees, looking up to meet Stiles’s gaze with a playful smirk on his face. "Unless you’re the type of person who likes getting dirty."
Stiles presses his legs together under the table as a bolt of heat flashes through him.
"You should come visit me at my garage sometime," Derek says, voice neutral.
Stiles nods taking a long gulp of lemonade. “Uh, yeah, I could—I could totally—uh—”
"Why would he want to go to your garage?" Eric interrupts suddenly. His voice is confused, and more effective than a spray of cold water. "Your garage is boring."
Derek shrugs, unconcerned. “It was just a suggestion.”
God, he’s so hot. Stiles is not going to survive this dinner, he’s not. Why in the hell—why did he think that this was a good idea? This was a terrible idea. He should’ve listened to Scott and his disapproving tsking.
Fuck, Eric is totally going to figure out how hard Stiles is crushing on his brother and never want to speak to him again.
Stiles’s boner is going to ruin their friendship.
"You coming to the lacrosse game tomorrow?" Eric asks his brother, oblivious to Stiles’s inner turmoil.
"Was thinking about it. Stiles, are you playing?"
"Wha—huh? Yeah, yeah, actually I am."
"Well then I’m definitely coming," Derek says, eyes glancing up to catch on Stiles’s—and is he imagining it or are Derek’s eyes darker than normal? "Wouldn’t want to miss a chance to see you in your uniform."
Stiles laughs a little too loudly to be casual, face warm under the force of his blush, but he doesn’t quite manage to mask the conspicuousness of Eric’s silence.
God, he’s so screwed.
***
"It was good to see you, Stiles," Derek says, pushing himself away from the table; corded muscles standing out in stark contrast to the soft Henley he’s wearing. Stiles tries not to swallow his tongue.
"Yeah, yeah, you too," he manages, though his voice is several octaves higher than normal.
Derek gives him one last lingering look before leaving the kitchen and Stiles can’t help it okay, he just can’t. He tried his best to be totally normal and uninterested during dinner, but Derek is walking right past him—he’s taking the long way around the table to get in to the living room—practically inviting Stiles to sneak a good look at his ass as he walks past. And Stiles is weak, okay? Weak.
"Dude, what the fuck," Eric says from behind him and Stiles jerks guiltily, spins around to find him leaning up against the counter, arms crossed over the front of his shirt. His face is pinched.
Stiles winces and decides to pretend he wasn’t just drooling over his older brother. “Oh hey,” he says, going for casual and missing by a mile. Eric gives him an unimpressed look. “What’s up?” he tries anyways. “Want to go play some Halo?”
“No I don’t want to play some Halo,” Eric says, eyebrows furrowing. “I want to talk to you.”
"Okay," Stiles says slowly, fingers tapping against his knee nervously. "What do you want to talk about?"
"Derek was really weird tonight, don’t you think?"
"Uh." Shit. Shit shit shit. "Maybe."
"And you know what? You’re being really weird too. What’s going on?"
"Nothing," Stiles says, too hastily. It’s not even a lie, but Eric still doesn’t believe him. Stiles can tell from the way he shifts impatiently.
"Dude, seriously come on. I’m not going to be mad, just. Are you dating my brother?"
“What?” Stiles coughs, face immediately flaring a bright red. That’s so much worse than what he was expecting. God, he thought they were secretly dating? “Of course not!”
Eric rolls his eyes. “Right, of course you’re not. Come on, I’m not an idiot!”
"But—"
"I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. Is this why Scott was acting weird at lunch?"
"No—"
"Jesus. Derek!”
"No, no, okay please stop,” Stiles hisses frantically, because suddenly this is the worst thing that could happen. This is horrible. The amount of things that could go wrong are astronomical in number—
"Everything okay?" Derek asks easily, coming back into view. Stiles runs a hand over his face.
"Eric isn’t an idiot," he can hear Lydia saying clearly in his mind. "He’s going to find out you want to bone his brother."
She was so clearly wrong. Apparently Eric actually is an idiot because his totally false assumptions about Stiles and Derek’s relationship are about to fucking ruin his life. He’s seriously considering the pros and cons of hiding under the kitchen table right now to avoid having to see the look on Derek’s face when Eric starts talking.
"Stiles," Derek says and his voice actually sounds a little worried. A little fission of hope surfaces, but he squashes it immediately, because, whatever. Stiles isn’t an moron okay, he hasn’t, like, convinced himself that Derek actually feels anything for him. Their relationship is just a bunch of really confusing euphemisms and awkward boners.
Even so, when Derek says his name he can’t stop himself from looking up; eyes meeting his and holding for one two—
"See," Eric says loudly, sounding furiously exasperated. "This is what I’m talking about! You guys keep making eyes at each other!"
Derek blinks, eyebrows drawing together in confusion as his gaze snaps to his little brother and that’s it. That’s it. Stiles is going to hide under the Hales’ kitchen table until he dies. For real. This is not a drill.
Derek’s face is flushing too, which is saying something in itself because the only time Stiles has ever seen him remotely embarrassed was the time Stiles gave a popsicle a very enthusiastic blow job (and even then only Derek’s ears had turned pink).
"It’s okay,” Eric’s saying, hands waving wildly and expression earnest. “It’s okay if you want to like date or make out or whatever. I just wish you would have told me.”
Maybe Stiles will just move to Mexico. Or Antarctica.
He can feel Derek’s eyes on him again, but can’t bring himself to look at him. “Eric, dude,” he says hoarsely. “Please stop talking. I appreciate the blessing, but we are not dating.”
Eric pauses for the first time since he started talking and it’s gotta be some sort of dramatic irony that he believes Stiles now, when the damage is already done.
"You’re not dating?"
"No," Derek says, and that’s his amused voice. He’s fucking standing over there, being amused and Stiles is never going to forget this moment for as long as he lives. When he’s 85 and on his death bed, he will still remember this moment.
"But you want to be," Eric says suddenly and what the fuck, why he torturing Stiles like this, can’t he see how painful this is??
"Maybe," Derek answers after a moment of hesitation.
Stiles’s head snaps up, mouth gaping open. His mind is telling him that he had to have misheard him, that there’s no way Derek Hale just said that—but no, he did, and he’s looking at Stiles, shifting slightly on his feet, hands shoved nervously into the pockets of his jeans.
"Wha—really?”
Derek inclines his head, just once, but it’s enough to have Stiles’s heart tripping into overtime.
"I understand if you don’t—If I’m too…old."
"Holy shit," Stiles says. "Holy shit, are you serious? You’re like two years older than me. That’s—that’s nothing.”
"It might be something to your dad," Derek says somberly, though his lips are curving up deliciously.
"Yeah, well, I turn 18 next month," Stiles tells him, suddenly feeling a little shy.
Derek bites his lip and it makes Stiles’s knees go a little weak. “Yeah,” he tells him. “I know. I’ve been. Counting down the days, honestly.”
“Dude,” Stiles breathes out, tingles spreading like warm sugar throughout his body. “Uhm. Please come here.”
"Okay," Eric says anxiously, looking supremely uncomfortable as Derek strides forward to where Stiles is now standing, hand coming up to thumb over Stiles’s bottom lip. "You know when I said it was okay to make out? I meant like—not in front of me.”
"You have three seconds to get out of here," Derek tells him, (but Stiles only waits one second before pressing their smiles together).