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For the record, Derek is not stalking Stiles, okay? No matter what Boyd, Erica, and Isaac might say otherwise. It's just…ever since the night he'd gotten kidnapped by that twisted old bastard as a bargaining chip and literal punching bag, Derek has been a little…extra protective over Stiles.
And yeah, maybe it's overkill, showing up every night to stand guard under Stiles's bedroom window like the world's okayest watchdog (which, if he's not careful, he just knows he'll end up drinking coffee out of a gag gift mug with that exact slogan custom-printed across the side, courtesy of the sarcastic little shit himself) but if life has taught him anything, it's how to protect the ones you lo— care ab— don't want to end up dead, or whatever. So he shows up, and he waits, and he watches.
Most of the time, it's relatively uneventful. Which, strictly speaking, is a good thing. There's the occasional burst of laughter as Stiles watches tv with his dad, grumbling and grousing as he fights an uphill battle to get his father to eat healthier, the sharp scent of guilt as the sheriff sneaks down in the middle of the night to steal a handful of thin mints he keeps stashed in the back of the freezer that he thinks his son doesn't know about — the usual. (It resolutely does not make Derek's lips twitch up at the corners with a wistful smile, or yearn to come inside and join them.)
Tonight's watch starts off much the same as any other, with one slight hiccup — Stiles comes home a little later than usual, which means Derek has to duck into the rose bushes to avoid being seen. Luckily (albeit tremendously irresponsibly, Derek notes with a frown) Stiles is too distracted by his phone to take any notice, tapping out a quick response to Scott to let him know he'd made it home safely after they'd parted ways. Grabbing a handful of half-eaten candy from the stash he'd snuck into the movie theatre, Stiles slides out of the driver's seat, hip-checking the Jeep's sticky door to get it to close properly, and heads toward the front door, keychain swinging casually from his index finger as he whistles an off-key rendition of The Avengers theme.
Derek waits until he hears the sound of the shower running to come out of his hiding spot and resume his post, picking a thorn out of the cuff of his leather jacket and scowling down at the rose bushes like they've done him a personal offense. For a while, there's a whole lot of nothing, just the sound of water splashing against tile, the scent of Stiles's Old Spice body wash wafting in the summer air, and—
Wait.
Is that…is Stiles singing Taylor Swift?
Derek tilts his head to the side, catching sight of what is unmistakably Stiles's silhouette framed in the open window, towel wrapped around his waist, using a hairbrush as a makeshift microphone and belting out what Derek is 99% sure is the song Love Story by Taylor Swift.
"We were both young when I first saw you
I close my eyes and the flashback starts
I'm standing there
On private property in winter air"
Now, Derek doesn't exactly listen to a whole lot of Taylor Swift, but he's pretty sure those aren't the right lyrics. Still, it's as good a form of entertainment as any, so Derek settles in and listens for a little while, ducking his head to hide a small smile whenever Stiles struggles to hit the high notes.
There's a brief pause as Stiles stumbles over, presumably, a big pile of laundry he'd neglected to put away, and accidentally whacks himself in the face with the hairbrush, a long dramatic whine followed by a string of muffled cursing, and then he's swinging right back into the chorus with even more gusto than before.
"Romeo taaaaaaake me somewhere we can be alooooone
I'll be waaaaaaiting, all there's left to do is ruuuuun
Youuu'll be the prince and I'll be the priiiiiiiincessssss
It's a love story, baby, just say yessssss"
Derek chuckles to himself, shaking his head and rolling his eyes, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly as he settles back against the side of the house.
As Stiles charges on into the second verse — something about sneaking out into the forest in the middle of the night, which also doesn't sound like the right lyrics, but whatever — Derek's mind starts to wander, and he finds himself musing over who the object of the song might be, who Stiles thinks about whenever he's belting out love ballads. His thoughts stray to all manner of likely possibilities before settling on the obvious choice — Lydia Martin — and an unfamiliar pang of jealousy, white-hot and acrid, settles into the pit of his stomach like he's just swallowed mountain ash.
Derek shakes his head, frowning.
Where the fuck did that come from?
He takes a deep, steadying breath, wincing as he catches sight of the set of claw marks he'd accidentally slashed across the siding.
He's being ridiculous. Who cares who Stiles thinks about when he's alone, singing love songs at 11 o'clock at night in nothing but a towel?
Definitely not Derek.
And besides, it's not like every time someone sings something, it has to have a focus, or some kind of deeper meaning.
Maybe Stiles doesn't have anyone in mind.
Maybe he just likes the song.
Maybe—
"Sourwolf, taaaaaaake me somewhere we can be alooooone!"
Derek stops dead, heart skyrocketing into his throat. Before he even realizes what he's doing, he's scaled the side of the house and vaulted through the open window, landing with a gentle thud on Stiles's bedroom floor. The rest of the chorus dies on a high-pitched shriek as Stiles screams bloody murder, a whirlwind of flailing limbs and colorful expletives, brandishing the hairbrush like a weapon and accidentally smacking Derek clean across the shoulder.
"What the f— Derek?! What the hell are you doing here?" Stiles shouts, loud enough to wake the whole block.
"I thought I heard—" Derek starts, adrenaline giving way to embarrassment as he remembers the reason why he's here. He swallows nervously, throat going dry. "Nevermind. Sorry. I'll go."
"You thought you heard what?" Stiles prompts, one eyebrow cocked in mocking familiarity.
"I…heard you singing," Derek says softly, gaze cast to the ceiling so that he doesn't have to look Stiles in the eye.
"So? That's hardly a cause for concern," Stiles snaps defensively. "What, a man can't enjoy a good pop-country love ballad every once in a while?"
"No, it's not that. It's just—" Derek falters. "I thought I heard you say my name."
"What?! I didn't say your name!" Stiles splutters, voice rising an octave.
And that's when he hears it, the telltale skip in his heartbeat as Stiles chokes around the obvious lie. Derek's eyes snap up, and he takes a moment to look at him, really look at him, cataloguing all the little details he'd missed before — the slight tremor of his hands as he ducks his head to attack a phantom itch on the back of his neck, Adam's apple straining against the column of his throat each time he swallows, patches of scarlet blossoming in the hollows of his cheekbones — and feels his own apprehension start to melt away, replaced by a sudden burst of confidence, lips curving into a smile at the staggering realization that Stiles is just as nervous as he is.
"Stop looking at me like that," Stiles huffs, eyes narrowing in suspicion at the sudden change in Derek's demeanor. "You're making me nervous."
"Oh?" Derek's eyebrows perk up with the inflection. He takes a tentative step closer, delighting in the way Stiles's body instinctively does the same.
"Do I make you nervous, Stiles?" he asks, his smile positively wolfish.
"I — no — that's not what I—" Stiles flounders, a prickle of heat winding its way down the length of his spine as he breaks out into a full-body blush.
"You're flustered," Derek notes with a teasing smirk.
"Well, of course I'm flustered," Stiles argues indignantly. "This is a flustering situation. A real flusterfuck, if you will."
Derek huffs out a laugh and hums, all fond amusement. It's endearing as hell, and Stiles kind of hates him for it.
"Point is, Sourw—" he starts, eyes growing wide for a fraction of a second before he rights himself, powering through with feigned indifference. "The point, Derek, is that no one said your name. So maybe check your ego before you come barging into someone's room in the middle of the night on the utterly wrong assumption that—"
"So you're telling me you didn't replace 'Romeo' with that stupid nickname you gave me the night we were at the high school?" Derek asks, one sassy eyebrow raised.
Stiles swallows thickly.
"The one you keep calling me, all the time, every chance you get, just to get a rise out of me?" Derek presses.
"I— that's not—" Stiles splutters.
"That's what I thought," Derek confirms with an air of smug satisfaction.
A wicked grin worthy of the Cheshire Cat unfurls across his face, and Stiles drops the charade, sighing in defeat.
"Look, the only way you could possibly know that is if you were, like, lurking under my bedroom window or something, so—"
There's a soft, sudden intake of breath, and the smug smile slips from Derek's face, only to curl across Stiles'.
"Aha!" he shouts, pointing an accusatory finger at Derek.
Derek fixes him with a withering glare, before closing his eyes and heaving a frustrated sigh.
"I was…in the neighborhood," he admits reluctantly.
Stiles can't help the big, goofy grin that spreads across his face.
"Uh huh," he teases with wry amusement. "And you just happened to pass by my house long enough to eavesdrop on my one-man karaoke show?"
"I…might stop by every now and then to check in on you and your dad. You know…make sure you're both safe," Derek says with an attempt at a casual shrug, but Stiles doesn't miss the way his ears burn bright red at the admission.
"Aww, that's so sweet, you big creep," Stiles laughs, sweeping forward and mock-punching Derek in the arm.
Derek rolls his eyes, hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket as he sways back and forth on the heels of his boots. A few seconds tick past with the two of them just standing there, smiling stupidly at each other, and then a mischievous smile curves its way across Derek's face.
"So…if I talk to your dad, will you pick out a white dress, or—" Derek teases, mirth dancing in his eyes.
Stiles barks out a laugh.
"Oh my god, shut up," he says, surging forward and gripping Derek by the collar of his jacket, before pulling him into a kiss.
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