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• • •
In an effort to get the whole pack together for one last end-of-summer hurrah before they all head back to college, Lydia invites everyone to come stay at her beach house for a weekend getaway. And because everyone else is all coupled up — Scott and Allison with Lydia and Jackson in one car, Erica and Boyd with Isaac and Danny in another — Stiles and Derek get stuck together in the carpool. And since Derek absolutely refuses to subject himself to Stiles's Jeep, convinced the "absolute deathtrap" won't survive the trip, they have no choice but to take the Camaro.
Which is how the two of them end up squished into the cozy confines of the cab, Derek so distracted by the thought of Stiles shirtless, sunkissed, and soaked in saltwater that he nearly crashes every time Stiles so much as looks in his direction, while Stiles runs on a 50/50 blend of too many espresso shots and nervous energy as he fidgets in the passenger seat and drums out a steady beat against the dashboard, lamenting the fact that he'd left all of his mixed CDs in the Jeep, because what he desperately wants right now is some classic 90's summer pop to set the mood.
"Why don't you just play something from your phone?" Derek suggests with an air of mild impatience. "This car's got bluetooth. I'm sure I can stomach your terrible taste in music for—" he glances down at his phone to check the map, and huffs out a groan. "Ugh, we've still got another two and a half hours until we get there."
"Oh, ha-ha," Stiles retorts, rolling his eyes. "Can't believe I'm stuck in a car with a guy who thinks *NSYNC was just okay."
"You're never going to let that go, are you?" Derek sighs. "I told you, I just think Backstreet Boys was better, that's all."
"Heathen."
"I mean, come on, you can't top Everybody."
"Oh, but I can try," Stiles smirks, arching his eyebrows suggestively.
"Stiles," Derek says his name like it's a curse.
And really, Derek should have known that Stiles would find a way to make that sound dirty.
"No, you're right. I'm probably more of a bottom," he adds with a mock-thoughtful tap against his chin, delighting in the delicate blush that curls its way across Derek's cheekbones.
He grips the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white and grumbles, "Oh my god, will you just connect your phone and pick a damn song already?"
"I would, but my piece of shit phone deleted all of my playlists, and I have like, no service out here."
Stiles sighs, turning his attention to the rolling landscape framed in the passenger's side window — mountains towering toward cloudy skies whipping past them in a blur of green and blue, summer breeze perfumed with the scent of orange and jasmine blossoms as they wind their way through a sea of citrus groves — and contents himself with the fact that at least the view, both inside and outside of the Camaro, is breathtaking.
A solid weight lands in his lap, and Stiles glances down in time to see Derek offering him his phone. Stiles blinks up at him, confused.
"You can use mine," he says.
"You have playlists?"
"I have youtube."
Stiles nods and gives him an appreciative smile, a warm glow settling in the center of his chest as he cradles Derek's phone in his hands like it's a precious thing. They've known each other for years now, but every subtle gesture of trust still takes him by surprise sometimes.
Stiles opens the app, scrolling through his mental rolodex to figure out which upbeat boy band classic he should start with first (read: which one he thinks he could badger Derek into duetting with him) when he accidentally clicks on something in Derek's browser history, and—
"What is this?" Stiles asks as a deep, rumbling voice with a thick accent hums through the speakers.
"It's a sea shanty," Derek says with a casual shrug.
Stiles gapes at him.
"You. Derek Hale. Listen to sea shanties," he says.
Derek shrugs again. "I like it when they harmonize."
Stiles practically vibrates with glee.
"This is awesome. You just keep getting more and more interesting the more layers I unravel."
Derek pretends to scoff and roll his eyes, but Stiles can tell by the subtle twitch of his lips that he's secretly pleased.
As for Stiles, he's smiling so hard his face hurts. He can't help it. He doesn't even know why this is so amusing to him. Before he knows it, he's concocting a whole Derek The Sailor fantasy in his head, crisp white form-fitting uniform drenched in a crash of ocean waves, the chiseled muscles of his arms flexing as he weighs anchor and hoists the sails, sun glistening off the beads of sweat clinging to his bare chest, and— oh, this slipped into dangerous territory real fast. Oh god, oh fuck, he can't let Derek know he's having secret seafaring fantasies about him while he's literally sitting right next to him, close enough for Derek to hear the sudden spike in his heartbeat. Shit, he's in trouble. Quick, think of something non-sexual—
"I'm sorry, did he just say 'blow me'?" Stiles blurts out around a pearl-clutching gasp.
Derek heaves a long-suffering sigh.
"He says 'blow, comma, me bully boys, blow'," Derek corrects him. "It's a seafaring term."
Stiles stifles a laugh, because he's still a sarcastic asshole with the mentality of a twelve year old. Curiosity piqued, he pulls up google and looks up the rest of the lyrics.
A sharp burst of laughter nearly makes Derek swerve into the minivan in the lane next to them, and there he goes again, barking Stiles's name like it's the king of swear words, his entire face just one big frown.
"Sorry, it's just—" Stiles snickers, catching his breath. "These lyrics, man. They're a veritable goldmine of sexual innuendo. I mean, 'one day when the tonguing is done'? What kind of tonguing are we talking about here? Cause if that's how it is, maybe I should think about becoming a sailor. I've certainly got the mouth for it."
Derek's brain short-circuits, sweeping right past the obvious swears like a sailor joke and diving headfirst into a fantasy detailing all the ways Stiles could put that mischievous mouth of his to good use.
"Stiles," Derek says warningly, gripping the steering wheel in an effort to not run them off the road.
"I'm not trying to offend, I swear," Stiles insists, holding his hands up in surrender. "I just think it's funny."
Derek levels him with a pointed glare.
"You do know the song's about battling a whale and that 'tonguing' means butchering, right?" Derek asks, arching an eyebrow.
Stiles pales.
"Oh god. Okay, then I definitely do not want to experience that kind of tonguing," Stiles amends with a grimace and a sharp shake of his head.
"Granted," he adds with a melodramatic sigh. "After all the shit we've been through over the years, that's probably the only kind of 'tonguing' I'm ever going to get, so…"
There's silence for a moment, and then Derek hums thoughtfully and says, "I'll see what I can do to remedy that," a roguish smile curling across his lips as he arches his eyebrows suggestively, and Stiles chokes on air.
They make a quick pit stop at the next exit to stock up on snacks, and absolutely do not spend a full twenty minutes making out in the back seat.
(Okay, fine. An hour.)
• • •
Sunset finds the two of them beating a steady rhythm against the dashboard and the steering wheel, twin beatific grins plastered across their ruddy faces, singing at the top of their lungs with the stereo cranked to the max, Stiles taking the melody, Derek the harmony.
"SOON MAY THE WELLERMAN COME
TO BRING US SUGAR AND TEA AND RUM
ONE DAY WHEN THE TONGUIN' IS DONE
WE'LL TAKE OUR LEAVE AND GO"
Over the course of the next couple of days, Lydia comes to regret keeping her liquor cabinets well-stocked with a variety of rum, and asking if anyone wants sugar in their tea gets taboo'd faster than you-know-who in Deathly Hallows, because any time any one of them even so much as hums a single bar, the whole thing starts right back up again with an obnoxiously giddy Stiles and Derek chanting at the top of their lungs with no regard for the time of night, before collapsing against each other in a fit of giggles and stolen kisses, until the rest of the pack is so fed up with their shit, they're threatening to chuck them both into the sea and make it look like a whaling accident.
• • •