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For the record, throwing Derek a surprise birthday party at the loft was one hundred percent Stiles’ idea, and having a stripper knock on the door was definitely, one hundred percent not Stiles’ idea. This was not that kind of surprise party.
It’s a male stripper. A male stripper with a razor-sharp jawline, long flowing brown hair, and thighs of steel. He’s wearing some kind of tunic-toga-thing and a golden hat with little wings on the sides and these weird sandals with white wings on them. White wings made of what looks like actual feathers.
Stiles has no idea if Derek is even into dudes. (He has his hopes that Derek is, but no actual, solid evidence.) But if he is, it seems likely he would be into this guy.
If Stiles had hired a stripper, he definitely would not have told him to come dressed like… that. This is not even remotely a Roman-themed party. Still, it’s the kind of costume that really shows off the guy’s assets. Stiles can see one of his nipples because his toga-tunic thing only makes a token attempt to cover his carved-from-marble chest. It’s kind of a lot to process.
The stripper shoots Stiles a dismissive glance and says, “I come to speak to the one among you with divine blood."
Stiles stares at him blankly.
“Mr. Hale,” the stripper clarifies. “The one among you with divine blood. I have a message for him from his father.”
"Divine blood?" Stiles echoes. "Are you saying Derek is, like, Jesus?" That would be the twist of the century.
“Not exactly,” says the stripper, who is at this point seeming a lot less likely to be a stripper. Maybe he’s a witch, or an incubus. Succubus? Whatever.
From within the loft, Erica yells over the music, “Who is it? Did someone order a pizza?”
“No,” Stiles yells back, “it’s some guy in a weird costume—”
“Shit,” Derek bites out, and then he’s actually vaulting over the coffee table and the back of the sofa in one huge leap to get to the door. He shoulders Stiles aside with what almost looks like embarrassment.
“Fabio here is looking for you,” Stiles tells him.
“Don’t call him—” Derek starts, then shakes his head and turns back to the probably-not-a-stripper guy. “Never mind. Hermes, hi. I didn’t think you were coming this year.”
Hermes. That’s got to be a stage name. Explains the wings on the costume, anyway.
“You know this guy?” Stiles says. “Wait. Did you hire a stripper for yourself ?”
Derek and Hermes both ignore him.
“I come bearing tidings of celebration from your father,” Hermes says, which seems to rule out the stripper theory. Not to mention raises a lot of questions, because as far as Stiles was aware, Derek’s dad hasn’t been alive to send him any ‘tidings of celebration’ in several years.
Hermes “ahem”s grandly and reaches into the folds of his toga, then pulls out a wrapped present and a birthday card. It’s surprisingly normal. The present is small and rectangular and wrapped in shiny white paper with purple polka dots, and the card is Hallmark material, with a picture of a puppy in a birthday hat on the front.
Derek takes the card and the present but doesn’t look very excited about either one. “Thanks for coming all this way, but… Can you just tell him to text me next year? Or write me a message on Facebook?”
“You’re on Facebook?” Stiles says, incredulous.
Derek shoots him a go-away glare.
“Your father is still dragging his feet about buying an iPhone,” Hermes says, almost apologetically. “Believe me, I’m trying my best to persuade him. It would save me a lot of work.”
“Good luck with that,” Derek says.
Hermes nods. “Thank you, but I have a feeling I’ll be back next year.”
“Wait, so who is Derek’s dad, anyway?” Stiles asks.
“Okay, Hermes, time for you to go,” Derek says hastily, moving to close the door in Hermes’ face. Stiles shoves his foot in the way, hopefully just long enough for Hermes to name names here, but Hermes just gives Derek a respectful little nod and takes a step back.
Takes a step back, and bursts upward into the dark. The wings on his sandals flutter a little, almost as if there’s a breeze, which there isn’t, and then he flies away like… like Superman or something.
“Holy shit,” Stiles says.
Derek groans and shuts the door.
“So your dad is a Greek god. You didn’t think that was worth mentioning?”
“It wasn’t any of your business.”
“You told me about the werewolf thing. How is this any different?”
“I didn’t tell you about the werewolf thing. You figured it out and then wouldn’t leave me alone.”
“Yeah, and now we’re friends—” Derek raises his eyebrows at this, which Stiles chooses to ignore. “—and I’ve saved your life on five separate occasions, so I’d say it’s a good thing I know about it.”
Derek starts walking away.
“Wait, no, you don’t just tell me you’re descended from the gods and then not say which god it was.”
“It’s still none of your business. And I didn’t tell you.”
“Why don’t you want to talk about it? Is it something embarrassing, like, your parents had a threesome on their honeymoon to Greece and then you happened?”
Derek doesn’t answer that.
*
“Hades is my first guess,” Stiles says.
Scott drums his fingers in a jumpy rhythm on his thigh. He’d probably prefer it if Stiles didn’t stop to lock the door behind them on their way out, but whatever. Stiles is going to do this right.
Scott, incidentally, was the one who was against snooping around in Derek’s loft while Derek was at work. Stiles was the one who insisted he needed Scott to come along so he could tell Stiles if he heard Derek coming back. Stiles was also the one who pointed out they weren’t even breaking and entering, technically, because Stiles had a key. Scott was the one to point out that Derek never gave him that key.
Technicalities.
Anyway, it’s a moot point now because they’re done and headed back to the car (Boyd is the get-away driver; they paid him twenty-five bucks.) And anyway, it’s not like they found anything interesting. Everything in there could’ve come from Ikea. Downside of Derek having moved in here only two weeks ago.
“We need to see his old yearbooks,” Stiles decides as they’re climbing into the backseat of Boyd’s Toyota. “We need to find out if he ever had a goth phase.”
“A lot of goth people aren’t the literal offspring of Hades,” Scott points out, buckling his seatbelt. “So I don’t see how that would prove anything.”
“It would be evidence.”
“Derek wasn’t a goth in high school,” Boyd says, eyeing them judgmentally in the rearview mirror. “He was your stereotypical jock. Don’t you morons know there’s a trophy room off the gym? There’s a picture of Derek in there.”
“In basketball shorts?” Stiles asks, hopefully.
“Duh,” Boyd says.
“I think we need to see this with our own two eyes,” Stiles tells Scott. “You know, for science.”
“I’m good,” Scott says.
“Fine, I’ll just see it myself, then,” Stiles says.
*
“You were in my loft,” Derek says from his perch on the edge of Stiles’ bed. Where he’s sitting. In the dark.
Stiles jumps about five feet in the air. He really should be used to Derek emerging from the shadows and scaring the crap out of him by now, but… it’s a work in progress.
Stiles forces himself to be casual, walking over and dropping his backpack on his desk. “Fine, yeah. What gave it away? Do you have a security camera I don’t know about?”
Derek taps his nose, which. Duh. Stiles is an idiot. An idiot who keeps forgetting Derek is basically a bloodhound.
“So are you just here to berate me for snooping, or are we actually going to talk about this?”
Derek shakes his head. “I just wanted you to see how it feels when someone shows up uninvited in your house.”
“The element of surprise was a little unpleasant,” Stiles acknowledges, “but otherwise, you know, I could be into it.”
Derek rolls his eyes like he thinks Stiles is joking.
“Anyway,” Stiles adds, “I was only in your loft because I wanted to know what flavor of divinity you are. You know I’m incapable of letting it go. So maybe you could just save me some work and tell me?”
Derek stands up, looking awkward. “I have to go.”
“Why don’t you just answer this one simple question first?” Stiles groans.
“No,” Derek says, and vaults out Stiles’ bedroom window.
*
“Erebus,” Stiles reads off his phone. “The primordial god of darkness.” He snickers. So does Erica. Even Isaac grins. Stiles leans his head over the back of the couch to look at Derek upside-down. “I think I’ve got it. You guys haven’t kept in touch because he was hoping his son would be a little more goth. You smile too much for him. You’re too cheerful.”
“No.”
Stiles scrolls a little more, then bursts out laughing. “Priapus,” he tries. “God of—”
“No,” Derek says. There’s a delightful red blush creeping up his neck. He totally already knows who Priapus is the god of. “Absolutely not.”
Erica doesn’t know. She leans over Stiles’ phone to look, then cackles. “A fertility deity, best known for having an enormous p—”
“Okay,” Derek interrupts again, looking up at the ceiling as though praying for strength. “For the last time, no.”
“Are you sure?” Stiles says, blinking innocently at him.
“Fine,” Derek snaps. “My father is Pan.”
“Pansexual?” Erica asks.
“No, his name is Pan.”
Stiles is already scrolling back up the list on his phone. “A nature god,” he reads. “God of pastoral wilds, flocks, and goats. Depicted as a satyr.”
“Wait, Derek,” Erica says, “does this mean you’re half goat?”
“I think he would be one-quarter goat,” Stiles says, squinting. “Or one-third? This is like a math question. If Derek’s dad is one half goat and one half man, and Derek’s mom is one half wolf and one half woman, then—”
“This is why I didn’t want to talk about this,” Derek says. “Also, you should read up on Mendelian genetics.”
“I know about Mendelian genetics,” Stiles says, a little indignantly. “But also, all of this is magic anyway, so does it really conform to any known laws of biology?”
“I’m not one-quarter goat,” Derek grumbles.
“Are you like, a real-life animorph character?” Stiles wonders. “Like, you can choose your morph: man, wolf, goat, wolfy man, or goaty man. Satyr, I mean.”
“I’m a normal werewolf,” Derek says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Mostly. Sometimes I do get a little horny.”
Stiles sits up straighter. “Really?”
Derek rolls his eyes. “Not like that. I mean literal horns. But they’re very small. They’re just nubs in my hair.”
“Can you transform right now? And can I touch your head?” Stiles asks eagerly. This is fascinating. “What about your legs, do you get goat legs at all? Can you transform without your pants on?”
“I don’t think Derek is the only one who would get a little horny,” Erica snorts.
“Uh, excuse you, this is for science,” Stiles says.
“This article says Pan is also a fertility god,” Isaac helpfully contributes from where he’s scrolling on his phone. “And a skilled piper.”
“The innuendos just write themselves,” Stiles mutters gleefully.
Erica looks over at Derek. “How’s your skill with pipes, Derek? Maybe Stiles could help you practice.”
Stiles wiggles his eyebrows at Derek. “Yeah. You know, I’ve never played a pipe, but I’m sure we could learn together.”
As usual, Derek doesn’t respond to Stiles’ flirting by hauling Stiles into his bedroom to ravish him, but Stiles still enjoys making Derek get all flustered, so it’s not a total loss.
*
“Hey Derek,” Stiles says. He’s just rounded the corner at the supermarket and spotted Derek consulting the cereals.
Derek looks over at him. “Stiles.”
“Hey Derek, what does a goat eat for breakfast?” Stiles has been doing goat jokes all week. He could keep this up forever, honestly.
Derek sighs. “I don’t know, Stiles.”
“Goat-meal!”
Derek’s mouth twitches, just a little. But he says, “That wasn’t funny, Stiles.”
“It was a little funny,” Stiles says.
Derek adds a box of cereal to his basket.
Stiles really should be continuing his own shopping—this is supposed to be just a quick run to grab a few things for dinner tonight; his dad’s waiting—but he can’t resist one more. “Hey Derek, you know you had me from the goat-go.”
Instead of looking amused at that one, though, Derek just shakes his head. “Stiles, don’t you think it’s time you stopped teasing me about this?”
“It’s going to be at least a few more weeks,” Stiles says. “I found a list of fifty-five goat puns online and I’ve only gone through like, fifteen of them with you.”
“I don’t mean the goat thing,” Derek says. “Well, that too, but I meant joking about being attracted to me.”
Stiles tilts his head, trying to figure this one out. Derek isn’t looking at him—hasn’t looked at him, in fact, since the goat-go joke. He’s staring down at the boxes of Frosted Flakes.
“Does it really bother you?” Stiles tries not to sound hurt. He’d thought Derek was cool with it, with Stiles having this little crush on him.
“I’d just rather not talk about it,” Derek says, shifting his grip on his basket. “I know you think my feelings are funny, but it’s not like I can just get rid of them overnight—”
Suddenly Stiles can hear his heartbeat in his ears. “Your feelings? About what?”
Derek finally does look at him. It’s an exasperated look that Stiles is very used to.
“Oh,” Stiles says.
Derek sighs and turns away, like he’s just going to keep grocery shopping now, like he didn’t just imply—imply feelings. Feelings for Stiles. Stiles gapes at Derek’s broad back as he stops in front of the spaghetti. It feels like he’s just taken a double dose of Adderall, like energy is zooming through his veins.
Stiles grabs Derek’s shoulder and turns him back around and kisses him.
Derek makes a surprised noise. Then he drops his grocery basket to get his hands free to grab at Stiles’ back and pull him closer and kiss him harder, until Stiles’ knees feel like jelly. It’s pretty awesome.
They only break apart when an overhead announcement calling for cleanup on Aisle Five reminds Stiles, reluctantly, of where they are right now.
“I have something to say,” Stiles says, letting his hands rest on Derek’s chest.
Derek looks suspicious. “Is it another goat pun?”
“No.”
“Then okay.”
“I was just going to say you need to work on your communication skills. First I had to find out about the werewolf thing, and then the Greek god thing, and now the feelings-for-me thing.”
“Well, I think that about covers all the bases now,” Derek says.
Stiles can’t resist. “Oh, we definitely need to cover our bases. Thoroughly and repeatedly.”
Derek’s exasperated look is more fond, now. Stiles could get used to that look. “Okay, Stiles.”
Stiles grins. This is going to be fun.