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“We’re never going to get home,” Stiles moans, freshly daunted by the length of road in front of him as he watches the headlights recede into the distance, the shadowy outline of the car growing ever-smaller, highlighting just how far away the eternally out of reach horizon really is. “We’re trapped on a moebius strip and this roundabout is never letting us off. The crazed carnie is laughing at me.”
“Shut up,” Derek says. “This is painful enough already.”
“Why didn’t the Coach stop?” Stiles asks Scott pitifully. “He’s a teacher—technically, I’m pretty sure gym counts. He’s supposed to have our welfare at heart!”
“He saw Derek,” Scott says flatly.
He’s getting better at ignoring Derek’s glares. Everyone is.
Needs must.
“That was the first car we saw in twenty minutes,” Stiles says, checking the time again. Ten thirty-six, God, this is worse than double trig.
“I will throw that phone so far into the woods Scott will never be able to find it,” Derek grits out, and Stiles shoves it back into his pocket hastily.
After a minute, he asks, “How will I know if we get a signal?” but Derek growls, and although it’s a sensible question, Scott is shaking his head, so Stiles lets it go.
“I don’t know why these things always happen when I’m with you,” Stiles says, at some point during the endless night, apparently no further along this godforsaken road, and with no idea what time it is, thanks, Derek, though judging by the darkness of the sky he’s guessing they’re somewhere between grounded and his alarm.
“Stop complaining. You’re slowing us down anyway,” Derek says, and Stiles knows that’s true, keeps catching himself lagging and has to hustle, but fuck Derek and his stupid hot body with its stupid hot speed, it isn’t Stiles’ fault his stupid friends are werewolves, okay?
“I wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight!”
“Hannah?” Scott asks sympathetically.
“Totally blew me off,” Stiles says, air going out of him like a popped balloon.
“Sucks.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I didn’t even like her that much, but. It does suck.”
“Sorry you ended up with us,” Scott says. “You should’ve told me earlier, I would’ve brought beer, and then I wouldn’t be out here either.”
“Well,” Stiles says. “I was going to, but I tried Danny first, you know, but his boyfriend totally blew me off!”
“He did?” Scott asks, frowning.
“Yeah! Well, I mean—he said I needed to stop hanging around Danny so much or we were going to have a problem, but that’s ridiculous, because we don’t hang around Danny at all, that’s why Jackson’s being such a bitch to us about him, and anyway, that was totally irrational possessive behaviour, because Danny isn’t into me or anything.” Stiles squints; he thinks those trees at the end of the road are looming larger, but it’s too dark to really tell. “Danny is definitely not into me,” he concludes gloomily. Plus, it’s probably his imagination about the trees. He feels his heart settle into his stomach.
“Max probably just couldn’t stand to spend the night looking at my face,” Stiles says tragically. “I’m probably just as unattractive to him as I am to Danny.”
“Nah, dude,” Scott says comfortably, but Scott is Stiles’ friend, and thus doesn’t count.
“All gay dudes find me repulsive,” Stiles says. “Streetlight!”
“We have eyes,” Scott says.
They’re close enough to town that there’s a streetlight! But this conversation is so depressing he kind of doesn’t care. “And straight women. Gay dudes and straight women. I wonder what gay women think of me? I need to try out Mandy Jenkins. Because that would be awesome. Remind me Monday, Scott. And straight dudes. I need to try out—“
He considers, then swings around.
“Hey, Derek,” he says. “Do you find me attractive?”
“Uh—“ Derek says, obviously at a loss, having ignored everything that came out of Stiles’ mouth for the last eternity.
“Are you—?” Scott asks.
“It’s fine,” Stiles tells him, and explains the question to Derek. “As a straight man, no judgement implied, just taking a census, do you find me attractive?”
“Uh—“ Derek repeats, face blank, mouth open.
“Derek, are you—?”
“Derek,” Stiles says again, frustrated, “do you find me attractive?”
“No,” Derek says, and shuts his mouth with a snap.
“Yeah,” Stiles sighs. “I’m just shit out—“
“Holy shit!” Scott says.
“What?” Stiles asks.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” Derek says, pace quickening as the outskirts of town come into view.
“You were lying!” Scott says, turns to Stiles, face one big gape. “He was lying!”
“Yeah, right,” Stiles scoffs.
“Right,” Derek says, and it’s just quiet enough to give Stiles pause.
Then, “Who are you going to believe?” Scott asks. “Me or him?”
“Holy shit!” Stiles says, rounding on Derek. “Seriously?”
“No,” Derek says.
“Seriously!” Scott says. “You should’ve seen his pulse rocket, and he broke out in a sweat! A cold sweat!”
“A cold sweat!” Stiles tells Derek.
“It isn’t actually—“
“The point stands!”
Derek falls silent.
“So,” Stiles says, into the awkwardness that ensues. “You find me attractive.”
“Yes,” Derek admits reluctantly.
“You’re into me?”
“I have no idea why I would be,” Derek says.
“Which means you are,” Stiles points out. “Right?”
“Not only do I want to use my teeth to tear those clothes from your body, I would make you breakfast afterwards and listen to further complaints about the many and varied people who do not appreciate your wonder and genius,” Derek says, and it’s totally deadpan, but it doesn’t sound like he’s making fun, or not of Stiles anyway, and when Stiles glances towards Scott to check, Scott’s jaw is dropped and his face is horrified.
...Possibly because he's picking up on the changes in Stiles' body now, and it's not like he's never noticed them before, surely, but he's never known who and what was causing them, not like this.
“I want to tackle you to the ground right here, before we get back to town and I can’t, and I would do it, I wouldn’t even care that Scott was watching—“
“So I’m sure Derek will get you home,” Scott says, and bolts down the remainder of the road, towards the cluster of lights.
Stiles and Derek spend a minute watching him vanish, but then Stiles has to turn to Derek, catches him side-eying Stiles’ smile, catches him trying to hide it.
Which is fair enough, because Stiles can’t stop smiling and staring at Derek’s mouth, wondering if he’s actually going to get to feel it on him tonight, but he doesn’t really want Derek calling him on it either.
“So,” Stiles says eventually, when it becomes clear that Derek has reached his limit, and neither of them is actually up for screwing by the side of the road a hundred yards out of town. “You gonna walk me home or what? It’s late, and it’s your fault I’m still out.”
“It’s five to eleven,” Derek says.
“That’s late,” Stiles insists, and Derek shrugs, but when they start off together, he keeps glancing to the side to make sure Stiles is keeping up.
Stiles doesn’t think that’s going to be a problem now.