Archive of Our Own

As far as kidnappings went, waking up in the passenger seat of Derek’s Camaro bode well for him – and not only because Derek, his would be kidnapper, was sat next to him.

He was also not tied up, which was clearly an oversight on his kidnapper’s part.

Or maybe you have not been kidnapped, said the part of him hellbent on playing the devil’s advocate (a part of him that sounded, suspiciously enough, like Scott). 

But Stiles knew very well he had been kidnapped. He had-

“How long are you going to keep pretending that you’re asleep?”

Stiles wanted to keep his eyes and mouth shut in protest, but he only managed about 13 more seconds before he was opening both.

“Where are you taking me?”

Derek was completely relaxed at the driver’s seat, eyes fixed on the road and those giga-asshole sunglasses of his perched on his nose.

He looked very hot, and Stiles hated him for it.

“Away from Beacon Hills. You can try, but child’s lock is on,” he added, when Stiles’ fingers moved towards the passenger door.

Stiles glared at him. 

“You were meant to take me home,” he said, glowering at him. “What the fuck, dude? My dad–”

“Sanctioned this,” said Derek, still not having even the basic decency of acting like he was sorry for his crimes.

Stiles frowned. “Pardon?”

Finally Derek turned to face him, and there was a very attractively smug grin on his face that Stiles did not like one bit (that was a lie. Stiles liked it a lot) (Stiles liked all of Derek’s smiles a lot)(it was a Problem™).

“The Sheriff told me you needed to get out of Beacon Hills for a bit,” he said. “Between nearly dying and saving everyone’s life and senior year graduation being just around the corner, you apparently needed a break.”

Stiles was... surprised. 

He knew he had been a little irritated and overwhelmed, lately. Derek and the pack had nearly died (again, mind you), and this time had been much closer than all the others before. Had Stiles not been there, they would have not made it.

And while normally he’d have held this over their (specifically Isaac, Derek and Jackson’s) heads, he had also nearly died from overexerting his magic (which had led to lectures from Lydia, Deaton, Derek (the hypocrite!) and his father).

He hadn’t however realised that his stress and general emotional state had been so obvious that even his father had picked up on it.

Not to boast (because it was not really something one should boast about) (according to Scott, at least) but he was usually very good at keeping stuff hidden from the Sheriff.

Which, he presumed, was why the man had not tried to approach Stiles directly regarding it, and had gone straight to his alpha instead.

Whistleblowing 101.

Still, “He did not mean you had to kidnap me. Wait... did you drug me?! Is that why I fell asleep? I thought we worked on your–”

Derek had the audacity to roll his eyes. “I didn’t drug you.” When Stiles kept staring at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion, he added, “Lydia did.”

What did it say about his life that Stiles was not even surprised? Because of course Lydia would have been the one to drug him. If he'd had to guess the member of the pack most likely to poison someone, he would have guessed Lydia.

(Unless it included ‘accidentally’ poisoning someone, because then Allison might win based on what she proudly called ‘food’ and that not even her whipped werewolf boyfriend was able to stomach without developing food poisoning and stomach ulcers).

She was probably still mad about him using her favourite lipgloss for the location spell. Apparently having used it to save her life was worth nothing because now he had ‘wasted’ a ‘rare’ and ‘limited edition’ piece of make-up ‘Stiles’.

“And is it really a kidnapping if I told your father where I was taking you before leaving and he packed your bag?” 

“Yes,” said Stiles, crossing his arms and continuing to glare. “That’s when it becomes a conspiracy, actually.”

“You are not important enough.”

“I am the son of the Sheriff!”

“The son of the Sheriff, trained by werewolves and Deaton and I still managed to catch you by surprise,” said Derek, turning to look at him. “What does that tell you?”

His lip was quirked up, making one of his canines poke out and this time, when Stiles broke eye contact, it had nothing to do with pretending to be angry or being legitimately annoyed.

It had, instead, everything to do with the terrible terrible situation he had now found himself in through absolutely no fault of his own (for the nth time, he would like to add).

He could not recognise the road outside the window, which meant they were already pretty far from Beacon Hills – probably far enough that trying to turn the car around would just mean even more hours stuck in a car with Derek Hale alone.

There was nobody in the back of the car, and his hopes that Isaac had smuggled himself in the boot (something he had done once before and that, to this day, Stiles did not know the reason why) dashed as soon as he remembered Erica mentioning that she was planning to take him and Boyd with her and her family on a trip.

His father had packed his bag, which implied more than one night spent away.

So, unless they were meeting someone wherever it was that he was being forcibly taken to (and he really doubted it, because Derek really cared about nature and frowned upon unnecessary carbon emission), he and Derek were going to be alone together after they reached their destination too.

Not only that, but he and Derek were alone in a moving vehicle and he was conscious and coherent and able to talk (Harris’ worst nightmare). The vehicle was also built to prevent attempts at saving their friendship via Stiles throwing himself out of it while it was moving.

This was not ideal. This was ideal at all.

Had it been a few weeks ago, it would have been fine (ish). It would have been more or less okay because, back then, Stiles had been doing a splendid job keeping his crush on Derek to himself (or at keeping it from Derek, at least).

After a few years spent crushing and lusting after local bad boy alpha werewolf, he had learnt to control his spark and to use it and a few little charms to hide some of the more... embarrassing reactions he had to Derek (or to shirtless Derek)(or wolfed out Derek)(or smug Derek) (or thumbholes Derek) (or glasses Derek)(or bloodied Derek) (or all other boner inducing types of Derek that existed). He had been fine surviving.

But his emotions had taken a turn for the worse two weeks ago. 

They had taken a turn for the worse when the latest Monster of the Week™ had rolled into town with nothing but murder on its mind and Stiles had watched Derek be nearly clawed to death.

For reasons that he refused to admit outside of a court of law, he had sort of snapped and lost control of his magic; which had then, in turn, led to him waking up in a hospital bed with Derek sat beside him, looking like he had been crying, with still healing wounds on his chest, and to Stiles realising that ‘crush’ did not quite encompass the full range of Feelings™ he had for his one and only alpha.

Because it was one thing to enjoy the way Derek looked. To lust after his half naked body and feel your heart melt at the sight of him dressed in snuggle clothing (“Stiles, these are sweats”).

It was another thing to laugh at his dry sense of humour and terrible jokes. To watch the way he cared for his pack, and know that he cared about you just as much.

It was another thing entirely to realise that you would rather die a thousand firey deaths than allow anything to happen to him. To realise that if it was a question of his life or yours you would not hesitate to let yourself die.

It was another thing to realise all of that, and to realise, at the same time, that it would never be reciprocated. To know, with the same certainty of your feelings for him, that Derek cared about every member in his pack equally, and that he would never have the feelings you have towards him for you (and not because he was somewhat incapable; he just did not and would never see you like that).

It was the sort of thing that, coupled with nearly dying and exam season (Stiles would leave people to guess which was the more stressful of the two), could lead you to the sort of depression and sadness that had your father noticing and trying to help you.

It was not the Sheriff’s fault that he was now making things much worse for Stiles, but again, that was why Stiles was the one always making plans.

He clearly could trust nobody else.

“Where are we going, anyway?” he forced himself to ask, before Derek could get suspicious of his continued silence (for someone who always told him to shut up, Derek always acted like Stiles being quiet was a sign of the incoming apocalypse).

“My family has a house near Muir Beach,” explained Derek. “We are about five minutes away.”

Should Stiles focus on the fact that Derek had just willingly mentioned his family in conversation and that he was being taken to said family house, or should he focus on the fact that they had been on the road together for hours already, and Derek had been doing so willingly, without bothering to wake him up?

“I have been there once before, after... after,” continued Derek, staring right ahead (option three, it was: stay quiet and hope for the best). The glasses covered his eyes and eyebrows, and considering the role they both took in every Derek Hale conversation, he vowed silent revenge against them. “With Cora and Malia. Laura had never wanted to go back there, and neither did I. But Cora mentioned it to Malia, and I ended up taking them both.”

Everytime Derek offered any sort of information about his family, Stiles found himself suddenly unable to speak. It was impressive, because virtually no other situation managed to have the same effect on him.

“I think Peter had been there recently, because the place was surprisingly clean,” he said, tapping a finger on the steering wheel. “Cora only managed to stay in the house for a night before she wanted to go back home. Malia enjoyed it.”

“And you?” Apparently not even the mention of Derek’s family managed to seal his ability of speech for too long.

Derek continued to tap the steering wheel, as they stopped at another traffic light.

“I did not hate it as much as I thought I would,” he admitted, after a few silent seconds. “I hated the emptiness of it. I hated the weight of the memories in it. I hated my mind trying to fill the blanks of what was not there anymore. The emptiness represented everything the house was never supposed to be.”

He kept his face facing forward.

Unfortunately for him, while he knew Stiles pretty well, Stiles knew him better than Derek would ever know or appreciate.

“But.”

“But,” agreed Derek. “It was still home. One of my homes, at least. As much as being in there hurt, the silence of it hurt more.” He shook his head, pulling the car forward again. “It’s not right. It’s not how the house is supposed to be. It’s supposed to be filled, loud, full of laughter and arguments and jokes, and different pack members of different species and origins.” He glanced over at Stiles. “So, I am going to fix it.”

“This blatant disregard of the laws of the road you are displaying by facing me instead of the road is misplaced,” said Stiles, calmly ignoring the hammering of his heart in his chest and hoping that Derek would develop a sudden deafness that made him unable to hear it. “And not sure if you have noticed, but the rest of your pack is on holiday or back in Beacon Hills. How do you plan on getting them here?”

“Uh,” said Derek, acting like he had only just noticed their lack of passengers. Then he destroyed any hope of Stiles’ that he might go back for more betas by saying, “I guess you will have to do. After all, you are as loud by yourself as the rest of the pack put together.”

“You are the worst.”

Derek pulled his sunglasses low on his nose just so that he could smugly wink at him.

Any sudden redness on Stiles' face and the fact that he spent the rest of the trip facing the car window with a hand half covering his face was due to heatstroke and nothing more.

+++

The house was as beautiful as Stiles had expected it to be.

From the outside, it looked like a typical villa (typical as in like the sort of place you’d see on a TV show under the name villa; Stiles himself had less than zero experience with this type of real estate), gated and very well kept for a supposedly abandoned place.

The furniture and decorations inside were nothing like the ones in the newly restored Hale pack house in the Preserve. In fact, Stiles was pretty sure this was closer to the original interior design of the Hale House than the place Derek and the pack had rebuilt two summers ago.

He wondered what it said about him, all of the differences in aesthetic.

He had let Lydia, Erica and Isaac have a lot of freedom when it came to decorating (he had allowed everyone to have a say; but certain redheads and blondes just had a louder voice when giving their says).

He did not mention that, however. In fact, he kept remarkably quiet as he did his best to just watch and not touch everything he came across in the house (the tact he was displaying... a clear sign of growth)(Scott would be proud).

The house looked even bigger on the inside than it was on the outside (a spell or an optical illusion, he couldn’t have told you), which made sense. He had figured out by now that living together, generation after generation of inner and extended families, was the norm among werewolves.

There were a number of objects carefully placed around and a number of decorations, but it was the pictures he could see scattered around the walls and desks and surfaces varied that caught his attention more than anything else.

There were pictures of Derek’s parents (Talia and Jasper Hale) and a few pictures of Talia and a younger Peter Hale (Stiles was surprised: he had half expected to learn that Peter had come out of the womb fully grown)(though, him being a little sibling explained a lot of things), standing side by side. In some pictures, those who he assumed to be their parents (Derek’s grandparents) were even standing behind them. There were pictures of Laura, Derek and Cora at different ages. In some pictures they were standing alone; in others, it was a combination of the three, sometimes all of them together. In some, there were pictures of them standing with their parents, sometimes with Peter (Laura looked the most like her mother and like Peter, a thought that Stiles forcefully discarded as soon as it manifested). 

There were pictures of people Stiles was pretty sure he had seen in Beacon Hills, and pictures of people he had never met before. 

Pictures of the Hale Pack as it had been, frozen in one moment of happiness, just like the house itself.

They had been so happy. Clearly they had cared deeply about one another.

It had been a big happy family.

And now, most of this big happy family was gone.

The only remaining members of the family were Cora, Derek and Peter.

“Peter decorated it,” said Derek, walking in with his and Stiles’ bags in his hands. “He liked taking pictures.”

Stiles grimaced. “This was supposed to be a touching comment about a touching family tradition, Derek. Now it’s ruined because it’s Peter, and he’s naturally creepy.”

Derek snorted, dropping Stiles’ bag in front of him. “I am not your chauffeur.”

“I thought you were my kidnapper.”

“You are not tied up enough,” said Derek, walking away with his bag as Stiles did his best to not choke on his own tongue.

Did the man not realise the things he said?! He had to realise the things he said!

“You are a dick!” he forcefully called out, once he could move his tongue again without fear of causing his own premature (... or maybe not so premature) demise, but Derek had left the floor already.

It was things like that, decided Stiles, that would destroy this vacation – and their relationship.

Things like Derek bringing him to his family house (a family home that no not-Hale family pack member had seen before), a house filled with things bound to trigger his more emotional state and to make him sentimental, that was already dangerous for Stiles’ mental health.

But if you added the fact that they were alone in a too big house, the fact that Derek was at his funniest and, dare he say, flirtiest, when he was alone with a member of the pack (he wanted to say alone with him, but he really did not have enough data to do so), and Stiles was ready to re-commit himself to Eichen House.

He was not going to survive this mini holiday with his mental faculties, dignity and/or body in one piece, he already was sure of this.

One of them was gonna implode by the end of the day.

“Stilinski!” called Derek, from above. “I am not bringing your bag up, hurry it up already!”

“You are a terrible kidnapper,” Stiles shouted back, picking up his suspiciously light bag and following up the stairs. “The last kidnapper I had even gave me time to pack a toothbrush.”

“The witch?”

“Yep,” said Stiles, finding Derek standing in front of one of the rooms on the first floor.

He had a moment of panic where he thought the wolf was about to offer they share a room, but Derek crushed it before it could even fully form.

“You can take my room,” he said, pushing the door to said room open with a foot. “I’ll take Peter’s.”

“Wait,” said Stiles, momentarily surprised by those words. “You’re giving me your room?”

Derek raised an eyebrow, doing fuck all to make it seem like it was not a big deal (it was a big deal). “Would you rather take Peter’s room?”

“Let’s not be hasty, now,” said Stiles, inching towards Derek’s room with limited reservation. Neither of them mentioned the fact that there were far more than two bedrooms available in the house. “He probably has dead animal carcasses and pictures of me taped all over the room.”

“You vastly overestimate how much my uncle cares about you.”

“You vastly underestimate how hard he creeps up on me when you are not around,” said Stiles, shuddering at the mere memory. “Asking me how I am, offering to drive me home on rainy days, telling me to pass him popcorn...” Derek stared at him, unimpressed. “You don’t get it! He does it in a creepy way. Smiling at me and stuff!”

“I believe you,” said Derek, in the lying way of someone who was lying about believing a word you were saying. "The horror."

“Meanwolf,” said Stiles, shooting him a dirty look. “And just for that, I am going to put my investigative skills at work and unearth every single piece of possible blackmail against you that I can find in your room. By the time I am done, you will have no secrets from me.”

“And Peter is the creepy one, right?”

Stiles ignored that very (un)reasonable argument by walking inside of Derek’s room and closing the door behind him.

The room was less Derek than Stiles had expected it to be.

Not because it was teenager Derek’s room rather than current Derek’s room (which would have simply meant less gloom and less reek of angst and guilt).

Stiles had done a lot of research on the topic of ‘Derek Hale’. He could write a thesis on the topic of ‘Derek Hale’. He had a degree on the topic of ‘Derek Hale’, with a minor in Derek Hale’s eyebrow. He knew a lot about Derek.

... In a non criminal and non stalker way, of course.

Point was, he knew what Derek had been like in his teenage years. He knew from what Peter had told him, from what Cora had told him, from what other alpha wolves who had been friends of the Hale pack had said, from what Derek himself had told him, from what Derek’s ex classmates had said of him (what? Was Stiles not supposed to track down the people he found from Derek’s yearbook and ask them how he had been before the fire?), the – arguably very little – he remembered of him, and even from what he had seen of Derek that one time he had been accidentally de-aged the first time (god, what was his life? How had Derek been de-aged more than once?!).

There were elements of the Derek Stiles had learnt of, in the rooms. There were a few music posters on the walls (Michael Jackson, and Justin Timberlake, which was actually hilarious). There was an old deflated basketball in the corner of the room. There were some historical novellas and old textbooks on the table. There was a very old Nintendo DS on the bedside table, and a number of little games to input.

There was even an old radio that Stiles doubted still worked.

But there were also pictures on the walls. Pictures of Derek with Cora and with Laura. Pictures of Derek with people and cousins Stiles did not know, with aunts, uncles and others. Pictures of Derek with unknown girls and unknown guys. Pictures of Derek throughout the years, from when he was around 6 to age 15.

That alone was cute, but not too odd.

What was odd was the other wall.

There were four pictures on the other wall, pictures that were much more recent and recognisable.

One was a picture of Derek, Malia and Cora together – most likely taken on the day the three of them had come to the beachhouse together. 

One was a picture of the pack that Stiles guessed had been taken by Peter or by his own father (his money was on Peter, obviously, because the angle just screamed deceit and duplicity and evilness)(he could sense it). They were all half or fully asleep and covered in dirt, and it looked a couple of years old at least (Kira and Malia weren’t there, but Whittemore was).

Then there was a picture Stiles wasn’t sure who had taken. It was of himself, Derek, Cora, Isaac, Kira, Malia and Peter playing UNO together. Stiles was mid cackle – he remembered that day; he had not been laughing, he had been cackling in delight with two plus 2 cards in his hand – while Isaac was looking like he wanted to kill him and Derek was just smirking at him – because he had a plus 4 card he had been planning to use on Stiles for evil.

The last picture was of Stiles half passed out being piggybag carried by Derek after training. Derek was laughing in the picture at something Stiles must have muttered in his half passed out state, and Cora, also in the picture, was looking at the camera as if saying ‘look what I have been forced into’.

It was a nice picture. They all were.

Stiles was just not sure he’d have considered them wall worthy (especially the fourth one).

If he had been just a little more delusional than he was, he could have even tried to say that the picture looked like a total boyfriend type of picture.

Because unfortunately he had been born with common sense and critical thinking skills, he forcibly stopped himself from trying to read into it by clicking ‘insert random excuse’ in his brain and moved along, dropping on the bed (Derek’s bed, but he was not going to think about that).

However, he had only started going through his stuff when he came across a second Problem™ (he was sure it was like the fourth or the fifth, but he had lost count).

“Derek,” he called, standing up and moving towards the door. “Derek– jesus!”

Derek, who was standing directly on the other side of the door when Stiles opened it (because he had a ‘scare Stiles shitless’ fetish, clearly) did not even bother trying to look sorry for giving him a(nother) heart attack.

“What?”

“I hate you,” said Stiles, a hand pressed on his heart.

“Lie,” said Derek, in the smug way of heartbeat reading werewolves everywhere. “What do you want.”

“We need to go back home,” said Stiles, pointing at his bag. “Dad either threw the first thing he saw in a bag and handed it to you, or he is under the deranged opinion that I will survive however long we are here for with one pair of shorts, no socks, and three–”

“He used your panic bag,” said Derek, interrupting him. “He assumed – reasonably – that you would have enough to survive with that.”

“I used this one,” said Stiles, sighing. “I had the newest one in the back of my Jeep. Something you would know, had you asked me instead of physically grabbing me after you had enabled my drugging so that you could carry me across state lines.”

“You are so dramatic.”

“I know you, Mr ‘I rip my shirt and run naked in the Preserve like the protagonist of an emo and sad music video because Erica ate the last poptart’ are not talking about being dramatic.”

Derek glared, even as he pulled out his wallet and his ears betrayed him by turning red. “She doesn’t even like strawberry poptarts. She did it to spite me.”

She had. In her defense, Derek had dared to assume that, because she was on her period, she’d want to sit out of training that day. This had been catalogued a grave crime in her book, so maybe he had deserved it?

He did not know, and he had no intention of inserting himself in that argument.

“Let’s go, then?”

Stiles blinked, finding Derek once more on the stairs, seemingly waiting for him.

“Let’s go where?” 

Derek did not answer, climbing down the stairs.

Stiles lasted five whole seconds before he was trailing after him.

Bastard. 

He knew exactly what he was doing (though he probably underestimated just how far Stiles was willing to follow him)(beyond the ends of the Earth, to be precise).

“I can’t stand you!”

“Lie!”

Bitch.

To: My Queen Lydia

Text: I am fucked.

From: My Queen Lydia

Text: I was wondering how long it was going to take you to wake up and text.

Stiles scowled at the phone hard enough for her to sense it (or at least he hoped that his spark would make it so) but, unfortunately, there wasn’t really much time for him to be mad at her.

That was because the ‘where’ Derek had been taking him to (did that count as secondary location or not?) turned out to be the nearest Target, where the grumpy wolf had grabbed a trolley, manhandledoeuvred them towards the clothes section, handed him his card, and proceeded to stare at him expectantly.

Which, in Derek-eyebrows speak meant ‘go crazy, go stupid’ but in Stiles' brain somehow sounded a lot like ‘I am your sugardaddy now, bend over’.

Because Stiles was, as previously acknowledged, at times deeply delusional when it came to his relationship with his alpha.

To: My Queen Lydia

Text: trust me, if I survive this, u will be dealt with

Text: but im not likely to survive this.

Text: I am not likely to survive this because I am alone with derek 329.12 miles from home alone with derek and did i mention im alone with derek?????

From: My Queen Lydia

Text: ... Did you measure the distance from there to Beacon Hills.

To: My Queen Lydia

Text: LYDIA FOCUS.

From: My Queen Lydia

Text: I don’t see what the problem is. Romantic weekend with the guy you’ve been pining after since sophomore year. Perfect lover’s getaway.

To: My Queen Lydia

Text: except that the guy is derek hale and there is nothing romantic about this. 

Text: IT’s derek

Text: You know, the one–

“Are you done?”

Stiles hastily put his phone away, lest his super werewolf eyesight decided to give him the ability to see what was written on his phone from beyond the walls of clothes. 

“Geeze,” he complained, throwing the various items in the trolley. “You would suck as a sugar daddy.”

Bad brain, bad mouth, bad brain to mouth filter!

Before Stiles could take back the words and also try to kill himself then and there to forever change their bond and the trajectory of their lives, Derek said, “I don’t think that I would suck anything as a sugar daddy. On the contrary, actually.”

“Did you just–” Derek pushed the trolley past him, not looking back. “Did you just make a joke?! Did you just make a dirty joke?! Derek Hale, come back here! Come back here immediately!”

Derek did not come back. 

Instead he left Stiles to pay (with Derek’s card), took them back to the beach house, had them leave the clothes and food in the living room, and then dragged Stiles to the beach to continue his duty as a terrible and evil kidnapper.

With the sun bright in the sky, the beach not as crowded as Stiles had feared, the sunscreen Derek had materialised for him and the sight of Derek Hale without his shirt on (and not-bleeding! A rarity!) standing in front of him, Stiles had to admit that, as far as kidnappings went, this wasn’t so bad.

“Shut up,” he still said, when he saw the smug look on Derek’s face as soon as he threw himself on the beach towel (t-shirt still on with his swimming shorts, because he only hung around supermodels, and was not one himself). “I decide how to spend my time during this kidnapping.”

“That is not how kidnappings work,” said Derek, smiling placidly at a couple that shot them a worried look at their words. “And stop calling it a kidnapping before someone actually calls the cops on us.”

“I wonder what would happen,” said Stiles, picking up the bottle of sunscreen. “I mean, I am not underage anymore, but Erica says I still have a baby face.” And he wasn’t even sure he had his ID on him. “Meanwhile you have the body and look of a hardened criminal who spent years in prison for some sort of macho but not evil crime.”

Derek’s eyebrows made it above his sunglasses. “Macho but not evil ?”

“You can’t be evil,” explained Stiles, slathering his body in sunscreen. He had not asked for this heart attack inducing holiday, but he refused to return home looking like a goddamn tomato. “Not with those adorable bunny teeth. Ah-ah, put the wolf chompers away!”

Derek did put away his shifted jaws, but could not resist flashing his eyes at Stiles in silent threat.

It might have worked, a few years ago. 

However, by now Stiles was immune and mostly over the fear boner and horny boner combination that Derek and his red alpha eyes were capable of inducing in him.

He blamed the sight of Derek Hale protecting him from wolfed out Isaac in prison at a formative age for all of his problems regarding fear induced lust. One day he was sure he would get growled at by a feral alpha and he’d whimper.

In a non fearful manner.

Which would just be worrying and mortifying for both of them, and then Stiles would have to fake his death and change his identity and that was just so long.

“Are you planning on laying here the whole time?” asked Derek, as Stiles continued his ministration of sunscreen, mind going over weirder and weirder scenarios involving werewolves, fangs, eyes, and boners.

He thanked every single pantheon every day that Derek could not read his mind.

“I thought you wanted me to relax,” he pointed out, trying to reach his back under the shirt. “This is the only way of getting me to relax while at the beach with you. Not you in particular, just the beach in general. Actually, the only and most perfect way of getting me to relax would have been to leave me with the only interesting members of the pack – I’ll let you guess their names – so that we could play video games in your living room.” He frowned, glanced at Derek. “Wait, why did you even bring me all the way here? It would have been much easier and less expensive for everyone involved for you to just lock me in your house, and yep, I heard it.”

“That’s how Stockholm syndrome starts,” commented Derek, sounding amused as he moved behind him but thankfully ignoring how red Stiles’ neck must have turned just then.

“I’m just saying– oh!”

Derek – who had snatched the sunscreen from him – did not pause in spreading it on his back even when Stiles jumped, ignoring or shockingly unaware of the speed Stiles’ heart had decided to take (sometimes, when he wasn’t busy praising gods he didn’t believe in for that, he worried about Derek’s hearing).

Whoever claimed that sound and light were the fastest things in this universe had clearly never heard Stiles’ heart.

He had probably just won a Guinness world record.

Or he should probably see a doctor sooner than later.

What was he saying?

He had no idea of what he was saying.

All he knew was the feeling of Derek’s hands on his back, the feel of each of his fingers as they sank gently into his skin and his back.

Don’t moan, don’t moan, don’t moan, don’t moan–

“Do werewolves get sunburns?” he blurted out, when one of Derek’s hands moved closer to his waist, making him shiver in a very embarrassing manner. “Can you get sunburnt? Does it depend on your colouring? Can you get skin cancer? Wait, can you get cancer in general?”

“I don’t see why a werewolf wouldn’t be able to get cancer, despite what Gerard Argent believes, but I have never met one who has,” said Derek, and Stiles wasn’t sure he was grateful or very upset when he pulled his hands away from his back (Derek continued to be the champion of eliciting confusing reactions from Stiles). “I’ve never gotten sunburnt, but I have gotten a tan before. Doesn’t last long. I’m assuming it depends on colouring; Laura always had an easier time getting tanned than I did.”

See? How was Stiles supposed to not be over the hills in love with him when Derek was one of the few people that, even though he told him to shut up a lot (more than a lot), always listened to what Stiles said/asked and always answered the questions he knew the answers to?

Derek was just... he was as if someone had pulled up everything Stiles wanted in a man/partner, added an actual personality that worked with his, mixed it up and gave it to a glorious Greek sculpted body.

Derek was a test designed to make Stiles fail. And, perfect GPA or not, Stiles wanted to fail. Really, Lydia would make a better valedictorian than him anyway.

He would–

“Hi!”

Stiles and Derek both glanced up to see three (very pretty) young women standing in front of them, the blonde at the front of the she-pack holding a beach volley ball.

“Hi...?” replied Stiles, when Derek remained perfectly silent despite clearly being the one being addressed by the girls.

“We need one more player to join us for a game,” explained Blonde Alpha, flashing them a stereotypically perfect and blindingly white smile. “Can you help us out?”

Seriously, she looked like she had come out of those magazines Erica made fun of but that secretly made her feel bad about herself and that Cora, Stiles and Boyd ritually destroyed: long wavy blonde hair, grey bikini that emphasised all of her important parts, and a very useless and wet white cardigan over her shoulders.

Her friends behind her looked like number two and number three on the cheerleader pyramid respectively, one with curly brown hair, and the other with straight red hair.

Not that they weren’t pretty or that there was something wrong with any of these things, mind you. Stiles was a lover and not a fighter (... mostly, unless you were a monster intent on killing him and his friends, obviously): if they wanted to express themselves in this manner and flaunt what their mama gave them, then good for them. 

But still, they couldn’t have looked more like the stereotypical cast of an early 2010s TV show about best friends and bad romances if they had tried, and Stiles was a jealous person, when it came to Derek Hale (or in general. Stiles was a jealous person in general).

The way the head cheerleader alpha was looking at Derek just did not sit right with him.

“Beach volley?” asked Derek, like he could not notice how hard she was trying to get his attention. And if he couldn’t see it, there was no way he couldn’t smell it.

He’d know, multiple members of the pack had, at multiple times, told him how much he ‘stunk’ the place up when Derek was... virtually doing anything sexy.

Like breathing and existing.

Again, Stiles thanked every goddess he did not believe in for the fact that Derek had needed him enough in the early days that he had never commented on it.

“Yeah,” said cheerleader number two, batting her eyes at him. “You game?”

Derek glanced over at Stiles instead of the pretty girls in front of him (Stiles was petty enough that he could admit that it felt very good). “Wanna play?”

The girls did not glare at him, but it was clear from their expressions that the invitation was not extended to him as well.

“I’ll stay here,” he said, shooting him a grin and pulling out his phone. “I still have to scream at Lydia, and the sun is too strong for my delicate skin.”

“You sure?”

Stiles’ smile was more honest as his heart attempted somersaults inside of him (and failed, because his heart was no more athletic than the rest of him). “I’ll be fine, Der. Nobody else would try to kidnap me from my kidnapper.”

“You’re insufferable,” said the wolf, pulling off his glasses as he stood up. The girls cheered playfully behind him, but he ignored them, getting closer to him than necessary to place the sunglasses over his nose. “You’re here to relax. And call out if you need something.”

He ran a thumb over his nose (blue screen of death activated, initiate panic sequence) to pull off what looked like a clump of sunscreen, and then smiled slightly at the girls, following them towards the net.

Stiles remained right where he was, staring at Derek’s back tattoo and trying to decide whether screaming at the top of his lungs and smacking his head against the floor would be considered ‘too much’ of a reaction and could give him up.

He decided, as the three argued about who Derek would pair up with, that the answer was ‘probably’, and he pulled out his phone.

To: My Queen Lydia

Text: what are the chances of you or anyone else from the pack coming over and saving me?

She answered immediately.

From: My Queen Lydia

Text: As you don’t have more money than Derek, I would say less than 0.

To: My Queen Lydia

Text: what does that even mean???

From: My Queen Lydia

Text: And that is exactly why I am the smartest person in the pack.

Text: What are you doing?

To: My Queen Lydia

Text: I am hiding from the sun and texting you while Derek is playing beach volley with the non supernatural version of you, allison and erica

From: My Queen Lydia

Text: You are alone with Derek, on holiday, miles away from home, on the beach, both of you half naked and you are telling me you are not even in touching distance?

To: My Queen Lydia

Text: I am doing my best!

From: My Queen Lydia

Text: ... you disgust me.

Stiles glanced up to look at where the blonde had asserted dominance and was standing with Derek (the clichés wrote themselves) as they started their game, and sighed, before laying on the ground.

As he alternated between texting Lydia and watching Derek’s game, he could not deny that he was feeling a little bit better than he had back home.

He did not have to think about the things that had suffocated him back home, and with the sun shining above him and the calming waves in front of him, it was easy not to.

There were no injuries on his or Derek’s skin from their latest near death experience (previous near death experiences were another story). And yes, his feelings for Derek were as suffocating and unreciprocated here as they had been back home but, as cliché as that sounded, he did feel a bit better about them here, away from the Beacon Hills.

Without Scott’s pitiful glances and Erica and Lydia’s unsympathetic judgement, without having to worry about upsetting his father, without having to wonder where the next big bad was going to come from... it was what he had needed.

Just being able to lay down on the beach, unbothered by everything and everyone, with the faraway sound of crying and screaming intermingled by the sound of the ocean...

He was not going to admit it to his father, Lydia or Derek, but it was relaxing.

It made him feel as if things were not so bad.

Sure, he was still utterly and completely in love with Derek. Sure, it sucked that Derek was not and would never be in love with him. Sure, one day he risked spilling his guts and having to deal with Derek’s reaction to his feelings.

But Derek had taken him to the beach because he needed a break. He had accompanied him because he knew better than to leave Stiles alone even on a holiday (he was villain catnip, which was worse than being a trouble magnet), and he had stayed with him, letting him stay in his childhood summer home, in his childhood bedroom. And Derek was a werewolf with werewolf senses who still, despite all he must have smelled and heard through the years, cared about Stiles as a friend and wanted to help him.

They were pack, and pack came before everything, above everything.

Hell, Peter had nearly killed, annoyed and/or abused more than half of the pack, and here they all were. Glaring at him even as they set a place for him for dinner. And the dinner wasn’t even poisoned (... most of the time)(Lydia did as Lydia wanted).

It was... comforting. Stiles having feelings for him could not be worse than Peter literally skewering his sister and then trying to eat him.

So there was that.

To: My Queen Lydia

Text: look at how pretty he is!

Text: image.15062023

This time, Lydia did not reply.

Hater.

+++

“Hey.”

Stiles tore his eyes away from the article he had been reading in his quest to prove to Scott that Orcas were bullies but there was no way they would ever take a hippo in a fight (duh) to find Derek standing over him, holding two ice creams in his hands.

“Move,” said the wolf, kicking him gently aside to sit next to him (sharing a towel! Sharing a towel! Blast the alarms, they were sharing a towel) and handing him a small tub of pralines and cream with cherries jubilee icecream, keeping a vanilla chocolate and sprinkles monstrosity for himself.

“You remembered my favourite flavour?”

“Nobody else eats anything as disgusting as this,” said Derek, grimacing even as he handed the ice cream over to him. However, when he reached to take off the sunglasses from his face, Stiles deftly pulled away with his ice cream.

“No.”

“Seriously?”

“Finders keepers.”

“I gave them to you.”

“And your point is?” asked Stiles, slurping up the ice cream in a way he knew would have made Lydia disgusted but that had Derek just staring at him blankly. “And what happened to your fanclub?”

“I think I dissolved it when they asked me which one of them I found prettier and I told them that they weren’t my type and that I found none of them attractive,” said Derek, nonchalantly eating his ice cream as Stiles tried not to choke beside him.

“You said what?!” he asked, once he managed to get his breathing back – through no help from Derek, mind you. “Wow. You’re so lucky you’re pretty.”

“Pretty privilege, you’ve mentioned it,” said Derek, still nonchalant as fuck. “And would you have preferred I lied?”

“They might have,” said Stiles, politely sidestepping the question like the gentleman he was not. 

Derek paused, glancing at him thoughtfully. “And you?”

“Uh?”

“Who would have you picked?” asked Derek, sounding genuinely curious.

“Uh,” said Stiles, glancing around in search of the trio. He found them standing not too far from the volley net, all three of them still looking in their direction. He could have sworn they were scowling, but they were too far, and looked away as soon as they saw Stiles looking in their direction. “Uh, I don’t know. Maybe the red head?”

“Madison,” said Derek, lips pursing in something that, on anybody else’s face, Stiles might have called distaste. “Because she’s a red head?”

“Please,” said Stiles, rolling his eyes. “I was over Lydia before I even knew. Second, Lydia is not a red head. She’s strawberry blonde. Third, blondie looked like the meanest so, if anything, she was the Lydia of the group. Fourthly... I don’t remember where I was going with this.”

“Do you just start talking and hope that you will get to some sort of destination by the end of the sentence?”

“Finally,” said Stiles, waving his hands theatrically. “After almost four years of knowing one another, you have finally realised how my mind works. You have finally managed to uncover the truth.”

“I’ve always known the truth,” said Derek, and there was a small smile on his face when Stiles glanced back at him. “I just don’t mind hearing you talk.”

Then, as Stiles just stared at him, short of words, he pulled off his sunglasses and put them back on himself, standing up in a fluid motion.

And laughing as he did so.

Oh hell no.

With a battle cry, Stiles rushed at him.

+++

It should come to nobody’s surprise that they both ended up in the water.

Stiles got the sunglasses back, so really, he still won.

By the time they made it back to the beach house, Stiles was exhausted. 

Derek had managed to keep him in the water for almost an hour, and by the time he had escaped the cruel and unusual punishment, the sun had started to set.

They had gone to one of the nice restaurants on the beach instead of having to come home and cook, and it had been a pretty nice evening – nicer than Stiles had expected it to be.

It wasn’t like he had never gone out to eat with Derek before.

He had.

But usually they went to the small diner near the Preserve, or to a drive thru and ate in Derek’s or his car.

They had never before sat together in a restaurant, just the two of them, as if they were on a date (which they weren’t on of course)(But, again, sometimes Stiles was a bit delusional, and Derek was not helping).

And even though it wasn’t and Stiles did not consider it one, it had been a nice way to spend the evening, eating foods they normally didn’t, and talking shit about the rest of the pack (which they often did).

As they had walked back towards the house, the salty sea smell wafting towards them as they walked through the empty roads, Stiles still chuckling about the hysterical impression of Chris Argent Derek had done, he almost said it.

Derek was standing next to him, wearing an open hoodie and no t-shirt, eyes momentarily closed and face facing the half-moon, and Stiles had to physically stop himself from leaning over and kissing him. Had to stop himself from reaching towards his hand and holding it, from telling him how much he wanted him, how being around him made him feel.

It was almost a physical need.

Derek took a breath and opened his eyes again, and Stiles glanced away, fixing Derek’s glasses on top of his hair and forcing his heartbeat to calm down as he looked at the idyllic night time view of the beach.

“You okay?”

“Mh,” said Stiles, keeping his eyes fixed on the sea. “It’s just... it’s really nice. The beach. And the restaurant, that it. They are very nice. I like the ocean. Yeah.”

“You said that if I dropped you in the water you would drown yourself on purpose so that your death was on me and the guilt would eat me alive.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Of course you don’t,” said Derek, rolling his eyes.

“I do however remember you dropping me into the water,” said Stiles, forcing his face to be neutral as he turned back to look at him. “Despite a warning I may or may not have issued.”

“Maybe I don’t mind being haunted by you,” said Derek.

Stiles, through great personal effort, only rolled his eyes at this instead of faceplanting on the ground and giggling and kicking his feet.

Of course, he remedied that as soon as they got back into the house and he made sure to lock the room, throwing himself on the bed and pulling out his phone. 

To: My Queen Lydia 

Text: I am in love with him. Like I really really am in love with him, and everything about this holiday is just reminidning me of all the reasons why I love him and all the reasons why I have loved him. And he keeps being kind, and bitchy, and funny, and sweet, and an asshole, and sarcastic, and grumpy and I just can’t help but love him more every hour that passes.

Text: Is that normal? Loving someone so much you don’t know what to do with yourself? Loving someone so much it doesn’t even matter to you that they might never love you back. That the only thing you care about is whether they will stay in your life even if your feelings accidentally come out?

Text: I don’t think it’s normal. I don’t, but it doesn’t even matter to me because I love him. Isn’t that insane? It hurts but it’s also fine and none of it matters because I love him. Its crazy. Im crazy.

Text: crazy in love.

Text: you’re probably asleep. Im gonna stop before I wake you up with notifications and you decide to come over to kill me. Nights, lyds <3

He pressed his phone on his chest once he was done, thriving in his romcom female lead moment for a few seconds before he got up to get ready for bed.

Derek’s glasses got placed under his pillow.

Because, as previously said, sometimes he was a bit delusional.

From: My Queen Lydia 

Text: Here’s an idea: tell him that.

Obviously Stiles did not tell Derek shit.

What he did do was smack his head against the wall (quietly) when he walked into the kitchen to find Derek awake making breakfast for both of them the next morning.

Even though he managed to burn the omelette (how?) and burn the toast (how?!), Stiles had to say that that was the nicest breakfast he had ever had. Especially since he got his coffee just right.

Of course he did not tell him that.

“How the fuck did you burn the toast?” he demanded, looking at the black carboard in his hands. “You only had to put it in there and click a button. It cannot be that hard.”

“It’s possessed or something,” said Derek, scowling at the machine. “And it’s not that bad.”

The sound of Derek biting into the burnt bread was horrific, but the wolf managed to pretend everything was fine though the entire bite.

Stiles just stared at him. “I don’t know if I’m horrified or very impressed.”

“I made you breakfast.”

“You attempted to poison me,” corrected Stiles, ignoring – with great effort – the butterflies in his stomach at his words. “And concealed it by making excellent coffee.”

“You like the coffee?” asked Derek, lighting up.

How fucking unfair was that?

“How are you planning on spending the second day of my kidnapping?” asked Stiles, instead of answering those words. “Or am I allowed to go home now?”

“Surfing,” said Derek, taking another bite of the toast.

“Ah,” said Stiles, taking another sip of the drink. “So your poisoning attempt failed so now you are giving the ocean a chance.”

“Come on,” said Derek. “I was really good. You’ll love it.”

“I am not going.”

+++

Stiles went surfing.

Stiles hated surfing.

Stiles got to see Derek wet in swim trucks challenging the waves.

Stiles also got to see Derek ignoring the fanclub that formed for him while he was surfing and walk straight to him like some sort of Adonis.

Stiles loved surfing.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Derek did not look up from the bracelets he was inspecting with the same level of attention he usually reserved for the books Peter chose to ‘lend’ Stiles (barter was a better term, because goddess knew Peter never gave anything for free).

“You just did.”

“Sometimes you are funny,” said Stiles. “Sometimes you are hilarious. This is neither of those times.”

“Why do people bother asking if they can ask questions while asking a questions?”

Stiles ignored it (even though he did have a point, and they’d definitely discuss it at some point). “Why you?”

“Uh?”

Stiles followed the wolf to the cashier with the few presents he had picked up for the pack. “There are many members in the pack. Members that are not the alpha. So...”

Derek glanced at him. “Why did I come with you?”

Stiles shrugged, putting his arms behind his back.

He probably should not have asked that. That was basically begging to be hurt, and while his Fetlife quiz claimed he was 80% masochist, he–

“You almost died trying to save me,” said Derek, as soon as the cashier stepped back to get their bags. “We are pack. We fight and live for one another. And it’s not the first time we’ve almost died for each other.

“But it’s the first time it affected you the way it did this time.” He frowned to himself, seeming to be thinking about the answer a lot. “It’s not tit for tat. I am not doing this because I think it’s the fair thing to do in exchange for you nearly dying.

“But I... I want to do this for you. You needed this, and I wanted to give it to you. I always want to give you what you need.”

Was it a problem if Stiles’ reaction to anything emotional was scream or wish for the sweet release of death?

Probably.

Derek huffed, turning to face him fully. “I care about you, Stiles. Got it?”

'I want you so deep inside of me that I can taste you in my mouth whenever I sit down'  was not, unfortunately, an appropriate response.

“Got it,” he said, pulling Derek’s glasses down on his eyes as if they could hide his blush (hint: they could not).

“You two make an adorable couple,” said the cashier, returning with a bag and a huge smile on her face. 

“Oh–”

“Thank you,” said Derek, handing her his card.

... Honestly, did Derek not understand the words ‘I am delusional’? 

Stiles’ self restraint in not killing him right there and then was remarkable.

They went to the beach again, but returned home earlier than they had the day before. They ended up ordering dinner via doordash, and spent the rest of the evening playing cards, before having a slightly sad board game Stiles had found under Derek’s bed. Stiles beat him at it, but he wasn’t sure if Derek had let him or if he was just very bad at it. They found Peter’s chess table next and, out of five games, Derek surprisingly drew twice and won once.

Thankfully, the next morning they were due to return home, and Stiles saved his poor heart by waking up early and preparing an actual edible breakfast (chocolate bars he had bought the day before and coffee) for both of them.

By the time it was time to get ready for home, Stiles was both more relaxed than he had been upon arriving, and also sad that their not-romantic weekend getaway was over already.

If he spent more time packing than it was necessary, it was really nobody’s business but his.

“You ready?” asked Derek, peeking in the room with his own bag already in his hands.

“Yeah,” said Stiles, not quite looking him in the eyes as he grabbed his own. 

Derek crossed his arms, planting himself in Stiles’ way. “Stiles.”

“Don’t Stiles me,” he complained. When Derek just stared at him expectantly, Stiles sighed and opened the top of Derek’s drawers.

“Did you go through my stuff?”

Stiles did not understand his surprise.

“As if you didn’t know and expect it,” he said, before he pulled out a piece of paper, trying not to blush or look embarrassed as he handed it to him. “It’s not the fancy photo paper you use or anything, and it’s from my phone which I still have not updated and doesn’t have the best camera quality, and it’s probably a bit presumptuous of me, because it’s your house and–”

“Stiles,” interrupted Derek, taking the picture from his hands. “Shut up.”

Stiles made the choice to shut up. Because, kink test results, Derek did not tell him anything.

Derek observed the picture – a selfie of the two of them taken the day before, Stiles sporting Derek’s sunglasses and Derek unaware of the camera, drinking his cocktail – for a second, before looking back at him.

Stiles maintained eye contact through pure stubbornness and spite (as he did most things).

“Where do you think it’d go?”

It was hard to read his tone.

But Stiles was Stiles and he had known Derek for a long time and had a degree is Derek Hale studies. So he smiled, immediately relaxing, and pointed at the more naked wall, under the picture of Derek, Cora and Malia.

Then he stepped back, watching nervously as Derek glued the picture on the wall, as carefully as he seemed to have placed the rest of the pictures.

“What do you think? I like it,” said Derek, stepping back beside Stiles, watching the picture in satisfaction. “You look happy.”

“I was happy,” agreed Stiles, glancing at him with an embarrassing smile he could not control. “I am happy.” He knocked their shoulders together. “Thank you for kidnapping me.”

“You are welcome,” said Derek, looking way too smug for Stiles’ tastes.

“Shut up,” he said, grabbing his bag and making his way outside.

As he came to a stop beside the Camaro, he glanced back at the house, thoughtfully. They hadn’t really tried or attempted to go through Derek’s trauma and repressed feelings regarding the place (Stiles lacked a psychology degree necessary for that).

In fact, they had spent their whole time in the kitchen, bathroom and Peter and Derek’s room. They had barely stepped in the living room or any of the other rooms.

If he had hoped or thought that coming here would help him ‘understand’ or ‘know’ Derek better, it wasn’t what had happened.

He knew Derek as well now as he had before this entire thing.

If anything, really, he understood himself more. He had more of a grasp of his emotions, of how he felt for Derek, of what his feelings for Derek actually were.

In a way, he had achieved just what his father had hoped for him to achieve by letting Derek kidnap him.

He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be shocked or unsurprised by this.

Sheriff Stilinski had still some tricks up his sleeve.

“Can I drive?” he asked as soon as Derek closed the door behind him.

“Never.”

“You are so rude to me,” complained Stiles. “You–”

“Derek!”

Both of them turned around, to find Addison (or was it Madison?) and the cheerleader gang walking towards the beach from the main road. The blonde was waving at them, the other two looking way less thrilled to see them.

“Summer,” said Derek (of course her name was Summer). “Lindsey, Madison. Hi.”

“Hey,” said Summer, pausing with her friends. “Are you and Stiles going home already?”

“Holiday’s over,” said Stiles, as Derek popped open the trunk. “Real life awaits.”

“Oh, good luck then,” she said, pouting. “Maybe next time you guys come over we can all go on a group date.”

A... group date? Stiles turned to Derek, expecting to see him as confused as Stiles was, but the man was... not confused.

“Remember the part where I said I hadn’t asked him yet, Summer?” asked Derek, in that ‘polite’ tone of his that was actually a lot of swear words and threats in Derek eyebrow language and had he just said yet?

Meaning he hadn’t asked him yet?

That he was planning on asking him?

What did that mean?

What the fuck did that mean ?!

“Oh,” said Summer, ‘apologetically’. “Totes forgot. Sorry, Derek.”

“You don’t sound sorry,” said Stiles, trying not to panic or come to any conclusion. Because there were no conclusions to come to. This was a classic Derek Hale scorned potential lover move. What was it about Derek that attracted psychos and weirdos?

What did that say about Stiles?

Did that mean–

“I was not planning on asking you like that,” said Derek, looking vaguely worried at Stiles as the cheerleader trio walked off, having provided their plot advancement assistance.

“Planning,” repeated Stiles. “You were planning on asking me out? Like thinking about it – really thinking about it like it was a plan that you were planning on planning? An act that you would act? Like–”

“Yes,” said Derek, looking both fond and exasperated. “I like you, and I was planning to ask you out. And no,” he continued, when Stiles opened his mouth, “It has nothing to do with any promise or agreement I might have made with your father. I want to ask you out because I genuinely like you, Stiles, and I like seeing you happy. I like making you happy. And–”

“I never thought I’d say this, but you talk too much,” said Stiles, dropping his bag to the ground before he threw himself at Derek and kissed him straight on the lips.

Derek caught him (he had an habit of doing that, didn’t he?).

+++

From: My Queen Lydia 

Text: I’m always right.

To: My Queen Lydia 

Text: Stop texting - Derek.

Text: Also, thank you - Derek.

From: My Queen Lydia 

Text: You owe me poison.

Text: You are welcome.