Work Text:
Do you know the way to San Jose?
I've been away so long. I may go wrong and lose my way
Do you know the way to San Jose?
I'm going back to find some peace of mind in San Jose
-"Do You Know The Way To San Jose" by Burt Bacharach
Your body is a temple. A temple of blood rituals and pagan tributes, a lost temple, a temple that needs more calcium. You should maybe try vitamin supplements.
-Welcome To Night Vale proverbs, episode 29.
Stiles works at a lab.
He likes this. He really does. When he finished his degree in Chemistry ( after he went to see Harris and looked really smug for a while until the douchebag told him to fuck off), he was immediately hired at a lab in New York. He cried, and he hugged his dad, and he and Scott had an emotional goodbye bro party that didn’t border on co-dependence, no matter what Allison claims, but he really likes it.
He gets to mess around with everything, to grab some solution that Danny has made and throw it all in. He writes equations with one hand while he mixes some acids with the other. He does a research paper every few months, and he gets to have test subjects and he’s getting paid for it. It’s awesome; it’s the best thing that has ever happened to him, working at the New York City Research Center, and he doesn’t regret it at all.
Except maybe now.
“I need some chloroform,” the hot as fuck stranger says, barely even glancing at Stiles. He’s dressed in all black, and he looks strong, broad-shouldered, his posture ready to spring.
“What?” Stiles squeaks, taking a step back, because his dad told him to beware strangers, especially if they’re asking for very illegal substances. Even if they’re gorgeous and looking really fucking sexy in black.
Because Stiles is sure he locked the lab. This hot stranger broke into his lab. At 2 am.
“I said,” he growls, turning and opening some drawers, maybe to search? “I need some chloroform.”
“Um, do you know that’s really, really illegal?”
A drop of blood falls from his arm, and Stiles realizes with a start that the guy is injured and probably a serial killer. Without thinking, he reaches for the first syringe he sees, hoping the hottie thinks he’s a really murderous chemist and not a lanky dude holding sterilized salt water menacingly.
The serial killer pauses in his search and raises his eyebrows, as if saying, are you serious?, but Stiles just holds the syringe out and hopes Scott doesn’t find his body, because he is not giving someone chloroform so another person dies.
And then Sexy As Fuck Murderer closes the drawer, takes a step towards him and reaches into his pocket. Stiles panics, jumping from where he’s leaning against the long granite table, and reaches into his ‘EMERGENCY’ drawer. He can hear the serial killer walking towards him.
“Sorry, dad,” he closes his eyes, grabs the syringe of tranquilizer, turns around, and jabs the hottie with it in the neck.
The murderer looks actually surprised (that’ll teach him to underestimate Stiles!) and he manages to choke out, “Fucking idi –“ before he drops to the floor like a sack of potatoes, completely graceless.
Stiles feels oddly triumphant, barely resisting the urge to say something ridiculous like, “Die, you filthy mongrel!” or “Alas, my plan has been completed!”. He always keeps tranquilizer enough to make a horse drop down, so he’s confident the hottie will be undisposed for a while.
Still shaking a little, he kneels and sees, surprised, that Gang Leader hadn’t reached for his gun…but an ID.
Stiles looks at it.
“Oh, fuck.”
…
Lydia glares, “You’re aware that you knocked out a Secret Service agent in the middle of a mission. Regarding the president.”
Stiles gulps and looks up form where he’s sitting on the couch in Lydia’s office, “Um. Yes?”
Lydia glares even harder.
“Yes, Lydia, I’m aware,” he tries to make his voice stay steady and confident, but he’s dying of embarrassment.
She sighs, as if being Stiles’s superior is the most exasperating thing she’s ever had to do in her life, and it might be, actually. Lydia Martin is a genius, and Stiles adores her academically, but she is not patient and reassuring. She’s the kind of boss you fear.
“I’ve talked to Deaton, Special Agent Hale’s superior,” Lydia continues, “And he says that Hale didn’t identify himself straight away, that he demanded articles we aren’t supposed to give out without paperwork from up above, because it’s banned, and that you thought he was getting out a weapon.”
“Don’t forget he broke into my lab,” Stiles adds, irritated, “It’s my lab; it’s sacred.”
Lydia just looks at him like, what did I do to deserve this?, and carries on, “So, you’re not getting fired,” she doesn’t sound particularly relieved, “However…”
Stiles dreads what will happen next.
“However, Deaton says Hale’s file is disastrous. Blew up a few places because he doesn’t know basic chemistry, can apparently sniff out hydrogen but is useless at knowing you probably shouldn’t get close to polonium. It seems he’s gotten into trouble before, but he’s an amazing agent. He thinks Hale should have a chemistry specialist so this doesn’t happen again. And he’s suggested you.”
“The President wants to hire me?” Stiles squeaks, eyes wide, “But I’m useless!”
“You did knock out one of their best agents,” Lydia smirks, an amused glint in her eyes, “And Deaton is known for his cruelty. Anyway, I said we’d keep you here, but you’re Hale’s emergency contact. If he needs to melt down some steel locks, you do it, no questions asked.”
Stiles’s heart sinks, “But I can keep my lab, right?”
Lydia’s eyes soften. Stiles knows he’s awkward, and too excited, and sometimes it’s difficult to work with him (Danny complains all the time), but he loves chemistry, loves drawing connections and pushing elements until they give everything they have. He loves separating deadly components while talking to Scott on the phone, and he adores his lab.
She softens, smiles at him, (sincerely, for once), “Of course you can keep it. Danny’s your partner, as always. And don’t stay here until 2 am, Stiles.”
He just beams at her. Lydia sighs again and shoos him away.
Stiles has to meet Deaton, who’s an extremely mysterious older dude who gives half-answers and looks at him in the eye and says, “Do you believe in our country, Mr. Stilinski?” like they’re in a movie, and he has to sign some papers. Scott won’t believe the President hired him. All those people who thought chemistry was going to boring must be suddenly thinking, in a huge network of telepathy, “OMG STILES IS DA BEST HE A CHEMIST I LUV HIM.”
Stiles is a chemist. He knows these things.
An Agent with blonde hair and a playful smirk gives him Hale’s file, and he tries not to stare at his picture (and fails). She clicks her tongue, puts her hands on her hips, and says, “So, you’re the kid who knocked Derek out with a syringe.”
She’s wearing leather. Black leather, that clings to her skin, and lipstick. What do these people wear as a uniform? Do they have to put ‘looks really fucking good in black’ in their resume or something? Do they pass a test with supermodels and have to go to BDSM classes?
He flushes a little, “I was. Um. Nervous.”
She grins widely, “I’m Special Agent Reyes. Nice to meet you, cutie.”
And leaves. Moving her hips suggestively.
Stiles is going to have a heart attack.
He spends a few hours in the lab, ignoring Danny’s questions as why he’s so distracted (he’s not really supposed to be talking about it), and sprays him with the latest fluid they’re working with, something about enzymes and new ‘organic food’ products. He’s mildly disappointed when it’s harmless. He’d hoped for a rash, at least.
When it’s about eight, Danny says, “Okay. Work is done.”
Stiles doesn’t look up from where he’s looking into the microscope, “Hmm. ‘Kay.”
A hand lands on his shoulder, “Stiles. Both of us are leaving. Let’s go and have a drink, okay?”
Stiles protests, shrugging the hand off, “But this type of pollination –“
“Can wait,” Danny assures him, already taking off his lab coat and going through decontamination, watching Stiles pointedly while he puts the slide in a locked drawer and follows his example.
The shower is warm, and he makes a pleased noise as he scrubs all over, and takes care to clean under his nails and behind his ears, leaving his hair for later at home.
Danny takes him to the nearest bar, and invites his boyfriend, Ethan, who’s nice and fun, and Stiles socializes for the first time in weeks. He makes stupid jokes and listens to other people and doesn’t think about his lab (much). A guy even buys him a drink, and winks. He feels giddy.
He misses Scott horribly.
When he’s walking home, after saying goodbye to Danny and his boyfriend and maybe groping them accidentally, he calls his buddy.
Scott picks up immediately, “Heyyyyyy, duuuuuude!”
He grins, “Scott, yesterday I jabbed tranquilizer into a guy’s neck. Also, I bought another ticket for The Avengers.” (He’ll figure out a way to explain the Secret Service.
“I hate you so much,” Scott knows how to be a good BFF, “But also oh my god. Can we skype tomorrow? I’m heading towards the station and I can’t really talk.”
Because Scott is a firefighter. He took the ‘being an accidental werewolf’ with irony, and headed to do the job his asthma would have stopped him from pursuing. Stiles is just glad Allison can control him, because if he could, Scott would just drive around the country rescuing animals and reading fairytale books to small children.
“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, “Call me whenever, bro.”
“I’ll call you, bro.”
“Bro,”
“Bro.”
He hangs up before it gets embarrassing just as he sees his apartment. His car is there, where he left it yesterday before leaving, and he’d just caught the subway that morning. He should probably change that one thing that isn’t working.
(Shit. He’s promised the mechanic he’d actually remember what was wrong with it.)
Stiles is already relishing being alone and maybe playing some videogames (because he will always be a teenager), whistling to himself, opening his door…
…when he sees Special Agent Hale standing in his boxers, a red plastic folder in his hands.
Stiles stares.
Hale stares back.
Stiles stares some more.
Hale glares.
“You’re not the normal Special Agent, are you?” he chokes out.
Hale growls, and he sounds a bit like Scott, “Just get me some clothes, Stilinski.”
Stiles obeys, struggling not to make a joke or an innuendo, not sure if either would go down well, and searches his room for some clothes that will fit Hale. He’s got a t-shirt from an old boyfriend, and some old jeans that look good enough. He gives them to the Agent like they’re a peace offering.
Hale glowers and gets dressed, not even waiting for Stiles to turn around. When he’s got clothes, he clutches the folder tightly in his hands and says, “I need to stash this somewhere.”
Stiles boggles.
“Don’t you have like some super secret headquarters or something? Or, you know, a bat cave? Oh my god, do you have cameras everywhere? Do they watch people while we shower? Because that would be really creepy, you know. I mean, why do you need to stash it here? It’ll probably get buried underneath all the junk.”
Hale, who’s still as hot as ever, raises an eyebrow, “I don’t have a ‘bat cave’,” his lips twitch, and Stiles feels triumphant. He made Hale smile! Kind of, “And I have it on good authority that only Erica watches people shower.”
Stiles isn’t sure he’s kidding.
“I need to stash it here because they’re watching HQ like hawks. I’ll be back in ten minutes. Do you have a car?”
He blinks, “Yes.”
“Good. You’re driving me somewhere,” he glances at Stiles, “Thanks for the clothes.”
Hale gives him the folder, strides towards the door, and is gone in seconds.
“Jesus Christ,” Stiles whispers, still holding the folder, “I’m going to die of sexual frustration.”
He tries not to picture Hale at the BDSM classes. He fails.
…
When he steps out of the shower a few minutes later, Agent Sex God is standing in his living room.
Stiles screams and wraps the towel he’s holding more tightly around him, hoping he didn’t sound too much like a ten year old girl, “Heyyyyy,”
The Agent looks up, like he can’t quite believe he’s been saddled with the incompetence that is Stiles Stilinski. He gets that a lot.
“You’re supposed to drive me,” Hale reminds him, as if Stiles could possibly forget.
He bristles, “I had chemicals in my hair, okay, I don’t want to get exploded,”
Hale rolls his eyes, “You’re ridiculous.”
“If you don’t mind, I’m going to put on some underwear before you say anything else.”
He gets dressed, flushed, feeling scrawny and lanky in front of Hot Secret Agent Derek Hale, and tries to ignore the interest pooling in his stomach. So not the time.
Wet Dream In Stiles’s Clothes glares at him, impatient, and he pulls up the red plastic folder from under his couch.
Hale stares at him in disbelief, “You stashed government secrets from a mission under your couch?”
Stiles grins, “Yeah. That’s the way of the chemists.”
Hale scowls, and Stiles leads him to his Jeep. The hottie has a memory card in his hand, and he watches as Hale hides it quickly. When they see his car, Hale’s jaw drops.
“This is your car?” he sounds strangled, “This…this –”
Stilse glares, “This is my baby, Roscoe, so you better not be hatin’.”
“Unbelievable,” he thinks he hears Hale say.
“Shut it, Hale,” he says good-naturedly, as they get in the car.
“My name’s Derek,” Adonis says, and they both try to get into the driver’s seat.
“Uh, this is awkward,” Stiles points out after a second.
“I’m driving,” grunts Derek, and shoves Stiles off. What a great guy.
Grumbling, Stiles gets into the car. Teenage Sex Fantasy #4 starts driving.
A few minutes.
Then:
“If you were gonna drive, what do you need me for?”
Derek smirks, “Comic relief.”
Stiles groans, slumping, “Where are we driving, dude?”
“Don’t call me dude. We’re going to HQ, and you’re coming because Deaton wants you to be ‘updated’. Believe me, if it was up to me, you’d be so, so far away right now.”
Stiles raises an eyebrow, “Oh? So you showing up practically naked in my living room doesn’t count as bonded by trauma? What a shame.”
Derek snorts, “You’re a weird guy, Stilinski.”
“I’m Stiles,” he offers, “I guess you’ve read my real name. It’s a cross I have to bear.”
Sexy Not A Serial Killer glances at him, and he doesn’t seem as hostile anymore, “Yeah. Your parents obviously didn’t love you that much. Hey, how the hell did you manage to tranquilize me?”
Stiles flushes, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’m, uh, very paranoid.”
“So you keep a tranquilizer close to you at all time? At a standard lab?”
Stiles doesn’t know how to tell him of the two years after Scott turned into a werewolf. He doesn’t know how to confess that he used to wake up in the middle of the night with his hand on his baseball bat, panting, to face a threat that wasn’t there. He has no idea how to begin to explain that he’d started studying chemistry at 3 am because he couldn’t bear to think of the monsters out there.
“I’m paranoid,” he repeats, and Derek looks at him, considering, before nodding.
“With your new job, it’ll do you some well,” Derek’s nostrils flare, like he’s detecting a scent, and Stiles startles.
Was Derek –?”
“AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!” Stiles screams as the dark shape hits the glass in front of them.
The Guy Your Parents Warned You About slams down on the brakes, startled, and the Jeep hits a pole. Stiles’s head whirls, and he thinks Shit, dad.
He moans when his whole body slams against his seat, but the pain is good, because it means he’s still alive.
“What the hell happened?” Stiles demands, dizzy, looking at Derek with wide eyes.
Derek, who looks cranky as hell but not as hurt as Stiles, looks at him, glances at the glass, and says, completely serious, “We hit a raccoon.”
He looks in front of him. Sure enough; a raccoon.
“That’s unfortunate,” he comments.
“Excuse to buy a new car,” Derek’s lip twitch.
“Fuck you,” Stiles growls, and Derek laughs at him.
“You’re not supposed to laugh! I’m a fragile civilian!”
…
Deaton takes the memory card and the folder, and raises an eyebrow at Stiles’s bandages.
“Ran into some trouble,” he says quickly, before Derek can embarrass him.
Agent 069 just smiles. He is too hot to smile, it makes him look young and happy and ugh.
Deaton’s eyes sparkle.
“I’ll get you home,” Derek offers when they’re outside HQ.
Stiles glances at him gratefully, “Thanks, Derek, but, um, how? My car is dead,”
Derek looks at his feet, biting his lip, “My sister is picking me up. She won’t mind making one more stop.”
Male Model has a sister? “Wow, thanks.”
After five minutes of awkwardly shuffling feet, and trying not to fall asleep because he has a head injury, dammit, a super expensive car stops in front of them.
The window rolls down, and a Sexy Motherfucker of a lady smiles at them, “Get in the car, losers, we’re going –“
“Don’t,” interrupts Derek, and Stiles grins at her, “shopping.”
Mr. Worldwide glares.
Derek’s sister, which turns out is called Laura, is funny as hell. She starts the conversation by saying, “Really, terrorists these days, sending raccoons to attack us, truly inconceivable,” and Derek glares while Stiles laughs his ass off.
“So, Stiles,” Laura says, “How come you’ve ended up as my brother’s little helper?”
A car comes past them, and the lights hit them in the face. Laura’s eyes shine red for a second, and Stiles grins.
“With tranquilizer. I had enough to knock out a horse, which is great, because I haven’t really measured what it would take to take out a werewolf.”
The car abruptly stops.
Stiles moans when his head hits his seat again, “Not cool, guys.”
Derek is staring at him, looking almost…scared, and Laura’s eyes are Alpha red again, like Morrell described, and her fangs are out and…
They probably think he’s a Hunter, he realizes with a start.
“My best friend is a werewolf,” he tries to sound light and not guilty as hell, “You guys aren’t exactly subtle.”
It takes a minute for it to sink in, but the two siblings relax minutely, even if they’re still ready to spring and kill him if he makes a move.
“Seriously, guys. We’re from Beacon Hills. You may have heard of us? Alpha McCall? We’ve got a True Alpha and a pack of humans? No?”
“You’re from the True Alpha pack?” Laura’s voice rises, and she glances at Derek, “No wonder you’re more than able to defend yourself.”
“I keep a tranquilizer since I was stabbed by a half-squirrel woman. There are things you just don’t come back from.”
Derek scrunches up his nose, “I don’t want to know, do I.”
Stiles beams at him, “No, you don’t.”
Laura stops by his apartment, and he despairs of going to work by bus tomorrow because his car is dead and he lost his subway card, and having to tell his dad that he crashed Roscoe, and she’s probably not getting up.
…
“Stiles, when’s the last time you ate?”
He blinks, steps away from the microscope, and goes to rub his eyes sleepily, but Danny grabs his hand and raises an eyebrow, gesturing towards the toxic substances he’d been observing, traces of which are on his gloves.
He smiles sheepishly, and shrugs, “Maybe a few hours ago?”
Danny sighs, “Let me get you out of here.”
Stiles knows Danny worries. He knows that Ethan is bored of his boyfriend incessantly mothering his lab partner, and that he should take better care of himself. He’s spent months sleeping at the lab, and Lydia always glares and fusses over his pillows, putting them through decontamination even if they’re not using anything dangerous. He knows that he gets burns from controlled fires all the time, that he’s exploded stuff (on purpose) and that there are several companies who marvel at his research papers. He knows that his notes are barely more than squiggles, that he forgets to call Scott, that his dad thinks he’s letting chemistry take over his life just a bit too much.
Stiles tries to care, but it’s chemistry. It’s connections and bonds and atoms and change and he can’t escape it.
Danny makes him shower, though he insists he’ll just dirty again afterwards. His partner raises his eyebrows again (even though they aren’t half as cute as Derek’s) and says, in a deadpan voice, “Did I ask you to make your bed?”
Stiles just grumbles.
“Where do you want to go for lunch?” his friend smiles as they go outside. Lydia nods approvingly at Danny, and Stiles scowls at her.
“I dunno. Somewhere not healthy,” he checks that his GPS is on. Deaton told him to always leave it on, and Deaton can be scary.
They go to McDonalds. Danny orders a Big Mac while Stiles whines about chemically manufactured meals.
“Aren’t you supposed to think chemically manufactured food products are just as good as natural ones?” Danny smiles when he hears him.
He laughs, “I guess. But I know just how easy is to make a mistake, and end up with uranium poison.”
Danny rolls his eyes, “Yeah, right,” and takes a fry.
The Fry War begins. As they throw food at each other, laughing like teenagers, the severely underpaid McDonald employees glare at them and probably make a mental note to go buy some new voodoo dolls.
Stiles goes to the toilet…
…and pauses.
“We’ve gotta stop meeting each other this way, Derek. People will talk.”
Agent ‘I Dated A Yoga Instructor’ glares at him from where he’s crawling out of a just-barely-his-size air vent, shirtless, and growls, “Help me,”
“How?! I can’t reach there! Not even if I stood up on the toilet!” Stiles protests, offended, “I’m not getting another concussion because of you!”
Derek rolls his eyes and tries to squeeze out of the tight space, wriggling, and showing more of his bare chest. Stiles may be drooling a little. He’s glad there’s no one else here to appreciate this moment of weakness; it’s kind of hilarious.
“Are you going to just stand there and laugh?”
Laugh? More like salivate.
“Yup.”
Derek snorts, “You’re useless.”
“Says the one who once exploded an entire conference room because he forgot oxygen is a hugely volatile reactor,” Stiles shoots back, smirking, “How did you even get in this position, anyway? Why do the enemies of the President like to leave you naked so much? I mean, you’re gorgeous and all, but –”
He should probably shut up now.
Derek smirks back when he sees Stiles’s cheeks heating up, and wriggles some more. He beams, delighted, and manages to jump from the air vent. If Stiles tried to do that, naked and sore, he’d probably break his neck.
Secret Service Cock-Reliever, being a werewolf, just lands gracefully, looking almost like he’s conserving his dignity, even though he’s only wearing boxers…
“Oh my god. Are there baby wolves on your boxers?”
Derek reddens, and grits his teeth, “Present from Laura.”
Stiles can’t hold back his laughter.
“It’s not actually a Secret Service Agent thing now,” Derek admits, after Stiles can breathe again, “It’s an Incubus a neighboring pack was having trouble with. I’m mostly immune to sex monsters, and I was trying to capture it when it was most vulnerably, but…”
His eyes sparkle, “But it threw you out? Did you do the walk of shame, Derek? Did someone see you? Oh, how precio –”
“Stiles? Are you –oh.”
And Stiles suddenly realizes the door wasn’t locked, because he’s not even in one of the stalls, and he’s standing there, chatting with an almost naked hot guy, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
Danny’s eyes look wide, but he certainly gives Derek an appreciative once-over before clearing his throat and looking pointedly at Stiles.
He flushes, scratching the back of his name, “Um, Danny, this is Derek.”
Derek raises his eyebrows in sync with Danny. They both look surprised, and a little competitive.
(Derek’s eyebrows are still better.)
“Derek, this is Danny?”
They shake their heads. Not good enough.
“Danny is my lab partner slash mother,” he tries to explains, and hopes Danny won’t bristle. Danny does.
“I’m not your mother, Stiles –!”
“Derek is a co-worker,” he can’t think of anything better, and he can’t tell Danny that Derek is actually a Secret Service Agent, and only Lydia knows that Derek was in the lab in the first place, and he can’t say, “Derek is the amazingly hot guy I fantasize about who is also hilarious and who I might like just a little bit.”
“A co-worker,” Danny repeats.
“Yes.”
“Like, you know, myself?”
He winces, “Yes?”
Danny looks…giddy, for some reason, “Stiles, is Derek your secret boyfriend?”
Both Derek and Stiles stare at him in horror, and Danny’s excited expression falls.
The secret agent clears his throat, “Um, Stiles helps me out, sometimes.”
Danny’s eyes widen –
“Oh my god¸ with chemistry, Danny, you filthy-minded gay man! Derek is a chemical disaster waiting to happen –”
“I resent that,”
“ –and he’s, uh, quirky, but I’m not getting off with him!”
Sadly,Stiles adds internally.
Danny smirks at him, like he can hear him perfectly.
“Okay.”
A pause.
“Why is he naked? Also, who wears baby wolves on their boxers?”
They wrap Derek up in Stiles’s jacket, and Danny produces a spare lab coat (“What kind of nerd keeps a spare lab coat?” “The same kind as the one who memorized all the Bill Nye the Science Guy’s episodes in a week to impress Lydia.”), so the secret agent gets to keep his dignity (somewhat). Danny is still staring at him like he’s a wizard or something, which is actually mildly accurate, but he drops them off at Stiles’s flat, tells them to use protection, and drives away.
“Danny is…different,” Derek says hesitantly.
Stiles snorts, “He’s a fucking weirdo, and he’s relishing the fact that I’m not returning to the lab until tomorrow. Let’s get rid of an Incubus.”
He has to give Mr. I’m Sexy Shirtless And I Know It some clothes (again), and this is the first time he’s seen a guy with so little without having sex with him afterwards, and it feels oddly...domestic, which freaks Stiles out a little, and so he doesn’t let himself look at Derek when he’s changing.
(He peaks. But only a little.)
“Martha and her pack detected the Incubus a week ago,” Derek informs him, “And it’s gotten five men in that timeline. We don’t know much about previous murders, maybe two that we’ve detected are very similar circumstances. Normally, they wouldn’t assign this to me, because they know I’ve got a heavy work load, but Laura’s gone to talk to your True Alpha, and Martha can’t take care of it herself.”
“What’s the President going to do while you investigate this?” Stiles wonders, sitting down on the chair and putting his head on his hand, his elbow resting on the table.
Derek rolls his eyes, “Boyd, my partner, is covering for me. And he’s competent, don’t worry.”
“Okay, okay, whatever lets you sleep at night. So, the Incubus figured you out?”
“Yeah, threw me out after it realized, too crowded, couldn’t do anything about it without outing myself as a werewolf.”
“What’s the Incubus’s profile?”
“Tall, pale, young, attractive, gay…” Derek trails off when he catches the glint in Stiles’s eyes, “No.”
“But I’m perfect for it!” he whines, using Puppy Dog Eyes, like Scott taught him, “And I can cover up my pheromones like a master. I’ll be able to catch him for you in no time!”
Derek narrows his eyes, “No.”
He makes his lip wobble, flutters his eyelashes.
Derek’s lip twitch.
“No.”
Stiles puts extra force into it.
…
“I can’t believe I’m letting you do this,” Derek repeats as they park outside the gay club.
Stiles just grins, “It’s because I’m so charming and pretty.”
“God help me,”
The club is packed with people, and everyone has glitter. He can see drag queens in the corner booth on the left side, and men are rubbing against each other. The smell of sweat and come is heavy in the air; he wrinkles his nose. He hopes his pheromone cocktail works, and the Incubus makes a pass at him, or he’s going to go home with a really low self-esteem. He’s wearing his skinny jeans!
Derek seems tense, glancing at Stiles every few minutes, his lips thin and white. He’s wearing all black and leather, like always, but he doesn’t look as comfortable, as at ease. Even in Stiles’s kitchen, wearing practically nothing, he looked less closed off, rigid and taut.
“I don’t like clubs,” he explains, curtly, when he notices Stiles looking.
He shrugs, accepting it, and makes a point of parading himself on the dance floor, of putting his collar down so that the Incubus can see his neck, of showing the inside of his wrists. He lets his eyes linger on men, very obviously, so that there isn’t any doubt about him being attracted to guys (bisexuality rocks!), and goes to the bar after two or three guys start to stare back.
Derek sits behind him immediately, and Stiles rolls his eyes, “Worried, big guy?”
The agent tenses, and Stiles feels like an asshole. Derek may be a chemical hazard, and may be out of clothes than in clothes some of the time, but he’s still a Secret Service Agent, and he’s used to back-up, and Stiles has read his file, okay? (the part that wasn’t classified), and Derek is really competent. Like, avoided a few national crises competent. So yeah, Derek may be worried about Stiles.
“I’ll be fine,” he says, softer, “I dealt with a kanima when I was sixteen, I think I can handle luring an Incubus.”
“A kanima?” instead of reassured, Derek looks astonished, and a little bit horrified, “How the hell are you still alive, Stiles?”
But he doesn’t get a chance to answer, because suddenly, a really, really hot guy is in front of Stiles, and he doesn’t dare look at Derek.
The guy licks his lip, and says, “Hey.”
An alarm is beeping inside Stiles’s head, and the amulet Morrell gave him before he came to New York burns against his wrist. His head swims, he blinks, drowsy, and realizes he should probably act seduced right around now, because the Incubus (he caught the Incubus) is waiting.
“Hey,” Stiles makes a show out of checking the Incubus out, and it’s not hard, the guy really is hot. Not as hot as Derek, of course, and not as nice and grumpy, either.
The Incubus smiles, and gets into Stiles’s space, smelling of alcohol and pheromones. He prays that his pheromone cocktail is working alright, because now it’s show time.
“Wanna get out of here?” he says, and curses because can he be any more cliché?
It looks like the incubus is into that, if the way his pupils dilate and his smile widens when he hears it are any indication, “Fuck yeah.”
Stiles is aware of Derek following them while he leads the incubus away from the bar. The incubus wants to get off in the toilets, which uh, incubus, hygiene, but Stiles drags him towards the back door, because he really doesn’t want someone seeing them taking care of it.
The incubus licks his lips when they’re outside, and, before Stiles can tell Derek to come in and get him (he chose the code, okay? And it’s “it’s really cold”), drops down to its knees and starts to fumble with his belt.
“Whoah,” Stiles swallows, backing away a little, blushing, “It’s really cold.”
The incubus stares at him, like are you fucking with me?, but then Derek is snarling and grabbing it by the throat and he’s shoving him against a wall holy shit Stiles should not be turned on by that.
“Derek!” he shrieks, “Don’t kill him, please!”
“The fuck?” the incubus chokes out, trying to free himself, probably throwing some good ol’ pheromones Derek’s way, and Stiles is worried, because he was sure Derek wouldn’t get too close to him, and didn’t give him more than the standard protection. And everyone knows standard protection doesn’t work against an incubus in your personal space.
But Derek just growls and takes out his gun, and his eyes glow, and Stiles knows this is going to get very, very bad very fast.
“Okay!” he interrupts, and takes out the same batch of tranquilizer he stabbed Derek with, and jabs it into the incubus’s neck, before Derek can disembowel him. He blinks, his eyes glowing hazily, pink, and drops to the floor.
The werewolf is just standing there, and he says, very calmly, “Stiles, why did I ever thought you were defenseless?”
He grins, “Oh, honey, I’m just very subtle.”
Derek snorts, “So that’s what they call it now.”
“Hey!” he pouts, “Anyway, you can’t go all ballistics, man. I had it handled.”
Derek looks down, tensing. He swallows, and doesn’t even glance at Stiles, “I don’t…I don’t deal well with sex monsters.”
And something in the way he says it, maybe how his voice sounds hoarse and tired, or how his shoulders are stiff, makes Stiles pause.
“Derek? Are you…okay?”
The Secret Agent shrugs, dismissing the subject, but Stiles puts a hand on his shoulder, stopping him from shutting him out, “Hey, you don’t have to stay until I handle everything. If you’re not –”
“Don’t be stupid, Stilinski,” Derek raises an eyebrow, looking at him again, “I can’t let you be alone; you have no more tranquilizer.”
They phone Morrell, and Stiles tweaks the story so he doesn’t have to explain why he’s got a guy helping him, and they wait for an hour until one of her contacts comes to pick the incubus up.
“What are they doing with him?” Derek asks, at one point, sounding nervous but looking determined.
Stiles smiles, “We had an incubus once, Joe, and we were about to…er, get rid of him, when he told us his story. He’s good now, feeds mostly on supernatural beings that deal with it okay, and he runs a kind of… project where he helps incubi. We’ve gotten two or three, and Joe teaches them to feed properly. If they don’t want to learn, he gets them convicted for anything that will keep them in jail for a while.”
“Oh,” Derek looks kind of impressed, “I would’ve… I mean, I…”
Stiles looks down, “Scott and I…we weren’t as great about it before,” he swallows, and he knows this isn’t a great topic, especially after he’s determined Derek has a shitty sexual history, and he’s seen him being vulnerable, “Scott didn’t like it, he’s too much of a softie, but sometimes we did have to kill supernatural beings, and…it’s hard to come back from that. Chemistry was good to me, for that. Because it’s…neutral. It’s facts and hypothesis and explosions and there’s no morale about it, you know? It’s just science. But we…I…decided that I wanted to feel good about all this, so, we keep our contact updated, and we try to help.”
He stops, breathing hard, feeling pangs in his chest. And, to his amazement, he feels Derek’s arm reach out, wrapping around his back, squeezing slightly.
“You did a great job, Stiles,” he murmurs, and Stiles can feel his breath against his ear, soft, and warm, tickling. He shivers involuntarily, leaning into Derek, relaxing, not caring that his jeans are tight and he smells like alcohol and sweat and pheromone cocktail, wishing that Derek get it, that he close the distance between them and –
“Stilinski?” a girl’s voice says.
Stiles snaps out of it, standing up from where they’re sitting on the ground, and smiles at her, a pretty black woman with curly hair, “Yeah, that’s me.”
She gives him a suspicious once-over, “Okay. Him?” she points at Derek.
“A friend,” he says, before Stiles panics about what to say, and he feels a pleased warmth in his stomach. A friend.
The woman rolls her eyes, “’Kay. I’m Braeden, your new contact here.”
“What?” Stiles frowns, “What happened to Daehler?”
“Got crazy and stalked some girl. We don’t talk about him anymore. Now, I’ll take this poor hungry thing to Joe, kay? Stay out of trouble, Stilinski,” she raises an eyebrow, “Andyou, friend: no cuddling lovingly near sex-creatures.”
And then she grabs Joe, hauls him up like he’s light as air, and walks away.
…
After The Cuddling Incent, as Stiles likes to call it, there’s a two day period in which he hears nothing from Derek.
He alternates between being way too relieved that he hasn’t got to say anything and actually explain himself, and being miserable about not talking to Derek, and his snorts, and his face.
Danny just smirks all the time. Stiles almost blows up something with the Bunsen burner when he glares at him.
Scott calls him, and they Skype, and his bro says, “Um, I met Laura Hale today…?” and they spend half an hour talking about how Laura was great about everything and wants to have a pact between their packs because, apparently, good Alphas like to have good contacts.
“Also, she told me her brother is your boyfriend…? Stiles, why didn’t you talk to me about this?”
Stiles buries his face in his hands, trying not to look too pathetic, “Her brother is working with me. He’s an asshole, and he doesn’t care about being decent, but he’s hot and funny and he cares and ugh. I hate everything.”
Scott just smiles innocently, “I’m sure it’ll work out.”
So he goes to the lab, ignoring that Derek hasn’t bothered to drop by.
Lydia comes in just before lunch break, puts some papers on their lab table (ignoring Stiles’s grumbling about ‘proper lab procedure’) and announces, “We’ve got funding.”
Both of them stare at her, too dumbfounded to say anything.
“Funding?” Danny whispers after a while, like he’s never heard the word before.
“In money? Real money?” Stiles adds quickly, barely daring to hope.
Lydia doesn’t smile, but her eyes look amused, “A company wants to see which isotonic beverages are the best ones, the healthier ones, etcetera. Apparently, they’re doing some publicity, and they actually want some real life data, which is a first. Company’s name is Hale Enterprises.”
Stiles chokes on air, and Danny looks at him like he’s being weird again. He gets that a lot.
“I’m sorry,” he squeaks, once he can breathe, “But did you say Hale Enterprises?”
Lydia smirks, “Yes. CEO is Talia Hale. Apparently, her daughter, Laura Hale, had some things to say about this lab.”
Danny starts to stare at him, and Stiles hopes he isn’t blushing too much. He spent five minutes in the car with Laura, and she just funded him? Oh god, did Derek’s mom just fund him?
“How much?” Danny asks, still glancing at Stiles.
After Lydia says the figure, Stiles has trouble breathing again.
…
The guy who’s coming as a representative is called Peter Hale, and he’s bringing a Sports Expert, who’s apparently named Robert Finstock.
Stiles takes one look at Finstock, remembers years and years of spending PE sitting on a bench, staring at his phone instead of running laps, and feels incredibly guilty.
He takes one look at Peter and cringes.
“So!” Peter smiles at him, a bit creepy, “I hear you’re good at what you do.”
Danny decided to desert him when he spent the twenty minutes after Lydia’s announcement with his head in his hands, whispering, “Oh my god…Oh my god,” every few seconds, so he’s alone, and he can’t expect back-up.
“Erm, yes, I’d like to think so,” he tries not to sound like a dork, and fails miserably.
Finstock narrows his eyes, “Are you or are you not? ‘Cause we’re here to make history, Stilinski! This is the moment of a lifetime. Now tell me, are you good or are you shit?!”
“Sorry, sir,” he hurries, and starts bringing out the research he got from a few magazines last night, along with his notes about beverages from his college year.
“Call me Coach,” Coach asks, and Stiles complies immediately.
Peter Hale spends the two hours he’s there looking at him and smirking, hands in his Armani suit’s pockets, entirely out of place in Stiles’s messy but perfect lab, dropping subtle hints about being ‘raised by wolves’ and thinking Stiles looks ‘a bit anxious about something, or someone’.
Coach tells him to ‘find a better career. Maybe get some muscles, you’re too scrawny’, and Lydia comes in at one time to bring them cargo and just looks so delighted.
He wants to die. Painfully, even. Everything is better than this.
When the two hours are up, Stiles basically shoves them out of his lab, finds Danny laughing with Ethan in a dark corner, looking very obviously fucked, and scolds them thoroughly while trying not to make any jokes about anal and lab equipment.
He takes his lunch break, and is about to bite into an extremely appetizing sandwich, when Derek appears out of nowhere, sitting in the chair opposite Stiles.
He freezes, and then remembers he’s spent two hours being tortured by his family, and narrows his eyes, “You’re in trouble.”
Derek, at least, has the decency to blush, looking a bit embarrassed, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know Laura was going to make Uncle Peter come, I know he’s a menace –”
Stiles despairs, because, why is Derek so endearing? and sighs, “Don’t worry about it. Need some illegal chemicals? Maybe some cyanide? I got some myself, you know,”
Derek looks…shifty.
Stiles narrows his eyes even further, taking a cautious bite of his sandwich.
Derek doesn’t meet his eyes, “I, um, I need some help.”
Stiles’s eyes are practically closed now, “With a case?”
“No?”
“With some werewolf thing, then?”
A pause. Then, “No?”
Stiles sighs, “What could you possibly need, Derek? Haven’t you got a giant family who exists to torture me?”
The agent looks a bit miffed, “I’m sorry about that, Stiles. But. Um. Have you got any experience with children?”
“This is a really sucky first date,” and shit, that wasn’t what he meant to say at all.
Derek blushes, apparently taking it as a joke (thank god), and says, “Erica and Boyd –my friends, I mean – they left me with their kid, and I’m useless and –”
A thought occurs to me, “Oh my god, Derek, where is the child? Did you abandon it? Derek! Children aren’t wolf pups! You can’t just leave them somewhere and expect them to follow! Bad Mummy Wolf, Derek!”
He bristles, looking offended, and his whole Bad Boy black and leather outfit doesn’t give him much of a CaretakerTM look, “I left him with another friend, Stiles. I’m not a moron.”
“Good. Then your friend can take care of the kid. And your lovely chemist who is very, very hungry because he burnt a lot of calories bearing your uncle’s bad-touch-stares can eat in p –”
“Did Uncle Peter look at you wrong?” Derek snarls, and suddenly his claws are out and holy shit.
“Put those away!” he hisses, “Your uncle didn’t do anything, but he’s creepy! Let me eat!”
The werewolf huffs, his incredible eyes sparkling, but he admits, “The other friend wants to flee, he’s got a date –with my other sister, which makes it even more horrible –, and I need help.”
Stiles has an idea.
“So, if I do this…you’ll owe me one?” he says casually, taking another bite out of his sandwich.
Derek is the one who narrows his eyes this time, “Stiles.”
He smiles innocently.
Baby Boys, who is three and very hyperactive, sees Derek, screams, “DER-DER!” and runs till he can hug his legs. The agent looks horrified. The guy who’s supposedly Derek’s friend is laughing way too hard to say anything.
Stiles feels like he’s going to melt with icky feelings. Gross. Derek can’t be hot, and smart, and sexy, and have kids who love him, and ask for help endearingly, and be funny. He just can’t.
“Heyyyy, little guy,” he kneels until his face is at Baby Boyd’s eye level, “I’m Stiles.”
Baby Boys looks at him, grins, and announces, “I like the Stiles, Der-Der, can we keep it?”
He’s really going to die.
Derek’s friend smirks, and says, “Hey, Derek, can we keep it?”
“Shut it, Isaac,”
So Stiles phones Lydia about being back a bit late, and they spend an hour or so watching Baby Boyd running around the McDonald’s playground, chasing a little girl who giggles at everything, before they crack.
“I never thought taking care of him could be this boring,” Stiles admits, a bit guiltily, “I thought kids were much more obnoxious. They’re really wonderful people.”
Derek smiles at him, amused, and he looks almost fond. For a second, Stiles can’t breathe, staring at the way the agent looks open, relaxed, domestic. He avoids his gaze, and –
“Where the fuck is Baby Boyd?!” he screeches, standing up.
A few moms and dads glare at him. He ignores them.
Derek is standing up, too, horrified, “We need to find him. Where was he last?”
“I think it was the slide? Shit, I really don’t know. This wasn’t in my chemistry classes at college, you know!”
They go to the slide. And the plastic treehouse. And the interactive game table. And the toilets. And they ask the severely underpaid worker who glared at them the last time.
Baby Boyd is nowhere.
“Derek!” wailed Stiles, “We lost our child, Derek!”
Derek looks ready for death (Hah! Serves him right!), “Erica is going to kill me.”
“I’m going to kill you. Use your nose, werewolf!”
So Derek tries to subtly sniff out a kid, which is apparently really hard in a playground, especially in one that stinks of grease and sweat, while Stiles hyperventilates and whispers, “I’m going to die,” repeatedly.
Derek says, “I think he might be in the ball pit, but –” and Stiles has already launched himself into it before he can finish his sentence.
He almost swallows plastic balls, buried in then, and resurfaces crying out, “Baby Boyd! Baby Boyd, I didn’t mean to lose you!”
Stiles is aware, distantly, that Derek is probably very scared and weirded out right now, but he’s too busy scouring the ball pit for Baby Boyd, swimming his way through and ocean of plastic balls, the two kids who are inside it staring at him like he’s mad.
He is.
“DEREK YOU USELESS SOURWOLF GET IN HERE AND HELP ME SEARCH FOR THIS CHILD!” he demands, turning around, to see Derek looking completely shocked.
He glares.
Derek, very slowly, puts a foot in.
He rolls his eyes, makes his way towards the werewolf, and grabs the foot, pulling him all the way. Derek crashes on top of him, way too heavy, and Stiles whines and tries to get away, noticing that the warmth of Derek’s body, the hard, sharp lines of it, the way his hands are on Stiles’s waist, is doing something to him that is not appropriate in a ball pit with two small children in it.
Derek is trying to say something, looking a bit nervous, flushed, but Stiles just silences him with a glare and orders him to look for Baby Boyd. After a while, a McDonald’s employee kindly asks them to get the fuck out, and Stiles gives up, miserable, getting out of the ball pit –
–to see Bay Boyd smiling at them happily.
…
Stiles can hear Erica laughing through the phone when Baby Boyd tells her all about ‘Weird Uncle Stiles’, and he only feels a little…something, when Baby Boyd also says that he and Der-Derek ‘like two uncles who are very happy together, mom’.
And then, when Baby Boyd asks what he does, and wants to understand what ‘scientist’ is, the only thing that comes to mind is “the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell”, and Derek is the one dying of laughter, his cheeks red.
But the best moment is, just when Derek’s about to drop him off at the lab, he hesitantly asks for Stiles’s number, looking embarrassed.
…
Peter Hale isn’t it this morning.
Instead, a smirking blonde who looks frighteningly familiar is standing outside the lab doors, leaning against them, wearing Secret Service Trademark Black Leather Outfit, and Stiles abruptly recognizes.
“You’re Agent Reyes,” he says aloud, and her smirk widens.
She flutters her eyelashes, “Yes, but you can call me Erica, AKA the mother of the child you almost lost yesterday.”
Stiles boggles, and says the first time that comes to mind, “You have a kid?!”
Erica laughs, stepping away from the steel doors, producing a key from….Stiles doesn’t want to know…and opening them, gesturing at him to follow him, “Yes, I do, Stiles. You see, when mommy and daddy love each other very –”
“Okay!” Stiles tries to cover his ears, “What are you doing at my lab? Is there something wrong?”
“No,” Erica smiles innocently, “It’s my free day, but Baby Boyd’s grandparents have him, so I’m bored, and you’re the cutest thing.”
So she sticks around, refusing to wear a lab coat (“it’d crash with my outfit, Stiles, you should know this, what kind of queer person are you?”), or put on gloves, and Danny finds Stiles trying to do some experiments on samples of beverages, his microscope hand shaking slightly, while the hottest girl he’s ever seen watches him, smirking.
He does a double-take, stares at Stiles, stares at Erica, and says, very calmly, “Stiles, did you join a mafia or something? First the naked guy in McDonald’s, now –”
“Oh my god, Derek was naked? In McDonald’s? With you?” Erica snorts, “I’m never letting him live it down. Thanks, cute guy.”
“Gay, also taken,” Stiles looks away from the slide and narrows his eyes, “Don’t bother him.”
Danny looks like he’s having trouble breathing, “Stiles, what people does your boyfriend hang out with–?”
“Just go and do chemistry!” he snaps, blushing, and he can feel Erica’s smirk again.
Lydia stops by, takes one look at Erica, and salivates.
Erica winks, and Lydia…doesn’t look any less interested. Which. Ugh.
Stiles can feel himself getting redder, and redder every few minutes, stiffens every time Danny laughs, and feels like he’s being analyzed, and examined.
He kind of wants to pass.
They take a break, and Stiles is texting his dad, happily reminding him that, even though it’s barbecue day in Beacon Hills, Melissa has been debriefed and knows that he isn’t to have any red meat, and not to make a fuss, when his phone rings, ‘UKNOWN NUMBER’ flashing on the screen.
He picks up, “’Lo?”
“I need your help with a case,” Derek tells him, in a rush, “Royers Art Gallery, ten minute walk from your lab.”
And then he hangs up.
Stiles stares at the phone, trying not to feel disappointed. Had Derek asked for his number just for practicality? Stiles had though…
Anyway. He’s got to go and do his job.
He bites his lip, stands up, apologizes but says he really needs to go, and Erica eyes him suspiciously but doesn’t comment on his no-doubt miserable expression.
The walk until he reaches the art gallery seems to last for a lifetime, and Derek is waiting for him outside, checking his watch every few seconds. When he sees Stiles, he brightens.
Stiles tries not to let his heart clench. He fails.
“Hey,” he says softly, “What did you need?”
“Well,” Derek smiles, “I needed someone to identify some chemicals used in one of the paintings because the President is busy with her life, and most of the Agents are sitting on our asses, waiting for a national crisis or something. Investigating old cases is the next best thing. But I…” he licks his lips, and looks at Stiles, “I thought maybe we could see the all the paintings first? Um, Scott said you liked Modern Art. Or, at least, making fun of it.”
Stiles feels suddenly very warm, and… “When did you talk to Scott?!”
Derek honest-to-god blushes, rubbing the back of his neck, looking adorable, even clothed in black leather on a sunny day (ridiculous, he is), “Laura gave me his number. I asked. About. Things you liked to do.”
Stiles can’t reel in the smile, “Okay. Let’s visit the art gallery.”
They go in, and Derek stands close the whole time, and electricity runs through him every time their arms brush, too often for it to be an accident. Stiles almost sits on a piece of art, thinking it’s a chair, and Derek snorts while a woman shouts at them for being ‘destroyers of everything that is artful!’.
Stiles doesn’t really care that much about art, but he loves poking Derek with his fingers to get him to react, knowing Derek is too polite to talk loudly at a gallery, and smirks when the Secret Agent glares at him without heat.
When they reach the main piece, Stiles covers his own mouth to contain his giggles. He resolutely chooses not to pass comment.
“Well,” Derek says under his breath, “That’s a penis.”
They’re kicked out of the gallery, and Derek has to sneak them in so Stiles can get a paint sample to examine back at the lab. He offers to walk him there, and Stiles agrees immediately, smiling so wide he’s afraid he’s going to burst.
When they reach the door, Derek smiles at him, and says, “You’re not bad, for a chemist,” and kisses him chastely on the lips, eyes bright, glowing Beta-yellow for a second before he leaves.
And Stiles is standing there, warm and excited, and blushing, and he’s not been this happy in a very, very long time.
…
So, of course, it’s the next day later when there’s a national crisis.
Apparently, some mad guy who thinks the world is ending started shooting around the White House and generally making trouble. Stiles wouldn’t be worried, he wouldn’t, if Derek had contacted him earlier to say he’s okay, but he doesn’t know if Derek got shot, or he was even on-duty, or…
He calls him every ten minutes, and Danny seems to figure out he’s anxious, because he throws him out of the lab after only three hours of work. Lydia takes him to lunch, and squeezes his hand knowingly, assuring him that it’ll be alright.
Stiles has just realized that dating a Secret Service Agent? Not that fun at all. It hits him, that, if Derek and he got properly together, calling each other ‘boyfriends’ and holding hands and everything, this could happen: he would wonder if Derek was even alive, if he was okay. He’d have secrets he wouldn’t be able to tell, he would be cagey about work, he’d…
But, even though he’s panicking, really panicking, he just wants Derek to come back and hug him, and raise his eyebrows, and rub the back of his neck, and look confused at formulas and show up naked.
He falls asleep that night after an hour of looking at his ceiling, biting his lip, and sighing repeatedly.
So that’s why he nearly jumps out of the bed when someone shakes him awake.
“Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me! Dammit, I knew I should’ve sent that chain about that one girl who died and who’d kill me!” he screams, flailing, moving his arms and legs everywhere.
Derek laughs, because who else breaks into his house whenever he wants? He’s surprisingly not naked. Hmm. Disappointing.
“Hey,” he says, his eyes soft, “Just wanted to say hello. Sorry I couldn’t reach before; all of the agents were on-duty.”
Stiles crosses his arms over his chest, feeling vulnerable and ridiculous, because Derek is supermodel material, and he’s scrawny and lanky and ugh, adult life is hard, “You could’ve said something, you know. I messed up a dissolution because of you. I haven’t done that since first year of college, Derek, first year.”
Derek raises his eyebrows, “I see. I came to see you, first thing. No one else, Stiles. Wanna come home tomorrow to have lunch with my parents?”
Stiles smiles, “Yes, you big doofus of a boyfriend,” and pulls him in for a kiss.
…
“Stiles, this has to stop,” dad demands, sitting in front of him.
He pauses, popcorn halfway to his mouth, “What?”
Derek, from where he’s doing the dishes, snorts, and quickly shuts up when dad narrows his eyes at him. Good.
“Melissa is convinced I know Derek’s a serial killer, because I can’t make up good enough excuses for what he actually does, and I’m trying to protect you. Shelly down at the pharmacy thinks he’s a Dom at a BDSM club, and Allison called me the other day to insist that: was I sure that Derek wasn’t a yoga teacher? Was I sure?”
Stiles smirks, and says, “Sounds like Scott’s got competition, Agent Sex Machine.”
Dad winces, “Please don’t, Stiles. I need to be able to talk about your boyfriend’s job, or else I might go mad. Can’t you invent something? Anything?”
Derek finishes the dishes and goes to sit down next to Stiles on the couch, automatically pulling him close and snuggling into his neck, breathing him his scent. Adorably puppy, Stiles thinks fondly.
Six months of this, and he’ll never get tired. Six months of taking care of Derek, of letting Derek take care of him. Six months of having nights out in New York with Laura, Isaac, and the Boyds. Six months of Derek’s smiles. It was hard, at first, especially when Derek told him everything that bitch Kate Argent had tried to do, the reason his family didn’t live in Beacon Hills, where they’d been born, not to feel a bit overwhelmed with the urge to maim and kill. Derek is, ironically enough, the pacifist of the two of them, though his glares can end you.
“Go with the BDSM club scene, dad, that’s my favorite,” he suggests cheerfully, “Talia loves making me sound like someone in Bones, even though I usually just smell Vaseline and write loads of reports while Lydia clucks her tongue.”
Dad smiles, “Lydia is just mad that Danny and her can’t mother you anymore.”
Stiles laughs, “Oh, yeah, that’s good ol’ Derek now, aren’t you, sweetcheeks?”
Derek pauses in his snuggling, glares at him, and says, “Don’t call me sweetcheeks. And if I ever catch you sleeping in the lab again…”
“Oh, don’t worry, I know.”
That was fantastic sex. Stiles has (maybe) stayed over sometimes because of it. Not that Derek will ever know, of course.
“I’m serious, Stiles,” dad whines, “People at the station think I’m keeping a murderer at home!”
Stiles just shrugs, “Let them. Isn’t it more exciting that way?”
“Let me put it this way, then: sexually frustrated middle aged soccer moms think I’m harboring a bisexual, leather-wearing criminal in my home.”
Derek glowers at Stiles, “This is all your fault.”
Stiles kisses him quickly and agrees.
...
Stiles has a lab. He also has a boyfriend, and a best friend, and an apartment he shares with said boyfriend.
He likes this. He really does. When he finished moving in ( after he went to see his ex-boyfriend Tom who was a jerk and looked really smug for a while until the douchebag told him to fuck off), he was immediately filling their shelves with copies of Fight Club and putting their stuff all over the place. He cried, and he hugged his dad, and he and Scott had a second emotional goodbye bro party that didn’t border on co-dependence, no matter what Allison claims, but he really likes it.
Everything that happens, happens for a reason. Except ostriches. What the hell man?
- Welcome To Night Vale proverbs, episode 51