Work Text:
Stiles wondered on occasions if he and Derek might have become friends (maybe more) if not for their secret partnership. During those rare moments when he was just too tired to stop himself from wondering, he'd catch himself dreaming about what could have been if everything had been different. He'd contemplate who they might have been to one another if Derek had just been a social worker by day and not also super hero by night. Or Stiles hadn't taken on the roll of his silent partner and just worked in records for the police station to fund his installation art. Stiles hasn't been forced into providing information packets to their go-between or developing new suits and gadgets. Maybe, just possibly, they could have been something to one another.
But, as things stood, Stiles and Derek both professed to barely know each other. They certainly didn’t talk and never saw each other outside of Scott's parties. Even for those, Derek and Stiles rarely attended at the same time. Derek was part of Scott’s work friends-from-the-hospital, while Stiles’ remained in the high-school-friends group. The two groups didn’t always mix, even if they were amiable enough.
To an outside observer, they didn’t technically know each other except in passing. Even then, they barely acknowledged one another. The distance made for excellent plausible deniability.
In confidence, the two worker together closely, if separately. And, after two years of secret communication, Stiles thought he knew almost everything there was to know about Derek. He knew about Derek's painful childhood. He was very aware of both why Derek had become a social worker and what had made Derek don a mask as a hero. And, to Stiles own consternation, Stiles also knew the small things, like what Derek ate for lunch. Although, as Stiles defended to himself, he knew because Derelk ate the same thing for lunch almost every day.
Stiles assumed that Derek knew a lot about him as well.
It had, after all, been two years since they'd joined forces.
When they'd first joined forces, Stiles had barely known anything about Derek. They'd only met once or twice at Scott’s parties. At both events, the two men had only spoken briefly. At the time, Stiles had been in the middle of one of his art projects (expression of the nature of violence in society) and had run at the mouth about it to anyone who'd stand still long enough to listen. Derek had stood near him. Stiles had thought that Derek's responding grunts had seemed friendly, particularly with an interested growl thrown in.
But their public relationship never progressed farther. Instead, their whole secret relationship got off the ground and the possibility of an open friendship – or anything else – was swept dramatically from the table. So, instead of trying to get to know Derek, to talk to him, Stiles regrettably kept his distance and didn’t directly engage. Otherwise, who knew what he might let slip and – worse – who might hear?
So he might sometimes make over-loud and complimentary comments about super heroes when he knew Derek would hear. He thought they needed to communicate on some level. He thought that Derek should know that Stiles was really proud of him – proud of their work together.
But Derek clearly thought that the greater silence was a necessity. It was sacrifice for the greater good.
Just … sometimes Stiles wished things were different and wondered how he had gotten so involved. How he’d gone from relatively uninvolved interest in super-heroes (the paperwork had been the part that had concerned him) to being the invisible side-kick. The disembodied Jarvis.
But really, even to wonder was to lie. Stiles knew exactly what steps he’d knowingly taken and how he was letting the whole thing eat his social life. And he didn’t regret a minute. Just a second now and again.
So, Stiles pretended he had no idea, acted as if he didn't know almost everything about Derek. He pretended not to care when Derek got hurt or had bags forming under his eyes from lack of sleep.
Privately, Stiles wanted to insist that Derek get more sleep, that he take better care of himself. And he wanted to help with that to. Not just darn Derek's socks (well, costume) at home.
But their partnership was working and Stiles wanted Derek to succeeded.
It was a well-known fact among his friends and anyone who had ever crossed paths with Stiles that he had difficulty paying attention. What most of them didn’t know, was that for all that Stiles had a hard time focusing, what Stiles did notice, he remembered. Permanently and exactly.
Which was what had led him here. Because he had noticed the tenor and range of Derek's voice. Had seen the width of his shoulders and the gradient of the slope of Derek’s neck when he turned his head to look over his right shoulder. He could have told anyone the rate of Derek’s freaking hair growth.
You know, really useful stuff.
But it meant that all those months ago, when Stiles had been huddled behind the desk, trying to stay out of sight of the armed robbers (and therefore out of mind) he’d glanced up and actually looked at the masked super-hero who was efficiently disarming them and tying them up. He’d recognized Derek immediately. The nose alone was a dead-give-away. That Derek had glanced over his right should to look at Stiles had just confirmed it. There were too many points to be a coincidence.
And Stiles didn't think Derek was exactly subtle.
But Stiles was fucking smart. Once he recognized Derek, he could see the parameters of the whole, messy rabbit-hole and he wasn’t going to go blurting things. So Stiles winked at the “masked crusader” to show that he knew and didn't say a word.
He’d thought at the time that they would talk about it later, somewhere more secure. But the next time they’d met, Derek hadn’t acted like anything had changed. Had looked surprised when Stiles had started to bring up the Masked Hero. Looked like he didn’t want to talk about it. So Stiles had nodded, said he got it, and changed the subject.
Stiles had understood, even if he was disappointed. He got (he really did) why Derek never acknowledged that Stiles was in on the secret. Stiles could see the need to keep things quiet, recognize the value in keeping identities secret in a world like this, one inhabited by villains who wouldn't scruple to use friends, side kicks, and loved ones as bargaining chips.
After all, anyone could be listening in at the bars and coffee houses were Scott’s various and diverse friends usually met.
That said, even if Derek didn’t acknowledge the secret, it was clear that he trusted Stiles with it. And that, man, was what pushed Stiles into the decision to help. He’d been waffling before, but shit, Derek was doing good. He’d saved Stiles’ Dad’s – and everyone else’s – life after all. All with a few well-placed blows and movement too fast for the human eye to register. (It had been awesome.)
Stiles started making things for Derek – tweaking things he thought would be useful (being an installation artist meant he could get all sorts of weird shit) and compiling notes for Derek from those endless records he got to sort through (working in records at the police department had its benefits).
Derek hadn’t turned away his help. It made Stiles preen just a bit, that Derek actually used the stuff Stiles put together for him.
Particularly the suit. Stiles was fucking proud of the costume he’d made for Derek. It was a definite improvement over the previous one (wherever Derek had gotten that hideous burlap sack from). It fit him better for one thing – Stiles memory had served him well in regards to Derek’s exact measurements – and Stiles’ creation also helped hide some of Derek’s more obvious features as well as providing much better pockets for the things that Derek needed on the job.
There were of course moments when Stiles wished, really really wished, that he could just ask Derek about the fit instead of having to study his movement as captured by news cameras and smart phones in order to see if there was any uncomfortable stretch and pull of the fabric.
Stiles also wished they could have a better system for the drop off. Because it was unnerving having to subtly leave the plain brown packages in Detective Bree Morrell’s – Derek's police contact – locker at the police station to hand over. He’d felt like it was a bit of a crap shoot the first time he’d done it. But, you know, one had to cover their tracks. Keep Derek protected and all.
But, overall, Stiles thought that they made an excellent team. A little bit like Q and James Bond. Without the surveillance part and the really high tech gadgetry. Although at times he thought about sewing bugs into Derek’s suit in order to track him for further analysis. But that would have necessitated getting the suits back. And man, that would have been a complication. What with their special, particular form of indirect one-way communication. Morrell didn’t know who he was – other than the previous Sheriff’s son, the guy employed by the department in records, and an installation artist – but, outside of that, she had no idea. She wasn’t aware of their mutual involvement (if on her part hesitant) with the masked hero.
So, all in all, Stiles thought his addition to the team was fantastic. Partly because his addition made it a team instead of the one man, lone wolf thing Derek had had going. No man is an island and someone watching Derek’s back, even if from afar, was a good thing. In Stiles’ book at least. He could only assume that Derek agreed.
All the signs were there.
Like the small smiles he got from Derek when they were together in a group. The half waves of acknowledgement and occasional gruff greetings if they ended up side-by-side. Even if they didn’t ever actually talk.
Which was why Stiles was so surprised when Derek sat down next to him at the bar during Scott’s party-of-the-month. Evidently Allison’s birthday had to include pool tables and gin. But she looked happy, Scott was definitely happy, so no complaints from Stiles. Even if his mind kept wandering away from the people and back to his latest project. Derek’s escapades from the night before had gone smoothly (Stiles had treated himself to a green curry in celebration) – but he was thinking about a few tweaks he could conceivably make to Derek’s equipment when the very man took the neighboring stool.
This, this was interesting enough that Stiles was curious, derailed from his train of thought. Because something must be happening.
So Stiles tilted his chin up at Derek in greeting, expecting to be passed a napkin, a note. He felt confused when Derek actually greeted him back, cleared his throat awkwardly, nodded to Stiles' almost-half empty glass and asked if he could get Stiles another.
Stiles' widened his eyes, trying to read what was going on. There had to be something. Perhaps the usual methods of communication weren't enough?
So he agreed, watching Derek out of the corner of his eye. Trying to figure out if he should be pretending this wasn’t happening. Perhaps Derek was trying to give him a hint about something he needed that Stiles hadn’t thought of? Were they in danger now? (Stiles glanced around the room in a second of panic.)
But Derek didn't make any references to the news, didn't talk about crime lords being brought to justice. He didn't talk about keeping the streets of their fair city safe.
Nope, nodda, nothing. Instead he smiled at Stiles, as if he was trying to figure out how a smile worked, and made the most awkward small talk Stiles had listened to in ages.
Stiles couldn’t figure it out. What did Derek want? There had to be something. They wouldn’t be breaking their code of silence otherwise.
Stiles was driving himself to distraction trying to figure it out, analyzing Derek’s statements. The pauses in his sentences. His own answers may have been perfunctory as he tried to leave Derek with openings to explain – or even hint at! – what he was after. But as his glass moved from the half-full toward the half-empty phase, his tongue finally slipped out of his control and Stiles asked during yet another awkward lull “So, did you need something?”
Derek looked a surprised, somewhat off-balanced by the question, perhaps a little disgruntled, and slowly responded “We never actually talk.”
Stiles narrowed his eyes at him “I’m pretty sure that was the idea.”
Derek’s eyebrows moved together and he looked right back at Stiles. “Why would that be the idea?”
“What do you mean! I mean come on, two years of this and you are suddenly playing dumb?” Stiles pointed back and forth between them.
Derek raised an eyebrow.
“Oh my fuck. Derek. This conversation is surreal. You know the whole …” and Stiles leaned forward toward Derek and winked dramatically.
Derek paled. “You know.”
Stiles world tilted. “You didn’t?” he squeaked. “Where the fuck did you think your stuff was suddenly coming from?”
“Bree isn’t exactly … forthcoming.” Derek growled.
“She doesn’t know it’s me.” Stiles and Derek stared at each other for a moment. “Why … why are you suddenly talking to me?”
Derek put his head in his hands. “I was trying to …” Derek looked like he wanted to flee and realization struck Stiles. He grabbed Derek’s arm.
“Oh my fuck – you were flirting."
Derek looked at him incredulously.
"I accept!” Stiles declared, standing and trying to pull Derek with him.
“What?” Derek asked, surprised.
“I accept. You may pick me up. Take me to your lair, or whatever.”