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It should probably be surprising how many clubs they end up at, chasing the latest monster-of-the-week, but Stiles has better things to be surprised about, like vampires.
Tonight they're back at Jungle, reverse-stalking (Derek had frowned indignantly at that, like stalking isn't an activity he engages in on a regular basis) a three-hundred year old denizen of the night. Who apparently enjoys feasting on the blood of young, nubile, homosexual men.
His fucking life.
The pack's scattered through the club. The plan (as far as Stiles can tell) is to watch for any suspiciously pale, superhumanly beautiful man (creature? vampires are human-shaped, Stiles thinks) sneaking out the back with one of said young, nubile men. Presumably, if they find him, they'll follow the vampire out back and commence the supernatural showdown. Stiles will probably be in charge of clean-up, again.
At the moment, though, the club is full of warm, tanned bodies, the music pounding and no vampire in sight. Stiles is backed up against the wall, wishing bitterly that he wasn't two months shy of eighteen and three more years shy of twenty-one. No one's noticed him at all, which is kind of the point, but he keeps thinking about the last time they were here, when that man had winked at Scott and bought him a drink. Scott isn't even the one who likes guys.
Stiles shakes his head violently and looks around for the rest of the pack. He sees Isaac a bit further down, standing stiffly in a corner, arms crossed. Stiles waves and Isaac grimaces back. Well, at least he's not the only one not having fun.
Which - they've been here for half an hour at least. This entire time Stiles has been plastered against this stupid wall like some kind of unpleasant, lanky ornament. How many more times is he going to be able to get into a gay club? The only reason he's here at all is because Derek stood in front of him at the entrance and blinded the bouncer with his cheekbones, or something.
Never let it be said that Stiles Stilinski can't have a good time in any circumstance.
-----
He's stripped off his hoodie ("Stiles, what -" Isaac had said, when he had thrown it at him. "What are you doing?" Stiles had grinned, shouted "I'll be back!" and slipped into the crowd. He kind of hopes Isaac will stick to his corner and not do something fun-sucking, like tell Derek.) but even so, his back is sticky under his two t-shirts. It's gross, but Stiles don't really give a shit, because doing actual club-like things in a club is awesome.
Stiles is kind of - okay, fine, really - uncoordinated on a daily basis, but somehow his flailing lends itself really well to dancing. The speakers are blasting Macklemore and Stiles is seriously getting down, this is fucking awesome, when he feels something – someone?! - touch his ass.
“Holy–” vampire, his mind screeches, but when he whips around, nearly braining himself and several bystanders, the guy smirking at him is sporting a healthy tan and blue eyes. Also floppy brown hair and a green shirt that stretches quite nicely over wide shoulders and damn those are some really tight pants.
“Hey,” hot not-a-vampire says, still smirking. “You wanna dance?”
Stiles gapes. “Whu –“ Are you talking to me, he tries to say, but then he notices how Hot-Probably-Human-Clubber (fuck, he needs to know this guy’s name) drops his gaze to – huh, Stiles’ mouth.
He grins and licks his lips. “Sure,” he says, and the guy’s eyes flick even lower, and then he’s pressing close and Stiles can smell his cologne, and wow there’s a lot of hip grinding action going on right now, okay. He isn’t quite sure how to dance with another person, he’s never done it before and even his fingers feel awkward. Hot-Clubber-Dude notices this, probably, and grabs his hips and whoa, now we’re getting somewhere –
“Stiles.”
Stiles squeaks and jerks away from Hot Clubber, arms windmilling back and smacking – yup, Derek, who has his face creepily close to the back of Stiles’ neck and thus gets Stiles’ elbow in the nose. Derek stumbles back and Stiles feels a brief moment of vindication, which quickly evaporates into deep mortification.
“Shit,” he mutters, glancing between Derek and Hot Clubber, who’s looking confused and a little pissed. “Derek,” he hisses. “What the fuck?”
Derek just glares at him balefully, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Hot Clubber stares Derek down and looks back at Stiles. “Dude, is this your boyfriend or something?”
Stiles sputters. “What? Der- he isn’t-”
Derek cuts him off. “Yes,” he says flatly.
“Derek-”
Hot Clubber is starting to look less pissed and more amused, which, Stiles doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Either way, he is so going to kill Derek for this, after, fucking werewolf cockblocker. Hot Clubber puts up his hands. “Hey, sorry man. He seemed available.” He smirks slightly and nods at Stiles.
Derek growls. Oh my god, Stiles thinks faintly. He wonders if he can get away with punching Derek in the face – there are witnesses, but that means that Derek can’t use his werewolfy powers to retaliate. The smirk slips off Hot Clubber’s face, though, and he coughs and says “Anyways, you two, uh, have fun,” and backs off into the crowd, taking Stiles’ last hope for a good night with him.
Stiles watches him go and then whirls around, fucking furious. He jabs at Derek haphazardly and misses by a good four inches, finger shaking somewhere above Derek’s shoulder.
“You! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Derek raises an eyebrow at him. “Saving you,” he says, like it’s fucking obvious, or something, what the hell.
“I didn’t need saving!”
“Oh, like you were doing so well on your own,” Derek snorts.
Stiles is a raging inferno, by this point. “Did it ever occur to you,” he enunciates in the calmest voice he can muster, hands clenching, “that maybe I didn’t want saving?”
Derek blinks. “Of course you did,” he says, but it sounds a little unsure. Something twinges in Stiles’ chest, but he tamps it down ruthlessly. Now is not the time to be feeling sorry for the asshole werewolf and his complete lack of social skills.
“I didn’t, Derek, okay? I know we’re supposed to be here on a mission or whatever the fuck, but you can’t expect me to just stand around in a gay club and not try to have at least a little fun.” Derek’s still blinking at him, so Stiles forges on. “And okay, I know people like you can get some whenever they want, but some people can’t afford to be picky, okay, and that dude was pretty hot-”
“You thought he was hot?”
Derek’s face is a strange mixture of shock, indignation and something that looks almost like hope – Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever seen that many emotions on Derek at once, and it throws him a little. “Well, duh? I mean, not -” as hot as you, he almost says, before catching himself, “like, ridiculous or anything, but he was dancing with me, come on, attractive people do not dance with me. At least not voluntarily.” He frowns. “And, seriously? That’s all you got out of that?”
Derek doesn’t say anything, just looks kind of pinched, which Stiles is used to and can handle a little better. He’s not really angry anymore, though, just tired.
“Anyways,” he says abruptly, “you owe me a dance,” and holy shit where did that come from.
Derek’s eyes widen. If Stiles weren’t too busy mentally smacking himself upside the head he’d probably be a little gleeful about how many emotions he’s making Derek dig out of his dusty unused box of feelings. He opens his mouth to try to take it back, when –
“Yeah, okay. Sure,” and what? Stiles snaps his mouth shut and stares at the flush creeping up Derek’s neck.
“Seriously? You’ll dance with me?” Stiles thinks of Derek grinding close, hands clutching at his hips like Hot Clubber Guy had done, and immediately regrets it, because now is decidedly not the time for a boner.
Derek looks pained, glaring slightly to the right of Stiles’ shoes, which Stiles is a little offended by. Okay, he’s not like, the werewolf-levels of attractiveness Derek is (probably) used to, but Hot Clubber was just all up in this, right?
“Dude,” he says, “I was kidding – you don’t have to force yourself, I know you don’t actually want to –”
“No,” Derek forces out. “It’s – I do. But not here.”
“Not here?” Stiles echoes blankly. “We’re in a club, where else would you dance?”
Derek’s mouth turns down and his eyebrows wrinkle. “I can’t dance,” he waves an arm over the club, and Stiles wants to ask well why did you say yes, but his voice feels stuck. “Not like this,” Derek amends, eyebrows pulling down even farther. It’s like an angry caterpillar migration.
“Like what, then?”
Derek huffs. Someone dances a little too violently into Stiles’ back and he has the sudden urge to laugh hysterically.
“Like slow dancing,” Derek says, and Stiles chokes.
“You can what?”
“Slow dance,” Derek repeats. He’s starting to look irritated, and for once Stiles finds that he doesn’t want that, doesn’t want Derek angry and annoyed. He waves his hands in what he hopes is an encouraging way.
“Dude, no, that’s cool, it’s just – no one really does that? I mean, I guess we kinda did, in middle school,” Derek’s starting to look constipated, shit, “but I’m sure how you do it is way better. And manlier.” And sexier.
Derek looks at him, mouth twitching. Stiles takes a step forward and Derek looks startled for a bit, before lifting his hands. They kind of hang there for moment, and then Stiles tilts forward and they settle around his waist, huge and hot and holy fuck this is happening.
“I could teach you,” Derek says quietly, voice weirdly rough but shivery, and Stiles has to lean in a little to catch it, hands coming up to brace himself against Derek’s chest.
“Yeah?” Jesus, Stiles sounds fucking breathless.
Derek’s eyes go hot and his lips part and Stiles forgets that they’re in a club, that they’re supposed to be chasing a vampire, and he’s melting into Derek like some kind of swooning Victorian heroine, Jesus fuck, when –
“Not here,” Derek says, again, and Stiles jerks back into his surroundings, the music and heat coming back full force.
“Shit,” he mutters, and Derek smirks and drags him closer. Stiles glares but he gets distracted by Derek rubbing a thumb into the dip of his spine. He looks at Derek and takes a breath, pastes on a grin.
“We should go somewhere else, then.”
Derek just – looks at him, eyes still heated and stupidly gorgeous, all different colours even in the dim lighting of the club, and screw sounding breathless, Stiles actually can’t breathe. He shuffles a little, drapes his wrists over Derek’s shoulders but doesn’t look away. It’s kind of fucking terrifying.
Then – holy shit – Derek smiles, and it’s not the fake one he flashed in the police department, or that time they were trying to trick a succubus (which, never again, if they ever meet another one Stiles is getting the hell out of dodge because succubi are mentally scarring). It’s wide and it makes his eyes crinkle and his nose scrunch up, and Stiles should not simultaneously find that adorable and mind-meltingly hot.
Stiles is going to die of oxygen deprivation, he is never going to be able to breathe if Derek keeps this up.
“Sure,” Derek says.
-----
They leave Boyd and Isaac at the club. Boyd looks long-suffering for a brief moment before nodding and melting back into the crowd. Isaac looks like a drowned puppy, and Stiles feels sympathetic for about two minutes. It fades pretty fast when Isaac smirks and drops his gaze pointedly at their hands, which. Stiles is holding Derek’s hand. Derek is holding Stiles’.
Stiles looks down at where his pale, skinny fingers are threaded through Derek’s and resigns himself to becoming a teenage girl.
Derek’s hand squeezes as he pulls Stiles out to the parking lot. Stiles squeezes back, and he can’t help himself when he says, “You gonna wow me with your moves, Hale?”
Derek snorts. He tugs Stiles closer, dipping his head and nosing behind Stiles’ ear. “Think I can wow you with more than that,” he murmurs, and Stiles can hear the grin.
His knees go weak. “Wouldn’t be so cocky if I were you,” he says after a beat. His voice only wobbles a bit, which he’s proud of. “Slow dancing doesn’t sound all that exciting to me –”
Derek laughs and pushes Stiles into the Camaro.