Archive of Our Own

The front desk of the Northern California and Hawaii Supernatural Couples Summer Conference is a sprawling marble oval with no less than three host stations. Stiles tries not to gawk at it, or the giant atrium. Instead, he adjusts the laptop bag slung over his shoulder and wheels his luggage up to the center host, a perky blonde wearing a name tag with a helpful cartoon wolf sticker identifying her as “Jamie, a werewolf!” He hears Derek’s derisive snort behind him; if there’s any justice in the universe he’ll have to wear one, too.

“Hey you two, and Aloha to the Northern California and Hawaii Supernatural Couples Summer Conference, where we can all be ourselves - together!” she greets them cheerily.

Stiles takes the proffered pen and sign-in sheet, sneakily pulling a face at her enthusiasm for Derek’s benefit when he leans over to sign the forms for both of them.

“Oh, and you’re the Hales!” she exclaims when he slides the sheet back. “Or, Hale and Stilinski, I guess. For now.” She gives them a conspiratorial wink. “I have to say, we are just pleased as punch to see an adorable couple like you attending!”

Stiles tosses an arm familiarly around Derek’s shoulders despite all the bags hanging off them, and gives him a squeeze. “I know! We’re pretty much the cutest. Right, honey?” He shoots his Alpha a shit-eating grin.

Derek bares his teeth in what’s probably supposed to be a smile, except that it isn’t, in much the same way that they are supposed to be a couple, but aren't.

They hopefully look the part, though, since only couples are allowed to attend this particular Hawaiian retreat. At least their four year age gap is looking more reasonable now that Stiles is nineteen and headed back to Berkeley in the fall. Things have even calmed down in Beacon Hills enough that between his bio requirements he’s been doing a bit of Emissary training with Deaton over the weekends, which thankfully counts just enough for the “supernatural” requirement of this conference.

Bringing them back to the reason they’ve just signed up for a weeklong couples retreat together despite, you know, not actually being a couple. The way they’ve kept Beacon Hills so quiet is that after the mess with Allison’s grandfather, the kanima and frigging Zombie Peter, they’ve gotten really, really proactive about stopping threats. And part of being proactive about threats is hacking Gerard’s email (Thanks, Danny!) and discovering that he’s been communicating with a rogue Alpha who’s promised to sell him another kanima to master.

Thanks but no thanks; go directly to Eichen House, do not pass go or collect the $200K you were promised for biting some maladjusted schmuck and turning him into a murder machine. The Alpha’s email account had been a burner (Thanks again, Danny!) but the one other thing he’d used it for had been registering for this retreat. They’d tried their best to recover the original application, which would have had his name and maybe an address, but the Alpha had only kept the generic confirmation email with the name and dates for the retreat.

It was their only lead on stopping this guy besides the burner address itself, guardianswarrior at yahoo. Danny’s promised to let them know if any other emails come through, but Stiles has a nasty feeling that they won’t, and getting the situation resolved ASAP is a requirement for maintaining his GPA come September. Technically his life might also depend on it, but after high school he doesn’t really let that kind of stuff faze him.

Anyways, Derek has to be here because he’s an Alpha who might actually have a chance against another Alpha, and Stiles got swept along because he’s good at piecing together clues. So here they are, tucked away at the seaside Pacific resort for a week and a half of romantic dinners, couple’s massages, tracking down a murderous Alpha, and hopefully having some fun despite it all.

Derek is still tense against Stiles’ side, and baring his teeth like a snarl. “Honey,” Stiles prompts, eyebrows indicating the quickly-deflating host. “She gave us a compliment.”

“Ohmigosh,” Jamie says in a burst, “I totally didn’t mean that you were cute because you’re an Alpha-Emissary pair. This hotel does not endorse essentialism in pack roles! You two would be just as amazing if you were a Beta and an Alpha, or an Emissary and a Beta, or anything. We welcome all supernatural couples!”

“It’s fine,” Derek says flatly, adjusting his bag to casually put some distance between him and Stiles. She still seems like she's about to offer her firstborn to appease them, though. “It’s fine,” Derek says again, more kindly.

The host smiles in relief. “Awesome. Well, you’re all checked in. Here you go!” She offers them two conference tote bags, and Stiles grabs his, excited to see what’s in it - they get swag!

The host pulls out a bouquet of little rainbow pride flags from somewhere under the table, too. “Just something fun to go with the branded tees and water bottles,” she says with a conspiratorial smile. “There’s some bi, ace and demi ones in there, too.”

Stiles plucks a bi one out and waves it gleefully at Derek, who looks gratifyingly annoyed. He grabs a demi one for himself and waves it back sarcastically in Stiles’ face.

Stiles assumes the retaliation is mostly Derek being an asshole, because Derek. But when they get their keycards and head to the elevators, the flag ends up tucked into his back pocket rather than getting tossed in the nearest can. And that’s, well, it’s interesting. Stiles grins to himself. If he’s going to discover such interesting tidbits about Derek, maybe getting dragged along won’t be such a chore after all.

“I think this is us,” Derek says, frowning down at their key card and back up at the door.

Stiles pushes in front of him, swipes to unlock the door and turns the latch with exaggerated surprise. “Wow, technology,” he gushes, “There’s a green light and the door just unlocks! Like magic, right? How did they lock doors back when you were young and spry?”

Derek growls low in his chest. The pack has a running joke about how old he is - or, well, Stiles does - and he hates it. The guy almost makes it too easy, honestly. However boring the couples stuff winds up being, Stiles has a surefire way to keep himself entertained.

Their room is huge. Stiles drops his bags just past the entryway to take in the view out the window, the overstuffed furniture, a truly giant TV, and in the middle of it all...a bed. One bed. One glorious, fluffy bed for both of them. It’s not unexpected, as such, but it’s still sort of intimidating to have it sitting right there, making the part where they’ll be sleeping together tonight that much more uncomfortably real.

To be clear, Stiles doesn’t have a crush on Derek. Derek is hot, sure. And interesting and trustworthy and surprisingly funny when you get to know him, but…but a crush would be pretty awkward considering Derek’s total lack of interest, and in this particular situation where they’re pretending to be in love? Also horrifically emotionally scarring. So a crush is not what Stiles has. He just wants to be Derek’s pal, tease the shit out of him, and also to occasionally come to the house and watch him doing sweaty workout things.

Tearing his eyes away from the bed, Stiles wanders into the bathroom to find a generous sink below a huge, vanity-lighted mirror, plus a square tub big enough for two. He peers inside the tub. There are about five jet nozzles, because why wouldn’t the tub double as a jacuzzi? He makes a face. At a certain point, that kind of thing is just ostentatious.

He can hear Derek puttering around in the main room, unpacking. Left to his own devices, Stiles would happily live out of his suitcase with piles of stuff strategically disgorged around it, but figures he better play along with Derek’s neuroses, or he’ll never hear the end of it.

Only when he comes out, Derek has stopped halfway through unpacking his shirts to glare down at a welcome gift left out on the coffee table like the thing’s mere presence offends him.

Stiles cackles in delight. Even more swag! Food this time, too: There’s a bottle of wine, two bowls of nuts, some chocolate and some artfully arranged pineapple cubes. The entire set-up has a newlywed kind of vibe, actually. His excitement tempers a little. Really, even the food is going to draw attention to them as a couple?

“Why pineapple?” Derek snorts. “Is it supposed to be romantic or something?”

“An aphrodisiac,” Stiles says. “But I think that’s because eating it makes your come taste…good…” Stiles trails off, realizing a moment too late he should not have said those words, because he has now discussed the taste of come with Derek Hale. God damn it, sometimes he really hates his lack of filter.

“Mhm,” Derek says shortly.

Stiles turns away and busies himself with his luggage to avoid any further awkwardness. It only takes fifteen minutes or so, but when he finishes up he notices that Derek has eaten about half of the pineapple. He huffs out a small sigh of relief. It seems like they’re both good pretending Stiles never opened his mouth.

“Well, we’re unpacked! Let’s go.”

Derek looks up at him, horrified. “Go? Go where? The activities don’t start until tomorrow!”

“Uh, go check out the hotel? Eat? Socialize with the other were-whatevers we came to investigate, maybe?”

“Socialize?” Derek echoes, physically recoiling.

“I mean, the other option is to stay here and stare at each other,” Stiles says. “Which is less than likely to help us find a rogue Alpha.”

Derek mutters darkly under his breath, more to indicate his displeasure than to convince Stiles of anything. Well, if the game is maximal annoyance two can play at it and historically, Stiles will be the winner. He grabs Derek’s hand as they head for the door.

“Ready to make some friends, sweetie?” he asks, batting his eyes.

“I hate you,” Derek growls as they head into the hall, though he doesn’t bother to shake Stiles off.

The hotel is amazing. It was built in the fifties, but wears the age as old-school opulence rather than shabby wear-and-tear. The elevator area is mirrored and decorated with ornate carvings, and there’s a wide stone staircase to the sprawling main level. Stiles snaps about eighty photos on his phone. There’s also a sign near the restaurant with a menu for the impressive-sounding continental breakfast, and a coffee bar in the lobby with fresh coffee and light snacks to grab whenever you want. It’s far fancier than anywhere Stiles has stayed before, or frankly imagined.

He manages to find a brochure about the hotel’s history in the lobby, and reads portions off of it to Derek, who rolls his eyes approximately every five seconds until Stiles reminds him to put up a good show of enjoying his rambling. They’re a couple now! Derek looks as happy with that as Grumpy Cat, and - though Stiles would never admit it - the expression is at least twice as cute on him.

Nobody could blame him for taking advantage of their situation to pester Derek even more than usual. Besides, the hotel’s history really is interesting. The place was founded by an older were family, intended as a retreat where any supernatural being could be themselves amongst one another, without worrying about discovery or hunters. They’re very picky about honesty in their clientele; Stiles and Derek had signed a waiver alleging that everything on their application - including the fact that they’ve been dating for two and a half years - was true, and that they would forfeit their attendance, plus a $5k fee, if anything was found to be out of order.

The hotel management’s paranoia seems to have worked; even though the retreat doesn’t officially start until the next morning, the atmosphere is party-like. There are people openly scenting each other in the hall, loud discussions of transformations and techniques for teaching teens control, and Stiles even sees a few people in beta shift just for the hell of it. Nobody’s avoiding cameras due to concern for flashing eyes, or pretending not to have super-strength when carrying bags.

Maybe everyone here being supernatural, even the employees, is the reason that Derek was strangely easy to drag out here, despite the stress of maintaining a fake relationship - and of course the potential danger of being torn to shreds by an enraged Alpha.

Well, Stiles thinks wryly to himself, not that the last point has ever been much of a deterrent for Derek.

They make their way outside, and Stiles gasps at the view. The ocean looks even more amazing close up, and right between the hotel and the beach is a gigantic pool. With a water slide! It’s been ages since he went to a waterpark, and not that much shorter a time since he was near a pool at all. He drags Derek over to get a closer look.

The chemical scent of chlorine hits his nose as he takes the slide in; it looks huge and steep, and his stomach gives an unexpected little swoop. He’s always loved carnival rides and slides and roller coasters, but this one… there’s something off about it. Something that makes his breath catch and the hair on his neck stand on end. Stiles sets the weird feeling aside. He’ll just skip the slide, maybe the pool as a whole. He’ll swim in the ocean like God intended, thanks. Or maybe just stay on land and eat.

“You okay?” Derek asks, a hint of genuine worry creasing his brow.

“Nope,” Stiles says. “I bet this place as a mind-blowing dessert menu, and I haven’t even seen it. Let’s go check out the restaurant and order like five sundaes for dinner.”

“It’s a wonder you’re not shaped like a beach ball,” Derek says dryly, letting himself be led back into the hotel. “How are you so skinny when you eat like a linebacker?”

“You know, I work out. Gotta look good ‘till I get a ring on it.” Stiles waggles his left hand at Derek, and winks broadly at another passing couple. They titter, looking pityingly at Derek.

“I still hate you,” Derek hisses when they’re out of earshot.

Dinner goes fine. Though Derek vetoes the five sundaes, the salmon entree Stiles grudgingly ends up with is delicious. They even manage to get seated in a semi-private corner, since most of the guests haven't arrived yet. Unfortunately, while there aren’t other couples to put on a show for, the waiter not only knows that they are attendees for the couples retreat, he knows Derek by name. Word gets around, apparently. He gets just as excited for them as Jamie had been, enough that he brings them a raspberry tart to split at the end of the meal, on the house.

It’s nice to get free food, but Stiles usually likes to have his own plate, thanks. Sharing dessert with Derek with barely anyone watching, forks knocking when they both go for the last bit of whipped cream… it’s just strange.

The worst part is, this is only the beginning. They’re going to have to be even nicer to each other when the real conference starts tomorrow. More coupley. More tactile. When they came up with this idea, Stiles had kind of thought that after registration they would just be themselves (albeit selves sharing a room) and nobody would pay that much attention to what they were or weren’t doing. He hadn’t bargained on the fact that apparently everyone knows the Hales, and it looks like they’re all creepily invested in Derek starting a family to grow the Beacon Hills pack again. It doesn’t bode well for his plan of anonymity. Or his sanity.

At least they can act normally within the magically scent-and-sound proof rooms, where they retreat after the meal. Whatever happens outside these walls, in here they’ll just be what they truly are: slightly snarky pals who are only at this retreat because they want to prevent more supernatural mishaps from sprawling out into the world.

Derek storms out of the bathroom, “Stiles! Did you honestly leave wet towels on the bathroom floor? I had socks on.”

“Sue me,” Stiles drawls, poking at his phone. “There’s not enough room on the bar.”

Derek give a whining growl that eloquently expresses disbelief and rage in equal portions.

“Aw, I love you too, sweetie,” Stiles says earnestly.

“Oh my God, can you not?”

“Why, you prefer honey? Snookums? Pun’kin?”

Derek attempts to glare a hole through Stiles’ head. “I don’t like pet names. People will be able to tell that I don’t like it. This isn’t like fooling other humans, Stiles, the people here have supernatural senses - they can hear lies, they can smell emotions. We have be careful, and you can’t just keep brushing me off when I remind you.”

Stiles grunts in acknowledgement, and turns back to his phone. He distracts himself texting Scott about the jacuzzi tub, and sending pictures of the lobby to Lydia, who he thinks will approve of the interior decorating choices. He really misses them, and it’s fun to get their reactions. Hell, if he and Derek nab the Alpha fast enough, maybe they can even head home early and have a bit more time to hang out before everyone splits at the end of the summer.

No matter how many Clash of Clans games he starts, though, the inevitable creeps in. He and Derek have both brushed their teeth and changed, and the bed - the single bed - looms almost as large as the silence between them.

Stiles clears his throat. “So, my luggage is on the left already. I guess I’ll take that side, and you can have the right. It’s a king, so we have plenty of room to not touch.”

“No,” Derek says prissily, arms crossed. “We need our scents to mingle, I told you that last week. We should be trying to touch.”

Stiles gulps. Derek had mentioned scent marking, but he figured it would just be Derek rubbing a hand over his face before they went out in public. “How much touching? Like, spooning?” Derek raises an eyebrow. “For how long?”

“We’re trying to mimic months of intimacy, a little clothed cuddling isn’t going to cut it,” Derek says. “Not in a hotel full of weres. All night would be best. And take off your shirt.”

“Right,” Stiles says, mouth dry. This is fine. It’s going to be just fine.

They get in bed on opposite sides, but Derek rolls into the center and opens his arms in a way that’s inviting if you ignore the stormy expression he’s wearing. Stiles almost laughs at the absurdity of it all, but stops himself. He scoots back towards Derek with only slightly less trepidation than if he was snuggling up to one of the kanimas the rogue Alpha has been creating for kicks. He stops when he bumps into Derek, glad his blushing face is turned away. Derek gingerly puts his arm around Stiles’ waist.

So, they’re spooning. And it’s fine. Just fine.

Okay, it’s not fine at all, to be honest. Stiles feels like he’s having heart palpitations, and also like Derek’s firm, warm chest is something he could get used to snuggling with. Neither thought is at all good. He reaches over to the nightstand and grabs his phone to distract himself, ignoring Derek’s annoyed grunt at the light.

This is the worst, he texts Scott. Derek’s making us spoon to mix scents. And I bet he snores.

Scott texts back lol and then three eggplant emoji.

We’re not friends anymore, Stiles texts back, and throws his phone back on the nightstand. He’s going to have to do his best to get some sleep, because he’s getting the feeling he’ll need his energy for tomorrow.

The first thing on the schedule, early the next day, is officially called a “Meet-and-Greet Mixer,” which turns out to basically be a beach party. Even without werewolf senses, Stiles’ nose is filled with the summertime smell of sunscreen and saltwater. The sun is warm and bright in the clear blue bowl of a sky, and Stiles is glad he’s given up on wearing layers for the week. There are ice chests with beer and freeze pops for participants to grab, plus plenty big rainbow beach umbrellas, towels and beach chairs.

Now that everyone’s arrived, most of the were-creature couples are catching up with each other and chatting casually. Someone’s building a duck sandcastle just past the tideline, while another group has started a water fight with super soakers and balloons. Stiles laughs. It feels more like summer camp more than a retreat. A few of the couples have even brought children along.

Stiles tries to start a few conversations with other werewolves, but nobody wants to talk about anything more serious than the weather, so he gives up after a few minutes. Derek flatly refuses Stiles’ suggestion that they get involved with one of the loosely organized activities, so they wind up stretched out on a couple of beach chairs, two daiquiris between them on a handy little table built into the umbrella. Broadly, the plan is to observe and see if anything triggers their spidey senses. It’s not a fantastic plan, but they do have all week to figure this one out. Anyways, Stiles has to admit that it’s nice to just relax.

He’s enjoying the weather and the picturesque crashing surf when his view is suddenly blocked by a pair of dripping white trunks. Annoyed, he moves his eyes up past an attractive set of abs, some very nice arms, and a chiseled jaw to rest on a sensual mouth. A mouth talking not to him, or even him and Derek, but just to Derek. Stiles’ eyes narrow in a scowl. From what he can hear, Mr. See Through Swimming Trunks is apparently very interested in what Derek thinks of the duck sandcastle that he made. He keeps angling his hips as he gestures, well aware of everything on display through his practically sheer suit. Stiles scowls harder. The guy is flirting, right in front of Stiles! Okay, sure, Stiles doesn’t actually have any claim on Derek, but this dude doesn’t know that.

“It’s just a hobby I picked up,” he says smugly, obviously ready for a compliment.

“I don’t really care for ducks,” Derek says cooly.

“Really? Well, I can create just about anything,” the guy says, undeterred. “What do you like?”

“Solitude.”

Stiles snorts unattractively. Who knew Derek’s Olympic-level antisocial behavior would ever come in handy? The guy shoots a nasty glance at Stiles, but he gets the hint and slinks off. Stiles feels unwarrantedly pleased.

“Ah, yes, Emilio’s always so impressed with his crafts,” an unfamiliar accent laughs. Stiles jolts around to see yet another attractive guy hovering at Derek’s shoulder, this one wearing a tiny little speedo, some tanning oil, and nothing else. Mr. Black Speedo juts a hip out, more comfortable with his near nudity than is at all reasonable. “We’re not children, eh? I prefer more adult activities. The drinks here are always delicious, and the daiquiris are a favorite of mine. Have you tried them?”

“No,” Derek says, looking straight in the guy’s face and taking a sip of his daiquiri. Mr. Black Speedo looks at Derek, down at the drink, and back. Derek jerks his eyebrows up, challenging him to say anything. He doesn’t. In a moment they’re alone again.

“Wow, there are a lot of dudes here that are happy to hit on you even though I am right here,” Stiles snips. “Talk about rude.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “They probably think we’re about to break up.”

Stiles gapes. “What? Why?” He’s inexplicably offended. He might not be quite Derek-level hot, but he’s good-looking enough that it’s not a deal breaker. Or is it something about their personalities, the way they interact? He thought they kind of had an appealing odd-couple, slap-slap-kiss thing going.

“We don’t smell much like each other, you know. And we’re not touching.” Derek looks pointedly at the rest of the beach, and Stiles notices that almost every pair not doing something else is engaged in some serious PDA. Is that a wolfy thing? Stiles swallows. Derek should have mentioned it if that level of cuddling was going to be expected. Not that he objects exactly but… if Derek hasn’t brought it up, he must be the one who objects.

“Everyone knows we’re together for now, though,” Stiles whines. “Maybe we’re here to rekindle the spark! Why do they have to get in the way of true love?”

Derek shrugs. Maybe he was planning to say more, but yet another man steps between them, this one wearing a tiny neon banana hammock that makes Stiles blush hard just to look at. Is it even legal to have all that… everything on display?

As shameless in his flirting as his swimsuit choice, Mr. Orange Hammock is halfway through asking Derek to come get a drink with him when Stiles decides he’s had enough. All these assholes can back the fuck up and sit the hell down. He shoves out of his chair, weaves around the interloper, and squishes himself onto Derek’s seat, awkwardly hooking their legs together for balance.

“Hey honey, how are you holding up here?” he simpers, and glares up challengingly at Mr. Orange Hammock. Derek, who is squashed under him, is annoyingly stiff and not exactly getting in on the act. Which might be because this level of touchy-feely is not something the two of them ever discussed, to be fair. Whoops. But before Stiles can get too worked up about boundaries, he feels Derek’s hand come to rest on the back of his neck. The gesture is uncomfortably paternalistic, and it would be irritating except for the fact that the crestfallen look on Mr. Orange Hammock (and at least two ladies within view) is beyond worth it. Mr. Orange Hammock deflates and leaves practically mid-sentence. The hand stays.

“Thanks,” Derek says quietly, and Stiles shifts to get a bit more of his butt on the chair. They don’t talk about it back home, but everyone knows Derek doesn’t love the attention that comes with his good looks. Stiles doesn’t know if it’s about Kate, about being demi, or just personal preference, but if Derek wants to be left alone, then he’s going to stay here for the rest of the day to ensure that’s what happens. No matter how uncomfortable it is.

Conveniently, they’re also close enough like this that Stiles can murmur into Derek’s ear about suspicious guests. There’s a patrician-looking man with white at his temples who seems unreasonably sneery for a dude getting oiled up by a gorgeous redhead in Hawaii, for starters. And to their left, there’s a a young, wild-looking Alpha woman who Stiles doesn’t like the looks of either.

“Really? She ‘looks shifty,’ that’s your entire rational?”

Stiles bristles. “I have good instincts!”

“You spent half of high school thinking I wanted to murder you.”

“Still not convinced you don’t, big guy,” Stiles says. “So what do you think?”

Derek gestures with his chin. “That guy there. He’s talking with the Ventrell Emissary, and he keeps flashing his eyes. My mother always said their pack cared too much about revenge. And anyone who’s an Alpha that young is likely to be more unstable, so a better bet for our rogue.”

“Dude, I think he's older than you.”

Derek sighs and rolls his eyes irritably. “Let’s just wait for this afternoon. We can ask more questions at dinner.”

Stiles slurps the rest of his daiquiri and looks around for other young Alphas. It’s a bit harder for him to tell where people fit into pack hierarchies than it is for Derek and all his supernatural senses, but he can usually figure it out by the social dynamics.

Beyond the main crowd, a group of surfers is coming towards the beach from just off the coast. Stiles tenses for a second, worried that they might be humans in for a nasty surprise. Then he notices there are seals swimming alongside them - seals who turn into humans when they get to the beach.

“Hey, look, selkies!” Stiles says, poking Derek’s ribs. There are other creatures in the great wide world, he knows that, but the ones they’ve encountered in Beacon Hills have mostly tried to eat him. The selkies, on the other hand, look super cute. As seals and, he notices appreciatively, as people.

Derek makes a noise of disgust low in his throat. “Ugh, wereseals. They’re the worst.”

“Aw, why are they so bad? Look, one of them has a Star Wars surfboard. That’s neat, isn’t it?” Stiles knows that Derek is a secret Star Wars nerd, too. He knows this because he had gotten an inappropriate boner right in the middle of the pack meeting when Derek had made a reference; It had been memorably awkward. “I know you guys are territorial, but we can share the beach.”

“Not with them we can’t,” Derek growls, weirdly angry. “Wereseals are awful.”

“Oka-ay,” Stiles says, drawing the tone out to indicate he’s not convinced. “But why do you keep saying wereseals? Aren’t they just… selkies?

“No! They don’t get a fancy name! They’re seals and people,” Derek says, gesturing sharply. “ Wereseals. They’re fucking pretentious. I hope they leave.”

Stiles smirks. “Sourwolf.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“I’ll stop calling you that as soon as you stop acting like that.”

Stiles hears someone laugh behind them and freezes. He’d totally forgotten they were supposed to be acting like a couple, not like frenemies who primarily interacted by annoying the shit out of each other. But it’s just Mr. Black Speedo from before, and he’s laughing happily rather than looking suspicious.

“You two are super cute. If you ever want to spice things up, gimme a call.” He winks.

“Thanks,” Derek says in a way that makes it mean the opposite, and loops his arm around Stiles’ neck to drag him possessively closer. Stiles ends up half draped over Derek, cheek pressed into his chest. It smells like sunscreen and Derek, and it’s strangely more comfortable than balancing on half a chair. Well, Stiles figures, it’s only fair there’s an upside to this whole fake relationship business.

Not that that stops him from snarking at Derek about Alpha instincts overwhelming tiny Alpha brains and turning them into cave-wolves. “Me big bad Alpha!” He grunts. “Me have dibs on skinny Emissary!”

“I’m going to throw your keycard into the ocean,” Derek promises conversationally, and Stiles hides a smile against his clavicle.

That afternoon, they split up for a few relationship-related talks, the most formal part of the retreat before the purely recreational activities start up the next day. Stiles had assumed that his first class - Emissary specific, with an Alpha speaker discussing how to relate to your mate’s instincts - wouldn’t do too much for their search, not having any Alpha attendees to spy on. On the other hand, the Emissaries here are gossipy as shit.

Stiles meanders over to the chattiest group after the lecture portion is over, and insinuates himself into the edges to eavesdrop. Unfortunately, the other attendees are frustratingly easily sidetracked into swapping stories about whose cousins married who and how many kids they had rather than potentially incriminating speculation about any of their Alphas’ behavior.

“I just don’t know why Emilio hasn’t offered to Mate me yet,” a younger woman whines. “He's always wanted a ton of kids, we need to get started!”

Stiles thinks about Mr. See Through trunks from that morning, and winces - he might have a bit of an idea what the problem is.

“What about you and Hale?” one of the women turns to ask him, a predatory grin on her face. “Has he talked about making it official?”

“Uh,” Stiles says. Obviously Derek hasn’t even talked to him about “mating” being a thing, so the real answer is “no.” But he isn’t sure how weird it is for him to admit that - will it draw more attention to deflect, or lie? He curses Derek in his head for not giving him anything close to proper warning about this stuff.

“Uh, you know. We’re taking it slow,” he says, hoping that’s generic enough that it won’t conflict with whatever Derek’s telling the Alphas two rooms over. “So, what about you?”

“Kali and I’ll be celebrating three years in March,” she says, using her left hand to pull down her shirt, showing off both her diamond ring and the pale outline of a scarred mating bite.

Stiles kind of thinks that the woman, Julia or something, is coming across more like a teenage mean girl than an actual adult, smirking at him like his and Derek’s relationship counts for less without the jewelry. So what if their relationship is a big fat lie? She doesn’t know that! At least the conversation has moved away from him, though. He breathes a sigh of relief.

A sigh that comes much too soon, as it turns out. Throughout the rest of the day, Stiles has to field approximately five questions an hour on his sex life and reproductive choices. It’s embarrassing on multiple levels, one of them being the part where he’s actually single. The only upside is imagining Derek muddling through some similarly invasive prying in his own sessions.

Even though the plan was to do more snooping at dinner, by the time it rolls around they’re both so worn down that they plow through their food and head back up to their room without saying a word to the other couples.

Back in the privacy of their suite, he and Derek somehow find enough energy to spend over an hour swapping notes from the talks. The conference doesn’t keep public lists of attendees, out of paranoia or laziness, but they’ve been able to create a relatively complete one from their conversations so far. All the Alphas are underlined and pack connections highlighted.

It’s a relief to talk normally after a whole day of fielding inappropriate questions, and it’s equally nice to focus on the problem at hand rather than on what he’d like to name his and Derek’s imaginary kids. Finding out who the rogue Alpha is could mean life or death, and he appreciates that Derek understands what that means. It seems like most of the other packs here have never had anything close to the troubles that plagued Beacon Hills.

Stiles appreciates that Derek is smart about gathering intel, too. Not that he’d ever admit it, but between his knowledge of pack dynamics and Stiles’ penchant for prying, they make exactly as good a pair as Matt had once told them. One day in, and they already have a few leads for potential culprits! Anyways, the speculation is diverting enough that they’re still discussing the probability of Aimee (the wild woman from the beach) versus Derek’s pick of Jeremy (the young guy flashing his eyes) when it’s time for bed.

The conversation makes the cuddling a bit less awkward. Not to undersell how awkward it still is, but it’s at least less so than when they were dead silent, only too aware of the bizarre intimacy.

The next day is a scorcher, and in the afternoon break after morning activities (a cooking class that had been worth the price of admission alone, with Derek covered in flour and pouting at their bundt cake as if that would un-burn it) everyone makes a beeline for the pool.

Everyone except Stiles. He stays on the deck between the lawn and the water, eating a fruit popsicle. They’re made in-house and they are delicious. He’s basically been living on them. His brain is fried from too much pretending, anyways. All he wants to worry about is hitting that perfect amount of sunscreen to tan but not fry.

Derek’s happily swimming off any similar overload himself. Stiles can pick him out, over in the deep end, chatting with an older Alpha. He’s not one of the ones they suspect. Maybe it’s to get clues about a different pack, but maybe Derek’s just having a normal conversation. Stiles almost hopes he is. He’s seeming more relaxed as the conference progresses, has even wolfed out a couple of times during activities, almost hesitantly, but always pleased to have done it. Stiles smiles. The guy’s perpetually tense about the next threat coming for his young pack, but he could really use some time to himself. It wouldn’t be the worst thing if they put off locating the Alpha and stayed for the whole retreat, actually.

Derek’s finished his conversation and swims back towards Stiles. He pushes up out of the water and wanders over in his wet, clingy swim trunks - thank God they’re at least dark blue rather than white - with droplets of water on his chest and legs, his hair spiked awkwardly where he’s run his fingers through it.

“You should get in the pool, have some fun,” Derek says.

Stiles is glad that his sunglasses probably hide where his eyes are going, tracing water rivulets down Derek’s unfairly muscled physique. “I am having fun, tons of it. I’m just not going in the haunted pool.”

Incredulously, Derek raises his eyebrows. “The pool is haunted?”

“The waterslide, specifically. It’s 100% haunted.”

“It’s 100% not,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. “Look, lots of people are using it.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not haunted. Besides, I can’t swim until 20 minutes after eating.” He gives Derek his best sorry-not-sorry smirk and slides the whole popsicle into his mouth, savoring the flavor of strawberries and non-swimming excuses with a hearty ‘mm!’ That finally seems to shut Derek up.

“Right,” Derek says in a weird tone, and stomps back to the pool.

Stiles really ought to count that as a win, but now that Derek’s gone, Stiles doesn’t want him to be. He hunches down farther into his beach chair. He’s not sulking exactly but…maybe he’s sulking a little.

For all he wants Derek to loosen up and enjoy the retreat, there’s also the small fact that Derek being so loose and happy around all these other wolves is surprisingly difficult on Stiles’ ability to relax.

It’s just harder to deal with his not-crush on Derek here. Not only because they’re pretending to date and people keep asking him what kind of wedding he’d like, which kind of forces him to think about Derek in a suit, among all their friends and family, beaming at him…but also because there’s no Scott to take the tension out with a goofy aside, no Lydia to distract him with ideas about weaponizing mistletoe, no Boyd and Erica to argue about DC versus Marvel with, not even a Jackson to rile up because it’s just. So. Easy. No, here at the retreat it’s just Derek being all impossibly Derek without any relief at all.

“Is he a bad Alpha?”

“What?” Stiles twists around to see the asker is a tiny kid on a tricycle in the grassy area behind him.

“Your Alpha made you smell unhappy,” she says, sweetly concerned. “Is he mean?”

Stiles gives her a crooked smile. “No, he isn’t mean. He’s grouchy sometimes, but he never makes me unhappy on purpose.” It’s the truth, despite all the snark they exchange. Still, the girl looks skeptical. Stiles sighs. If Derek can’t hear him and give him crap about it, it won’t hurt to be honest about this. “He’s a really good Alpha,” Stiles says softly. “He doesn’t always get it right, but he does always try his best. He just wants to be sure I’m having fun even though I don’t wanna swim.”

“Dada says I can’t swim either,” she says seriously. “I’m Ashley, do you wanna play with me?”

“Sure, if it’s okay with your pack,” Stiles smiles. “I’m Stiles.”

“Dada?” she calls, and a couple looks up from a few yards across the grass.

Stiles recognizes them as a Beta couple from one of yesterday’s sessions and waves. The man’s nostrils flare, taking in Stiles’ and Ashley’s chemosignals, and whatever he’s getting from Stiles seems to agree with him. “Sure, just stay where we can see you, okay?”

“Yes!” she calls, scrambling off her bike to thrust a plastic fish into Stiles hands. “This is Dory, she’s from Finding Nemo, and then also Finding Dory, which is my favorite, and I don’t have a Nemo yet but my Dada makes a Nemo with his hands when we play.”

“That’s awesome,” Stiles says, finally getting a word in edgewise. She kind of reminds him of himself. He takes the toy and bobs it back and forth in the air. “Just keep swimming, just keep swimming,” he sings.

“Watch, watch,” Ashley says, grabbing the toy back and crouching to stick her arm in the pool. She brings the toy back out and squeezes it so it squirts a stream of water into Stiles face. “She can spit water!”

Stiles laughs, wiping his face. “I can see that.”

“Make her sing again, but really swimming, in the pool,” Ashley says, handing the toy back quickly. Stiles tries to catch it one-handed, still wiping his eyes with the other, and the wet plastic slips against his palm. Dory lands in the water. Dory sinks.

Ashley’s eyes go wide, following the toy’s descent. Her lips wobble dangerously. “Dory?”

“Oh, no-no, don’t cry,” Stiles says, quickly looking back at her parents and waving that he’s got it handled. “She’s right there, I’ll get her back for you.” He’s going to push forward and slip into the water, but he realizes his hands are clenched painfully tight on the lip of the pool. He needs to dive in and grab the toy before it drifts away, but he really doesn’t want to.

Which is fucking ridiculous, it’s just a pool. There’s a crying child, and it’s his fault her toy is lost in the first place... but he can’t tell how deep it is here, and it’s been too many wasted moments already; he can’t find the blue-on-blue toy anymore among the kicking legs of the other attendees. Maybe it’s lost forever, he’s made one stupid mistake and he doesn’t get a second chance. His heart is beating double-time and his eyes are prickling, and he doesn't understand why he’s freaking out like this.

Then suddenly Derek’s there, bobbing up right in front of him and slicking his wet hair back out of his eyes.

“Derek,” Stiles says, relief flowing through him. Whatever was happening to him passes; he was mostly joking about the slide being haunted, but something’s clearly up with this pool.

“What’s wrong?” Derek asks, blinking up at Stiles and Ashley. His dark lashes are clumped with water, making his hazel eyes look even brighter.

Stiles shakes his head, focusing at the problem at hand. “Uh, Dory is missing, and I think it’s my fault.”

“I don’t see her,” the kid wails beside him. “I want my Dory!”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Derek says, a sliver of Alpha authority in his voice helping calm her. “I’ll find her.” He ducks underwater and Stiles looks up and away, a bit of that weird discomfort churning in his stomach again. But before it can really take hold, Derek reappears with the toy.

Ashley squeals in delight, cradling the fish to her chest.

“Aw, see, it’s fine,” Stiles says, shooting a grateful look at Derek. “I think she went to go see Nemo and his dad. Or Destiny!”

“Yeah,” Ashley agrees. “I bet she wanted to go say hi for just a minute, but she forgot me, and then remembered. Right? Can we go tell my Dada?”

“Uh,” Stiles says, but she’s already dragging him across the lawn.

Derek tags along with an impish look. “You’re so good with kids, sweetie,” he says once they’re inarguably within earshot of the parents. “You’d be a great stay-at-home daddy. What do you think, four kids? Or five?”

Stiles glares. He’s the funny one.

Ashley’s dad gets up to greet them, smiling. “How’d things go, kiddo? Make a friend?”

“Yes! This is Mr. Stiles and he made Dory sing, and then she had an adventure in the pool with Nemo. Oh, but I didn’t go in! Because I’m a good girl.”

“Yes, you are,” her father agrees. Then he extends a serious hand towards Derek. “Mr. Hale.”

“It’s okay!” Ashley stage-whispers. “He looks scary, but he’s a good Alpha, Mr. Stiles said so.”

Derek cuts his eyes over at Stiles, eyebrows up like he’s surprised at that. Stiles flushes, but he doesn’t brush it off as a joke like he planned to if his admission was discovered. Of course Derek’s a good Alpha. He’s not forgetting how much he and Scott clashed with him at first, obviously, but they’ve all moved on from that. By now he knows why Derek had been so cagey and nervous at first. It makes a hell of alot of sense, in retrospect. Any mistakes from that time don’t have to define him, or who he is as an Alpha. The last few years, well, he’s been amazing, and Stiles will fight anyone who says different. Even if that person is Derek.

Ashley’s mom stands as well. “Derek, it’s nice to meet you. We’re from Colorado, but I met your mother a few times. She was a real institution in the werewolf community. I’m so sorry about what happened, I wish that we’d… well, we honestly thought your pack was gone. It's so good to see you rebuilding.” She smiles warmly at Stiles. “I’m glad you’ve found someone.”

“Thanks,” Derek says, putting an arm around Stiles, who leans up against his shoulder and tilts his head to smile up at him. It seems like the right thing to do, but there’s a strange expectation in the air that creeps up suddenly. Like the parents are waiting for something

Oh, Stiles realizes a split second later. This is the part where any sane people who are actually dating and in love would exchange a quick kiss. Derek seems to have had the same thought, because he’s looking at Stiles with his eyebrow quirked in question. Stiles tries to telegraph that he’s down for it by tilting his face up. He hopes it looks normal; it feels anything but.

The kiss, their first, leaves Stiles breathless at the first brush of lips. Really, just that would have been enough to prove the point, but he catches Derek’s upper lip between his own almost on instinct. Then he’s moving his hand to Derek’s hair, and Derek kissing back with a hint of slick wetness as his tongue teases the seam of Stiles’ mouth. Stiles’ eyes have fallen closed, he’s almost dizzy with the sensation but…but there are literally children watching.

They break apart, and Derek gives a strange little cough. Ashley’s parents seem honestly befuddled. Their kiss probably did the opposite of making them seem less weird.

“Anyways, we should get to the… we signed up for the afternoon volleyball game and that’s starting soon,” Stiles blusters. “So. Later!”

“Bye Mr. Stiles!” Ashley shouts, waving one chubby hand at them.

The volleyball competition, as it turns out, is versus the selkies. Wereseals. Whatever. Stiles should have guessed.

“The point of us being here is to find the rogue Alpha,” Stiles whispers into Derek’s ear as the other players set up the net. “Remember? The one purposefully making kanimas to sell off as murder machines?”

“We can do that tomorrow,” Derek grits quietly through his teeth. “I just wanted to get some exercise in, I’ve been missing my gym days.”

Stiles blows a raspberry. “Bullshit. I can’t believe you’re lying to your boyfriend just to indulge in some petty one-upmanship. I’m sure the seals are perfectly fine werebeings, they seem chill and…”

“Aayy,” one of the seals calls at them. He’s wearing puka shells, sporty sunglasses and bilabong shorts. “You suckers ready to lose? Woof, woof, bitches!”

“...I take it back, we’re going to crush them,” Stiles says.

The game is, perhaps unsurprisingly, intense. With no need to disguise their superhuman speed or strength, the werewolves on his and Derek’s team quickly outpace their one human member, leaping and darting after the ball like fucking Olympians. Stiles does get a few good digs in, since he’s apparently the only person who’s actually played before and can predict the selkies’ strategy - even though his only experience is from P.E in high school.

Between the lack of volleyball skills and the amount of shit talking going on, it seems like most of the werewolves are just here for the same reason Derek is - physically dismembering the selkies wasn’t an option, and wiping the floor with them at volleyball is plan B. Kali in particular seems to be out for blood.

Anyways, crushing the seals is something Stiles is getting pretty on board for. “That’s not even original!” he shouts at the leader in puka shells, who is sticking his tongue out exaggeratedly and holding his hands up like begging paws. “I at least try to be witty,” he mutters.

It’s truly a sign of Derek’s intense loathing of the wereseals that he just growls in agreement. Stiles’ dog jokes are the only things he hates more than the old man ones.

The selkies land another point, putting them 25 to the wolves’ 21; that’s the end of the heat. Kali literally howls, and stalks down the beach in beta shift. Stiles makes a face. Between her temper and her bitchy wife, he really hopes they’re not seated together at any events.

Stiles grabs the nearest chair and collapses, too exhausted after so much running to find one of the few open pairs left. But rather than finding his own seat, Derek sits on the sand next to him. Like being close is more important than being comfortable. He scoots up close to Stiles’ hip and rests his head on Stiles’ ribs, practically forcing Stiles to start petting his hair. Not that it means anything, Stiles reminds himself, pushing away any untoward feelings. They have to act as if they enjoy being close, or someone’s going to rat them out to management and get them tossed out.

“Ugh, don’t sit on the ground,” he gripes. “You’ll get sand all up in your underwear.”

Derek scoffs. “I will not.”

“Yeah, you will, and then it’ll get everywhere. I have to sleep in that bed too, if you remember.”

“Nah, I won’t,” Derek insists, throwing Stiles a blinding, cocky smile over his shoulder.

“E-everyone does,” Stiles stutters. “You’re not magic. If- if you don’t get sand in your undies it means you were, like, a gladiator in a past life or something.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Derek says sweetly, smiling wide enough he’s got dimples. It’s not even a little fair.

“Whatever,” Stiles mutters.

The problem is this place, he decides. It’s too romantic, too isolated, and this weird thing is starting to happen between them because they’re unhooked from the usual Stiles versus Derek dynamic, the rigid pack roles and all the history they carry with them. They’re supposed to be here on the usual business of untangling a horrible conspiracy and probably getting beaten half to death in the process, but instead it’s been fun. It’s been as if they’re just two guys who like each other, two guys who aren’t damaged by the things they’ve lost or the violence they’ve seen.

And when did this happen, exactly, this thing where Derek is a normal person? He’s more open than he was back when they first met, sure. He’s a better Alpha and all, agreed. But he’s still standoffish and grouchy and prone to martyring himself. He’s held himself apart from the younger betas so often that Stiles hadn’t even known that was what was happening, but now among these strangers he’s laughing and doing stupid jock handshakes when their team scores and Stiles just isn’t sure what to do with this information.

Because that’s not real life. This thing where Stiles gets to pet Derek and doesn’t have to make it a dog joke? It’s part of their cover and it isn’t coming home with them. Ugh. He’s back to the “find the rogue Alpha and get out of here quick” plan. Nothing good can come of spending more time one on one with this version of Derek.

The next heat starts, and Derek bounds up to the net. Even though Stiles had just committed to looking for the Alpha instead of hanging out, he’s happy and shining and loose in a way that Stiles hates to spoil. Also, he can’t help but notice as Derek surges up to spike the ball - Those thighs could crush watermelons, that’s so hot.

And Stiles is so, so fucked.

After the game, Derek goes with the other werewolves to hose down in the outdoor showers, preening at having set up the winning point. Stiles, who sat the last couple rounds out and isn’t half as sweaty, goes back to their room to regroup.

The plan was to get in and get out as soon as the threat was neutralized, and maybe to pick up a few embarrassing stories about Derek along the way. Fanning the flames of his yeah-okay-guess-it’s-really-a-crush was not the plan.

Derek doesn’t see him like that, so what’s the point of getting his hopes up? In fact, Stiles thinks, if he really is demi, Derek probably doesn’t see anyone that way. As far as Stiles can tell, he hasn’t formed close ties to anyone outside the pack, and if that’s the prerequisite for getting in Derek’s pants… well, it would explain why someone who looks like he does has had a three-year dry spell, anyways.

Stiles flops back on his - their - bed, groaning and covering his face. Despite all the teasing, he does want Derek to be happy, even if it’s with someone else. It would be unbelievably selfish to make the guy even more gunshy about relationships by forcing intimacy over some stupid intelligence gathering mission. He’ll just back off, they can keep it low key for the rest of the week. What’s the worst that could happen? Some of the other Emissaries gossip? The hotel throws them out?

Derek chooses that moment to come back into the room. “Literally four people on the team asked me if the two of us are on a break,” he says, frustrated. “People are going to get suspicious.”

Stiles rolls onto his elbow. “What, over the PDA thing again?

“I don’t know, probably. Or maybe something with the scents. If this was a normal retreat what we’re doing would be fine, but here nobody understand why I would hold back my instincts to be physically touching, or why we don’t smell like...so their best guess is that there’s something wrong.” He takes a moment, eyes shut, to gather himself. “It’s fine, I shouldn’t have said anything. It doesn’t matter.”

“Uh, I think it does matter if we don’t want to blow our cover. Do you really think we should get more physical? That’s what you’re saying right?”

“If we want to convince the other wolves we’re a happy couple, then yes,” Derek says stiffly.

Stiles laughs, a tad hysterically. The idea was to not force Derek into uncomfortable situations. “C’mon, really? We hold hands all the time! And we scent mark at every meal, and we sleep in the same fucking bed. We’ve gotta smell like each other by now.”

“Yes,” Derek says sourly, “we smell like we’ve been platonically cuddling for the last five days in our romantic Hawaiian suite.”

“Oh. Right.” Stiles blushes to think how much sex is probably happening all around them, and how much they're expected to be having. “Well, not really sure how we can fake that.”

“We don’t need to make the whole place smell like sex,” Derek says. “Just…maybe we should kiss?”

“We did that,” Stiles says vaguely, still caught up in the mental image of what ‘we need to make the whole place smell like sex’ would look like.

“Exactly, and nobody died. We should do it more.” Derek clucks his tongue at Stiles’ expression. “I’m not saying we should french at every opportunity. I’m just saying, it’s weird that we never do. Like, when we say hello and goodbye.” He shrugs, uncomfortably.

“Jeeze.” Stiles swallows a few times, until his mouth isn’t so dry. “Maybe you should have been more upfront about what this entailed when you signed us up.”

“You signed us up,” Derek snaps. “But yes, I should have. I honestly didn’t think people would recognize me, or keep asking why my boyfriend didn’t want to touch me.”

Stiles winces. Has he really been that cold? But Derek’s the expert on normal werewolf behavior, and if he thinks they need to do more... “It’s cool, you’re explaining now. If you want to kiss, I'm game. But we should practice.”

“What?”

“Practice kissing like normal boyfriends? I mean, it was kind of weird last time. If we can’t act like this is normal for us, it's just gonna make things worse.”

“Alright. Fine, then.” Derek sits beside Stiles and makes a face like a man awaiting execution.

Their second kiss is about like their first; it starts closed-mouthed and awkward, but moments later it’s gone soft and easy. Stiles’ tongue slips into Derek’s mouth. He tastes of salt-sweat from the game, and like the coconut shaved ice that he must have had on the way upstairs. It’s every summer romance fantasy Stiles has ever had, rolled into one. Except for the small issue where it’s only practice.

He jerks back, remembering himself. “Uh, okay. So that works. But maybe a little… much for an everyday thing. It should be shorter, natural. Like we do this all the time.”

“Right,” Derek says firmly. He sets his jaw and dips in for another kiss, a little peck that shouldn’t be at all sensual. Stiles’ lips are still tender from the last one, though, and even if it’s over too quickly, the kiss still feel electric and strange with the memory of pressure against his lips. Stiles bites them, rubbing the sensation away with his own tongue.

“A bit too short? It should seem as if we actually like each other.”

“Right,” Derek agrees. “How’s this?”

Very nice is how this is.

“Right,” Stiles says, blinking muzzily. “We should just get used to doing that.”

“Yeah,” Derek breathes. “Helps with the scent thing, too.”

They’ve shifted on the bed, angling towards each other, and they exchange a few more of those kisses, the moments between them shrinking until they’re on the edge of making out.

They both stop abruptly at some mutual yet unspoken understanding. What, Stiles wonders, the hell was that?

They stare at each other from too close, neither making a move to start kissing again - or to back off. Stiles realizes that his heartbeat must be crazy fast, and that Derek can hear it.

He sucks in a deep breath and scoots respectable distance away from Derek. “Welp, I think we can call that a success! Acting 101, aced. Here, bump me,” he insists, holding his knuckles out.

Derek gives him a dry look, but the place really must be softening him because he makes a fist and taps it against Stiles’. And then they sit there in tense silence on the bed, not making eye contact.

“Is it weird?” Stiles asks after a moment. “Kissing like this? Cause you’re… you know, demi?” He was going to say, not into me, until he stopped himself, but he isn’t sure that this is much better. Are they close enough to have this conversation?

Derek’s arm is braced stiffly beside him. “No. Or, yes, but it isn’t because of that. I’m not repulsed by the idea of kissing or sex. It’s just as if…so, imagine if you were gay and living in a sorority. And also, it’s a women’s college. And also there are no men anywhere in town. You can appreciate that some of the women are attractive, and you’d like to have sex, but…not with them. None of them are boys.

“Then falling in love is sort of like starting to notice that one of the girls is a bit more of a tomboy than you thought, slimmer hips, broader hands… until one day it just kind of hits you that she’s not a girl, she’s a guy. And he is very, very attractive.” He glances at Stiles and blushes. “That’s weird, I don’t really know how to…”

“No, I get it,” Stiles interrupts. “I mean, in theory. Being bi, the ‘only girls’ situation isn’t so applicable in my case. But it makes sense. I think I get what you mean.”

Derek’s answering smile is genuine, has some of the tension running out of him. Stiles wonders if he’s talked about his sexuality with anyone before. Even if he has, it means something that they’re close enough for it to be comfortable. Right? Anyways, he tries to think of the silver lining here, the part where his friend is trusting him with something so personal. He focuses on that, rather than the part where he’s got as much chance with Derek as a co-ed with her gay best friend.

At the penultimate dinner, they’ve had plenty more occasions for Stiles to test the limits of his ability to withstand emotional torture, but they are still painfully short on actual leads. Maybe, Stiles thinks, he was never quite as sharp as he’d thought. Or maybe it’s because his brain is entirely scrambled with Derek kisses. Either way, they’re in trouble. He’s left Derek at their table to find the Alpha who had given the talk on Emissary-Alpha bonds the first day. He seemed knowledgeable about pack traditions. Maybe he’ll let something slip about what a rogue Alpha would do differently? Admittedly, he’s getting desperate; nobody here seems like a murderer. Stiles has kind of been subconsciously betting on what usually happens - the monster knows them, and tries to kill them at the soonest opportunity, leaving helpful clues in its wake.

“I understand you are Hale’s mate?” an older woman asks, stopping him in his tracks.

“Yep,” Stiles answers quickly, looking over her shoulder. The speaker gets his drink from the bartender, tips and heads back to his own table. Stiles deflates. “How do you even know that?” he blurts, taking in her nametag; Noshiko, it reads, with a little fox sticker. She’s a kitsune. Is their stupid fake romance gossip honestly crossing species lines at this point?

“An old acquaintance of mine knew his mother. She told me about the Hales, and what happened to them. Hunters are enemies to us all, we let each other know about the ones like Kate. And of course everyone here has been talking. All of that tragedy in his past...” She looks Stiles up and down. “It must be difficult for you.”

“No. I mean yeah, but...” Stiles glances over to confirm that Derek is safely across the room, still eating his dinner, and not likely to hear Stiles’ answer. “What happened to his family is difficult for him, and I think he’s incredibly strong to be even as okay as he is. I’d undo it in a second if I could, but it’s not difficult for me to be with him because of that. He’s been through all of that horror and it just made him kind, you know? Even when I wasn’t on his side, he was on mine. Being around him is the easiest thing in the world.”

Noshiko smiles. “You love him very much.”

Stiles’ heart clenches up. “I really do,” he says, and he isn’t sure if it’s because he has to play along for their little ruse, or because it’s the truth.

“Julia has always been on my side,” Kali interrupts.

Stiles gives her a short, fake smile. God, she’s awful. Where did she even come from? And what is it with her and rubbing everyone’s faces in the superiority of her love?

“You remember Deucalion? I fought him for her. He tried to split us apart, but my love for her is just too strong. She’s my guardian and I’m her warrior.” The phrase rolls off her tongue like a mantra.

At first Stiles just tries not to physically gag, but a split-second later the familiarity of the words clicks. Guardian’s Warrior. The burner email. The rogue Alpha. It’s her.

Act normal, act normal, Stiles thinks furiously. Now that he’s found the danger, he’s suddenly remember how terrifying it is to be thrown into a potentially life-threatening situation. He meets Derek’s eyes across the room, trying to beam the realization through his eyes and into his fake mate’s skull.

“Fascinating,” Noshiko says flatly, then turns away to order a drink. Kali smirks like it’s a victory.

“You know, I should go help Derek, looks like he’s cornered,” Stiles says. It’s not entirely untrue; Ashley is standing by his chair, showing off a new Nemo toy.

Stiles walks over, painfully aware of his every step. The kanima-creating psycho is right behind him. “Hey, Ashley,” he says in a choked voice. “How about you go show Nemo to your parents? I need to talk to Derek, okay?”

“But Mr. Stiles…” she whines.

“We’ll see you later!” Stiles says “Go on!” Derek gives him a weird look, but follows him out to the hall. “Its Kali, she’s the one,” Stiles blurts quietly, as soon as they’re in the semi-privacy past the doorway.

“What?”

“She said Julia was her Guardian and she was her Warrior! Guardian’s Warrior, the burner account! And Julia is an Emissary, she’d know how to spot people with the temperament to become kanimas and her Druid training would help her bind it to the right Master... it’s kind of perfect, except that it’s also diabolical.”

“I’ve heard that Deucalion’s Alpha pack tried to convert Kali,” Derek muses. “Typically he goes after Alphas who hunger for power. Maybe you’re right.”

“Of course I am!” Stiles says. “They’re the ones selling kanimas, I know it.”

“What’s a kanima?” a small voice asks loudly. It’s Ashley, who followed them out into the hall and overhead Stiles’ increasingly less-quite rant. Stiles balks, realizing with horror that the whole dinner hall probably heard the girl’s question. He bets Kali won’t waste time figuring out who’s asking, either. And sure enough, she and Julia are right behind the kid in the doorway. They must have noticed him acting strange and followed him, even before Ashley’s inopportune question.

Stiles has just enough time to think well fuck.

Kali and Julia burst into the hall, Kali diving for Stiles and Julia breaking for the door. Derek shoves Stiles out of the way, towards Ashley, and gets a slice of Kali’s claws in return.

“Go find your dada,” Stiles says to Ashley, pushing her back into the dining hall.

He turns back to the fight, ignoring the scattered gasps and screams behind him as the other couples come see what the fuss is. The ones that make it to the hallway all panic and rush away, rather than staying to take sides. C’mon, you’re Alphas, he wants to yell at the skittish crowd, but he chooses to save his breath. Stiles is prepared to fight for his life pretty much all the time, but he guesses that’s not the norm.

Derek is handling Kali well enough, and Stiles already knows he won’t be much help there. But he does notice that Julia, who he’d thought was running scared, is actually just getting enough distance to do some creepy Emissary shit. Her hair billows in an invisible wind, and her hands vibrate with energy. Before she can unleash whatever it is she’s doing, Stiles darts between her and the fighting Alphas and throws a punch. She’s clearly a more experienced spark than Stiles is, but he can’t let anyone here get hurt. Especially Derek.

Julia snarls, and the next thing Stiles knows he’s been shoved into the nearest wall, hard, by an invisible force. A force that’s still crushing down on him, making it hard to breathe. He racks his brain for a spell, anything…

The pressure is suddenly gone as Derek breaks from his fight with Kali and grabs Julia by the neck to send her crashing into the wall opposite Stiles. She slumps to the floor, unconscious. Their moment of respite instantly vanishes as Kali, who he’d turned his back on to save Stiles, roars and digs into Derek’s back with her claws.

Already at a disadvantage, Derek barely turns in time to block her next wild blow. Keeping up with her enraged attack proves impossible, and he misses a swing that connects hard. He skids down the hall, tumbling with the force of it. Kali turns back to Julia; Stiles runs to Derek in the moment of respite. There’s blood on the carpet, and all over Derek’s torn shirt. Is he going to be okay?

He’s moving at least, though it seems to be a struggle for him to get up onto his knee. He’s not in any position to withstand another full attack from the rogue Alpha, who’s decided her mate is well enough and now stalks towards them, looking every inch the predator she is.

Stiles digs in his pocket; he wore these when they went to investigate that Omega, he knows he had mountain ash with him and that he didn’t wash them before he packed. There’s a last little bit dusted at the bottom, there has to be, and has to be enough for a thin protective circle. As Kali comes in for the killing blow, he closes his eyes and throws the dust from his fingertips down onto the carpet in front of her.

Miraculously, a barrier appears and Kali bounces off, though it wavers scarily with the force of her blow. Snarling in frustration, she hits the barrier again. Behind her, Julia - who won’t be deterred by the mountain ash at all - starts to stir.

“Stiles,” Derek says, somewhere between a plea and a warning.

“It’s fine, I’ve got this,” Stiles grits. No, it doesn’t look good, but he’s the one keeping them alive and he’s not letting Derek down. Not this time, not ever.

He braces himself for the next blow, but it never comes. Instead, a firey-orange blur sweeps in from the dining hall wielding a - is that a katana?

The blur resolves into the kitsune from before, Noshiko. The light around her seems to be some kind of energy or magic emanating from her; whatever significance that holds, it seems to give Kali pause and terrify her wife.

Julia grabs Kali’s hand, trying to get her to run for the doors, but it’s too late. Noshiko slashes her sword through the air, sending ropes of fire coursing through the air, licking dark burns in the carpet before wrapping around Kali and Julia. The two of them tumble over, bound and trapped.

Kali and Julia struggle against their bonds, but they can’t even get them to budge.

Stiles heaves a half-disbelieving sigh of relief; he and Derek are going to be okay. Once again, they’ve made it through by the skin of their teeth.

“Oh, no-o,” someone moans, and Stiles turns gingerly to see Jamie pushing her way through the gawking dinner crowd to assess the damage. “What happened?”

“These two women attacked some of the other guests,” Noshiko says smoothly. “Everything is resolved, now. Though I do apologize about your carpet.”

“That’s fine,” Jamie says in clear relief. “So long as everyone is okay. Er, mostly okay,” she amends, looking at Derek’s bloodied form. “Thank you so much, Noshiko. And Mr. Hale and Mr. Stilinski as well! I just want you to know that this is not normal for us. Not normal!” she repeats, looking back at the rest of the guests.

“It’s fine, it’s normal for us.” Stiles sighs. “Thanks for the assist, Noshiko. That was really impressive.”

She graces them with an elegant nod, wiping the katana clean and then transforming it back into a small knife that she tucks into her evening dress.

“That’s my wife,” her mate says to the room at large, beaming. “I’m married to her.”

Noshiko looks back at him, and her formal demeanor breaks for a split second into a girlish smile.

With Kali and Julia taken care of, there’s not much reason to stick around, but it’s already the last day, and changing their flights would be too expensive to bother. Not that Stiles, at least, is in any rush to go.

There’s another mixer on the beach that night, this one less like summer camp and more like a club. They’ve set up huge speakers that are pumping out bass-heavy top forty hits, along with a couple bonfires. Stiles likes the music well enough, but Derek is wearing a perpetual sneer.

“Go get some of that wolfsbane beer and lighten up,” Stiles says over the pulsing beat and chatter of the other attendees. “Last night in paradise, baby!”

Derek makes a face at him but follows the suggestion. Stiles stays where he is and breathes in the night air. Last night in paradise, indeed. Their flight is the next afternoon, and all this will be over. He’s at least admitted to himself that he’s going to miss being Derek’s pretend soulmate.

Hell, he misses Derek right now. Why’s it taking so long just to get drinks, anyway? He peers over and at the bar and, with sinking distaste, realizes the problem is the return of Mr. Black Speedo. Only now it’s a pair of stupidly tight black jeans, and a purple button-down that’s barely buttoned. The guy’s talking with Derek next to the bar, all the way across the party and out of Stiles’ earshot. Derek’s taking sips from his wolfsbane whiskey, apparently happy to chat. Since when does he give guys like that the time of day? Is he actually smiling?”

Stiles is just about to go over and shut that situation down when the Alpha speaker from the first day’s Emissary-Alpha bonding panel comes up to say hello - of course, now that Stiles doesn’t need him. Stiles grunts a neutral reaction to whatever he’s saying, but the guy puts a hand on his elbow and keeps talking. Stiles is making only the barest contributions, but the guy is still nattering on and on about… something. Something deeply unimportant. When Stiles looks over next, both Derek and Mr. Black Speedo are gone.

Obviously it’s not Stiles’ business what the two of them are doing and where, but still. He finally focuses in on the conversation with the speaker so he can make a polite excuse to leave. Only Derek’s suddenly there, too, literally rubbing his jaw all over Stiles’ head and cheek and neck.

“Ack, calm down, big guy,” Stiles sputters. What had even gotten into him?

“Hey, I’m Derek. Stiles’ boyfriend?” Derek says, doing murder-brows at the speaker. Oh, Stiles realizes. Right, the speaker was probably flirting with him.

Stiles tips his face up for their customary ‘hello’ kiss, but this one gets a little more heated than usual. Derek’s not pulling back, and Stiles can’t make himself either, his hand fisting in Derek’s soft shirt.

The speaker isn’t anywhere when they surface; Stiles hadn’t even noticed him go, he was so lost in their kiss. Derek’s still got a possessive arm curled around his ribs, and Stiles beats down the warm contentment in his chest at being held. He should feel bad for enjoying something Derek is forcing himself to do.

“Get off, get off,” he grouches without heat, nudging Derek away. “Territory successfully established.”

“He was being smarmy,” Derek insists, handing Stiles a Mai Tai.

“Yeah, yeah, I remember the contract, you lose some big bucks if they find out we lied. But seriously, I don’t think anyone is going to call us out at this point. We’re the conquering heroes! You should have some fun!”

Derek frowns. “I'm having fun.”

“You are not.” Stiles scoffs. “C’mon, let’s dance. Ooh, or people won’t think you like me anymore, no matter how much I smell like you.”

“I can like you without liking this song,” Derek huffs, but he lets himself be led anyways.

“What do you mean, you don’t like Justin Bieber? He’s the new king of pop.”

“He’s a little shit,” Derek growls. “He’s immature and annoying with that stupid haircut…”

“Aw, come on,” Stiles says, squeezing Derek’s hand. “Yeah, he did some shitty things when he was younger. But is it really TOO LATE FOR HIM TO SAY SO-ORYYY,” he half-sings, half-shouts, along with the chorus, totally off-key. Derek actually cracks a smile at the impromptu karaoke, though it’s clear he’s trying not to. Stiles would do a thousand things more embarrassing than sing dumb songs in public to get him to smile like that.

Once they get into the area where people are dancing, Stiles entertains himself doing a few moves that Lydia refers to as “the spaz,” but she’s not here to mock him now, is she? Derek is dancing, too. He looks painfully cute despite the inarguably stupid bouncing shimmy move he’s doing. The guy might have a body like a GQ model, but he dances like a suburban dad.

They spend a few songs like that, the wolfsbane whiskey apparently dampening Derek’s inhibitions and Stiles’ own cocktail hitting his bloodstream hard. He thinks he’s tipsy enough that he might be able to handle this, the way their hands and hips sometimes brush in the tight knot of people dancing around them and nudging them closer together. Then the song changes to something slower.

Stiles thinks he recognizes it as Ed Sheeran; it’s an undeniable balad. Couples start pairing off, holding each other and whispering into each other’s ears. What is this, a high school dance? Stiles pulls a face. The thing is, he could probably convince Derek to stand around and hold him like that, too, but between them it would be fake.

“You know, I’m getting pretty sleepy,” Stiles lies. “I should just head back to the room. You can stay and get your wolfy on, I won’t wait up.”

“Nah, I’m getting tired too,” Derek says easily, weaving with Stiles out of the group of dancers. “Wouldn’t want you to get lonely, sweetie,” he adds with an impish grin, right as they pass the Alpha speaker.

Stiles forces an awkward laugh. This is fine, he didn’t really need his heart anyways.

The path back to the hotel has them cutting by the pool, still lit and shimmering in the dark. Still smelling sickeningly of chlorine, ominously empty.

“Look, nobody’s here,” Derek says. “C'mon, there’s not a line for the slide, for once.”

“Because the pool is closed,” Stiles protests.

Derek cocks an eyebrow in his direction. “Oh, suddenly you’re a stickler for rules? Let's go swimming. Last night in paradise, remember?”

Stiles bites back his other excuses: there's no lifeguard; it’s too cold; I really am tired; pools terrify me, now. “I don't want to go on the stupid slide.”

“Oh come on, are you serious?” Derek opens the gate with his claw and pulls Stiles into the pool area. “It’s not haunted. Tons of people have gone on it, including Ashley who is, what, five?” He shucks his dress pants and shirt, tossing them onto a deck chair.

“I don’t want to go in the pool, Derek,” Stiles says loudly, planting his feet. “I just… don’t. It smells like chlorine and there’s drains at the bottom you can get stuck in and did you know that an adult can drown in two inches of water? That right there is a hell of a lot more than two! How can you go in there?”

Derek’s eyes are focused in on him, serious now.

Stiles feels his heart beating uncomfortably fast. “Not sure if you remember, but we both almost died last time we were in a pool. Like, eight times that night! You were paralyzed, Derek, and if i’d been a little bit weaker, if the call with Scott had been longer… what if I drowned you?”

It had seemed bad at the time, yes, but it’s so much worse in retrospect to think of all they wouldn’t have had, everything that could have been gone if he’d slipped up that night.

Derek looks infuriatingly unfazed. “You didn’t.”

“I could have.”

Derek smiles and wades into the pool at the shallow end, up to his waist. “Come on. The water’s nice.”

“Derek,” Stiles complains, helplessly. Derek just raises his eyebrows and holds out his hand.

Despite his trepidation, Stiles drops his pants and kicks them away. Just the first step, just to prove he can… but once he’s gotten his toes wet he finds himself taking another step down towards Derek, almost magnetized. The water’s cool around his knees. He’s stiff and anxious as he takes another step, trying not to breathe through his nose, but he does it anyways.

“I won’t let you drown,” Derek says softly as he pulls him in off the last step. They sway together in the water, barely hip deep. Stiles’ feet are planted securely on the cement bottom, but his fingers are still tight on Derek’s biceps for reassurance.

After a few moment, he feels calm enough to speak. “What is this, exposure therapy?”

“We can leave if you really want to. I just thought...” Derek pauses, a sure sign he’s trying to chose his next words exactly right. “You shouldn’t have to be afraid of pools. Or anything, anymore. We’re okay.”

“Barely,” Stiles argues. “Kali could have made another kanima, what would we have done then? She almost killed you today even without one.”

“But you protected me. Stiles, we’re a real pack now, it’s not just about survival like it was back then. Do you trust me?” He pauses to wait for Stiles’ nod. “Then trust me when I say I’m not scared to rely on you. I could have drowned that night, but I didn’t. You wouldn’t have let me.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” Stiles says. Finally, the clenched muscles in his stomach start to relax, his fingers giving up a bit of their death grip on Derek’s arms.

It’s quiet except for the soft sound of the pool lapping against cement and the faint roar of waves. The moon is high and bright in the sky.

“We’re going back tomorrow,” Stiles says.

Derek’s fingers brush across his elbows. “Yeah,” he says.

“We’re still gonna smell like each other, I guess. How long does it last?”

“Maybe a couple days.”

“Gonna be weird for Scott and the rest of the pack,” Stiles muses.

“It’ll be weird for me,” Derek says honestly. Only it doesn't sound quite like he means bad weird. His throat bobs as he swallows, and he bites his lower lip.

“It’s going to be weird not kissing,” Stiles admits.

And Derek kisses him then, not like the little faux-familiar pecks at dinner but like you kiss a lover, all graceless tongue and need. His chest is pressed up against Stiles’ wet shirt, his hands in Stiles’ hair. It’s thorough and intense, and Stiles is a little breathless when it’s over.

“But - There’s nobody here,” he says stupidly. “We don’t need to pretend.”

“Everyone who matters is here,” Derek says. “And I’m not pretending. “

Stiles still can’t understand what’s happening. “You are too, we talked about this! You're demi, you don't want to-” he tries to indicate their recent, near orgasmic making out by gesturing quickly between them, “- with anyone, not unless you you already… you already…”

“Love the person. I know.” Derek’s soft smile takes on a brittle edge of nervousness. “I mean, you don't have to feel that way yet, or at all. God, I don't even know if you actually want this. Tell me if you don’t, really, I just thought that maybe...maybe you seemed like you weren’t pretending tonight.” He meets Stiles’ eyes, hopeful and scared at the same time.

“Derek,” Stiles breathes. “Fuck, no. Of course I wasn’t pretending.” He takes Derek’s face in his hands, trying to ease away the last of his worry. “I never was.”

Joy spills across Derek’s features, matching the happiness filling Stiles’ chest as it sinks in that Derek wants this, for real, even when they get back to Beacon Hills - maybe for the rest of the summer. Maybe forever. They press together again, splashing water around them as they kiss, half-laughing joyfully into each others’ mouths.

It's barely half an hour before they sneak back out of the pool area and up to their room to make some proper use of that single bed. That's only a fraction of the time they'd spent avoiding the kanima, really. Still, it’s long enough to give Stiles an entirely different association with the smell of chlorine, one that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with love.