Chapter Text
Derek had resigned himself to the bachelor life. He stopped forcing himself to clean his desk and bulletin board every two weeks because no one - other than his family, particularly Peter - pays attention to either. He stopped making his bed because he still didn't entirely understand the point of it. He walked around the apartment in the cheesy werewolf-print boxers Laura got him for Christmas because they were comfortable, goddammit.
All this "keeping appearances" bullshit was annoying. So what if people had "impressions" of him? Yeah, he's selectively clean (exercise equipment is all over the apartment, but dirty dishes are a big n o) and yeah, maybe he does have a lot of wolf-themed stuff (wolf plushes in Christmas sweaters, magnets from different states that also have wolves on them - which is pretty hard to come by) and some people might think it's weird that he likes to watch TV surrounded by pillows and blankets ("I'm not nesting, Laura, it's called getting comfortable") but if people want to judge him just because he has a Robin costume from Halloween still hanging by his jackets by the door, then he'd be more than happy to show them the door.
And he wasn't good with people, okay? Sure, he could fake it for a while, but then they'd say something and he wouldn't know how to respond or he would say something and they wouldn't know how to respond - this was more common - and it would just devolve into an awkward stand-off until someone finally walked away. Then there were the people who just wanted to sleep with him, regardless of his social skills or the state of his apartment, but after a few awkward one night stands, he decided that masturbating a little more often was preferable to having to deal with the people he regretted sleeping with the next morning when they inevitably opened their mouths and spoke.
It was hard to find someone as socially inept as him, or someone who was willing to overlook his lack of eloquence and decorum, who was also someone he was actually attracted to. Some days he thinks there's something wrong with him because he knows when someone's attractive but it's like his body adamantly refuses to agree with him. When he was 16, his father told him that maybe it's because he hasn't found his soulmate yet, only for his mother to pull him aside to assure him that, no, werewolves don't have soulmates, your father reads too many romance novels.
Laura says that was the day his little romantic heart broke, turning him into a bitter sour man.
It didn't because he made his peace. He didn't mind being single - "Sad and lonely," Laura likes to correct every time he says the word - because he had his family, he had his friends at the office and, surprisingly, he liked his job. Accounting was dull, but he was good at it, good at interpreting financial statements and numbers and filling out forms. It was a sort of order and he liked order. It also helped that it paid well.
Then, one day, he went down a very bad road. And suddenly, the life he thought was great, the life he thought he would be content with for the rest of his life, sucked.
-
The road he usually took to get to work was closed. While it would normally be considered a minor inconvenience, it would come to change the course of his entire life.
He happened to stop by a Starbucks along his detour and he was just pulling out of the drive-through, trying to sip on his coffee, when his gaze wandered to the gas station across the street.
Then, he saw him. Soaking wet and sprawled obscenely on the hood of a car.
Pink lips parted, whiskey eyes half-closed, he looked like he was ready for someone to take him right there -
That thought alone was enough to make Derek choke on his coffee, causing him to snort a good amount up his nose and nearly dumping the cup over his lap.
Now, Derek's not one to throw around the word "beautiful", but in that moment, it seemed appropriate. "Glistening" also seemed very appropriate. Stiles - he didn't know his name then - crawled off the car, shaking off the water and laughing with his friends as he declared, "That's the money-maker right there!" With coffee still in his nose, possibly dripping down his face, Derek let his gaze roam shamelessly, taking in every detail, like his transparent t-shirt clinging to his body - with the letters BHFD emblazoned on it, he noted absently -, the water running down his neck, drawing attention to the moles dotted along his jaw -
Derek felt an odd tug in his chest, felt something burning at the bottom of his belly. His breathing was off. He felt unusually hot. It felt like -
It felt like he was running a fever. He felt sick.
Stiles ran his hand through his hair and smiled sheepishly, his amber eyes bright and cheeks red from the sun. God, that smile. Derek wanted to be the reason for that smile.
Apparently too busy being lost in his eyes - his father's romance novels were right about that being a thing -, Derek almost failed to notice Stiles beginning to turn toward where Derek had been slowly inching forward in his car. So, naturally, not wanting to get caught ogling, Derek panicked.
And drove straight into a fire hydrant.
-
He sent an anonymous donation to the city for the damages and resolved to never drive by that road again.
-
It was only a few days later - a few days of impressive compartmentalization, Derek would like to add - when he found out who the man was.
"What is that."
Erica, one of his actuaries, pulls her gaze away from her computer to look up at him. "What's what?"
Derek wordlessly jabs his finger at the calendar propped up on her desk.
"Oh, this?" She picks it up with a laugh. "It's the calendar the fire department makes every year. Isn't it hysterical? My boyfriend's on March."
Derek stares at the man pictured for November. Stiles Stilinski. The guy he saw at the gas station, with the car and the water - a firefighter. And the son of the sheriff.
"Uh, you okay, Derek? Should I get Isaac? You look feverish."
No, he is not okay. He is beyond not okay.
-
He spends the rest of the month making up excuses to drop by Erica's desk more often.
-
After the month of November passes and after many nights of deliberating and staring at the computer screen, the argument of how immensely creepy buying this thing is is overcome by the argument of how much he needs it and he mutters a quiet "fuck it" as he clicks confirm payment, officially purchasing the 2012 Beacon Hills Fire Department calendar. Because it's not like he's actually going to have the opportunity to talk to the guy, right? Nevertheless, he holds his head in his hands and nurses a few bottles of beer for the rest of the night, wondering how his life came to this, how he came to become such a stalker-ish pervert.
Though, he finds himself unusually happy when it arrives in the mail. He pins it up on his bulletin board for, y'know, convenience. For dates and things.
Needless to say, he sleeps quite well for the next few nights.
-
For many months, this would suffice, just objectifying Stiles - Derek never knew he could milk one fantasy for so long - because who knows, maybe Stiles had a terrible personality or maybe they wouldn't have worked out anyway.
(For some reason, Derek could never really convince himself of either.)
It was better this way. Derek had someone to think about, had some hope to cling to, without all the mess of having to talk to him.
Laura says he's pining. Which is ridiculous. So ridiculous.
-
About the not talking thing.
Rough half a year later, as Derek stands in the frozen food aisle, brows furrowed as he is in deep thought, considering the wide selection of frozen dinners, his worst nightmare becomes reality.
"The lasagna is pretty decent, in my opinion."
It can't be, Derek thinks, panic already setting in. He stares intensely at the beef stroganoff to stall, partly so he can plan out his response but mostly so he can (attempt to) contain his inner turmoil. Oh god, is that sweat on his palms? Against his better judgment, he turns toward the voice and immediately freezes.
It's really him. It's the guy. Stiles. Dressed. In clothes.
Oh no. It's too late to pretend he didn't hear. He's going to have to talk to him. And subsequently ruin any and all chance he had with getting with him.
Derek gulps. He's like, seven feet away. So close.
Derek only knows how to compare this encounter to meeting a porn star in public. Except Stiles isn't even a porn star - thank god, that would only exacerbate Derek's already rampant jealousy toward people who get to see, talk to and, god forbid, touch Stiles on a regular basis - and he did not take that photo for the calendar with the intent of having people jerk off to it - Derek isn't entirely convinced of this, however. Stiles is just the unfortunate victim of Derek's apparent single-target sexuality.
He's wearing a t-shirt and jeans, hardly anything scandalous, but it's already the most covered up state Derek has seen Stiles in and that just makes him very uncomfortable with himself.
Stiles smiles a little, shaking one of his own many boxes of frozen dinners before dropping it into his basket. "I don't think I've ever seen someone look so thoughtfully at frozen dinners." He sounds a little fond. Like he's talking to a small child. Derek wants to kick himself.
Be cool, Derek. Instead, he turns back to the freezer. Fidgeting a little, he opts to yank open a door and grab a random box off the shelf, looking through the nutritional content. "I...don't want something with too much...bad stuff," he finishes lamely.
Stiles laughs. "Yeah, I know what you mean. I can cook, but," he gestures at his basket, "my job doesn't give me much free time."
"Mine either," Derek says, looking down at his own basket, already half-filled with instant noodles. After a mental pep talk, he gathers up the courage to shuffle over to the lasagna, which is over by Stiles - "don't sniff him, don't sniff him, don't jump him" - and quickly grabs a few before taking a large step back. "Uh, thanks." He tries not to stare at Stiles. He does enough of that at home.
"No problem," Stiles says, scratching his neck, which, sadly, distracts Derek for a good three seconds. Derek turns to leave (read: run away) but Stiles blurts out, "I um -"
Derek pauses, looking at him expectantly. Stiles lets out a nervous laugh and jabs his thumb over his shoulder, toward the parking lot.
"I just - uh, do you drive a Camaro, by any chance?" He asks, a lopsided smile on his lips.
Kill me now, he saw me. "No," he replies, completely straight-faced.
Then he runs away.
(The lasagna actually does end up to be pretty decent.)
-
Derek is not in love with Stiles. Because that would be silly and foolish.
"I'm thinking about getting a...roommate. Your friend, uh, Scott? His roommate? What's he like? Just so I can, y'know, have an idea of what kind of person I should be looking for."
Isaac side-eyes him, unimpressed with his attempts at subtlety.
Nothing wrong with wanting to know a little more about the guy, right?
-
Unbeknownst to Derek, Stiles is doing the same on his end.
Prior to the meeting in the frozen food aisle, Stiles saw Derek around town every once in a while, occasionally liked to hypothesize what Derek did for a living. Personal trainer, perhaps. Mechanic. Professional life ruiner.
He knew of Derek, back in high school. Saw him sometimes. He didn't know much about him, except that he was on the swim team, which was known for being full of jerks, but Derek was one of the exceptions. He was just cute then, in a clumsy puppy sort of way, lean and a little awkward. Now, he's painfully hot, with all his scowls and stupid great physique and that leather jacket of his, probably with a bad boy attitude to match.
But when Stiles saw Derek at the grocery store, watching him fidget, ears red and lips pouty, he knew that Derek hasn't changed at all. He still has that shy smile that made Stiles's heart skip back when he was in high school.
He thinks of that day at the gas station, when he heard a familiar clunk and saw a black Camaro drive hastily away from apparently committing a hit-and-run against a fire hydrant, and smiles. Maybe Derek's more of a clumsy puppy than he thought.
-
The firehouse alarm screeches, jolting Stiles awake. He immediately rolls out of his bunk to tug on his gear. Beside him, Boyd is tugging on his boots.
"I thought you just finished your shift?"
"I did," Boyd says, pulling his jacket on. "They're calling everyone back in."
Must be serious, he thinks. But Boyd looks unusually grim.
"What's wrong?" Stiles asks, concerned, as he pulls on his own boots. "Is someone you know -"
"No," Boyd answers, shaking his head. Stiles stands, looking at him questioningly. Boyd shakes his head again, grabbing his helmet and handing Stiles his. "The fire. It's at a house up by the Preserve."
Stiles stops, his mind racing. The Preserve. That means -
He yanks his jacket on and pushes past Boyd, quickly making his way down to the trucks, his heart beating double-time. "The Hales."
-
The fire is clearly visible, even from the center of town. On the way there, Stiles sees people standing out on their lawns, watching the smoke rising and blocking out the entire sky. They responded fast, within ten minutes of the first call, but it's as if that doesn't even matter. When they arrive, the huge house is already engulfed in flames and the fire is spreading incredibly fast, almost reaching the woods around it. Finstock has already started calling in departments from neighboring counties and the park rangers.
It's absolute chaos. There are people still running out of the house, people already sitting on the ground a little ways from the burning house, covered in ashes and suffering from varying levels of burns. "Shit," Stiles hears Finstock mutter darkly beside him as he frantically tries to direct the firefighters. "I'm calling it right now, this is fucking arson. No way a fire got this big, this fast."
As the others prepare the hoses and start headcounts with one of the family members, Stiles scans the area, his heart pounding, stopping to look at every face. The sound of shouting catches his attention and he turns to see a cluster of people not far from the front porch of the burning house, a woman, clearly injured herself, being held back by at least five men, roaring, "My children are in there, let go of me, goddammit!"
He tears his gaze away from her, grabbing his mask and yanking it on before running into the house, faintly hearing Boyd calling his name behind him.
Barely five seconds in, he's already sweating. Wood is splintering all around him, crackling and creaking as beams fall left and right. The flames lick at the walls, growing higher and higher. Noting the stain in the wood floor- maybe some sort of accelerant -, he makes his way to the center of the house. He can barely see anything, but even in the fire, even with his heart pounding against his ears, he can hear someone calling faintly.
"- aura! Laura! Where are you?!"
Stiles finds himself in the living room, where Derek stands, covered in soot, coughing. "Derek!" Stiles calls, his voice muffled through his mask. Derek whips around, his eyes widening. "C'mon, we have to go!"
"Stiles," Derek says, like he can't believe he's here, before coughing again. How does he know - how does he even recognize him with his mask on? He pushes Stiles's hand away when he tries to pull him toward the door. "No - I - my sister -"
"I'll find your sister!" Stiles shouts. "But I need you to get out of here first!" Where the hell are the other firefighters?
Derek shakes his head. "I have to -," he stops short, as if hearing something. "Laura!" He turns away, moving deeper into the house. Stiles swears, following him.
He finds Derek pounding on a door. "She's in the basement," Derek pants, leaning tiredly against the door. "I need to -," he tries to grab the doorknob, but he jerks back, hissing with pain. "Shit -"
"Here, let me -"
Derek stands back, only to surge forward, throwing his shoulder against the door and breaking it down, allowing him to stumble through. Stiles quickly follows behind. They descend the stairs to see Laura on the ground, barely conscious, pinned under a beam.
Derek drops down beside her. "Laura -," he shakes her shoulder. Her eyes flutter as she groans.
"Derek, help me with this -"
He and Derek lift the beam up and off of her. Derek immediately picks her up, faltering a little. He's been in here for too long; he needs to get out of all this smoke.
"Okay, let's go, c'mon -," Stiles urges Derek to start moving, pushing him forward with a steady hand on his back.
They're almost home free, the front door still clear, when a burning beam comes swinging down, narrowly missing Derek but hitting Stiles square in the head, knocking his helmet off and him to the ground. His head hits the ground hard and he groans as he watches Derek's legs run out the door. Thank god, he's out. He struggles to stand - he's so close - but he's disoriented, probably concussed. The fire has barely quelled and the heat makes Stiles even more aware of the feeling of something wet sliding down his face.
Suddenly, the house groans. Stiles can hear people shouting to get clear of the house. It's been burning for too long. With a loud crash, a part of the roof collapses, the debris falling right in front of him, blocking the front door. Whelp, Stiles thinks humorlessly, there goes that exit.
Before he can even start contemplating the possibility of his imminent death, he hears footsteps before he's being picked up. At first, he thinks it's Boyd, but the hazel eyes and clear shirtlessness and absence of yellow tells him that it's Derek. This guy shouldn't even be standing.
"How'd you even -"
Derek holds Stiles close to him as he dodges and climbs over all the burning wood. "Back door," he answers hoarsely.
By some miracle, they make it out. As soon as they're far enough from the fire, Stiles falls out of Derek's arms as Derek collapses to the ground. Stiles yanks off his mask, immediately turning to the lump that is Derek, shouting, "I can't believe you did something that stupid, running back into a burning house twice, explicitly disobeying -" he's overcome with a hacking cough before he can continue. "Are you even -"
He stops short when he realizes that Derek isn't moving.
"Derek?" He scrambles to roll him over - Derek's eyes are closed - and puts his ear to his chest. His blood runs cold. "Oh god, no no no," he immediately starts CPR, "don't you dare die on me, I still have to yell at you!" He looks around, but he's practically alone back here. Nevertheless, he shouts, "I need an ambulance here!"
Swearing, Stiles takes Derek's face into his hands, rubbing the soot away. His face is really soft, in contrast with his stubble. This is not the time to be creepy, Stiles. He turns away to cough again, his head still spinning, before taking a deep breath. "I have to say, this isn't how I imagined it would go," he jokes, his voice cracking. Without hesitation, he puts his mouth on Derek's, blowing twice before continuing to compress.
He feels for a pulse again. Nothing. He keeps trying, again and again, shouting for help in between, but to no avail.
"You saved my life," Stiles chokes out, still pushing at Derek's chest. "I was supposed to save you, you inconsiderate jerk."
He hardly knows Derek, besides the things Boyd told him, has barely even spoken more than five sentences to him, but there's just something about him, something that makes him want to know all about him and the thought of losing him -
Don't tell me I'm never going to see you smile again, Stiles thinks, his throat tight, his eyes burning.
After one last compression, Derek's eyes fly open and he curls in on himself, coughing and wheezing.
"Oh my god, that's so impossible, but I don't even care," Stiles breathes, dizzy with relief. He swallows down the lump in his throat. "Derek," he puts a hand on the back of Derek's neck as he coughs weakly, "can you hear me?"
Derek looks at him through half-lidded unfocused eyes, brows furrowed. "It's me, Stiles," Stiles whispers, his gloved hand wrapping around Derek's wrist. "Lasagna guy," he adds with a short laugh.
They lock eyes. After what seems like forever, Derek's hand moves weakly, gesturing...something. Stiles leans closer, confused.
Derek whispers something, inaudible amid all the shouting and spraying hoses, as he moves his hand to Stiles' face, his fingertips brushing the edge of his injury. To Stiles' amazement, the moment Derek touches him, the pain in his head starts to subside and, seconds later, stops entirely.
Derek's hand drops back onto the grass. Snapping himself out of his daze and letting go of the breath he didn't know he was holding, Stiles quickly checks his pulse again. He's still alive, just passed out.
Behind them, the fire slowly dies down. Stiles holds Derek, wondering what the hell just happened.