Work Text:
Stiles is drunk. The party slides around him in washes of color and sound– everything transient, nothing sticking. Bass thumps in his eardrums, turning his stomach. Derek appears as a blessing, half out the door before he even makes it across the threshold, but still the most solid thing Stiles has seen all night.
“I hate this,” Stiles whispers, his breath hot against Derek’s sensitive ear. “You’re the only person here worth talking to.”
“Okay,” Derek says, his hand settling solid and reassuring on Stiles’ hip. “So let’s go somewhere that isn’t here.”
Enid's diner is an oasis of calm after the din of the drunken throng.
“What were you even doing there?” Stiles peers at Derek curiously over the rim of his mug. The coffee isn’t quite strong enough to dissolve tooth enamel, but coupled with the brisk walk from the rave to the diner, it’s doing wonders for counteracting his buzz. “A warehouse party isn’t really your scene.”
Derek shrugs, placidly plowing his way through a mountain-high portion of chicken souvlaki. His knees keeps knocking against Stiles’ under the chipped Formica tabletop, and Stiles can’t find it in himself to pretend to mind.
“Didn’t really look like your scene, either,” Derek says, meeting Stiles’ gaze unblinkingly. His wackadoo eyes make Stiles’ head spin, and it’s easy to blame it on the booze. Bourbon, Stiles thinks admonishingly. When will you learn that bourbon is not your friend.
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he huffs, darting his hand across the table to snatch a few of Derek’s fries, nearly knocking a glass of water over in the process. Derek rolls his eyes heavenward with a sigh, and then rotates his plate so that the truly impressive mound of deep fried potato is facing Stilinskiwards. Stiles bites down on a victorious whoop, and grabs another handful to cram into his mouth.
Derek watches him chew happily, his ridiculous eyebrows drawn together in the expression Stiles has categorized as “exasperated but fond.” It’s much preferred to the look that Stiles used to get, which was better classified as “imminent manslaughter”.
“So, this is nice,” Stiles begins, at the same time Derek sets down his fork and says, “Scott told me about your fight."
All at once, Stiles feels the cold weight of sobriety hit him like an Acme anvil. Every muscle in his body clenches, his back snapping ramrod straight.
“That bastard,” he hisses, shoving his coffee away like the blood offering it apparently is. Dread mixes with shitty whiskey in his stomach, threatening to curdle into nausea. “How dare he–”
“Stiles.” Derek holds both hands up in supplication, his perfect mouth twisted in alarm. “He didn’t tell me anything other than that. You guys fought, and you stormed out. When he couldn’t get ahold of you, he called me.”
The panic ebbs, slightly, and Stiles flops back against the diner booth, trying to get his jackrabbiting heart under control. When Derek seems sure that he isn’t going to make a break for the door, he picks up his fork and goes back to demolishing his chicken. After a moment, he nudges the plate towards Stiles, nodding meaningfully at the fries.
Stiles grimaces, but takes one of the more burnt wedges and crunches on it furiously. At the counter, the waitress watches Derek eat with a dazed, heavy lidded expression, so Stiles turns his glower on her until she blushes and glances away.
It’s never been easy for Stiles to hang on to anger as far as Scott is concerned, but this time it feels like a live wire in his chest.
It’s his fucking Romeo complex, that’s the problem. Scott’s got this over-simplified idea of love– always has– and the frustrating part is that because it always works out for him, he thinks it’ll work out that way for everybody.
“Just tell him,” Scott had yelled. The ‘or I will’ had gone unspoken. “You’re miserable and it’s making you lash out at everybody, and you’re too chickenshit to do anything about it!”
Stiles watches Derek spear a hunk of souvlaki with his fork, careful to keep the cuff of his soft gray sweater out of his side of tzatziki sauce. He scoffs at the memory of Scott’s words, and steals another French fry.
As if it were that easy. As if he could just tell Derek that he’s been ass-over-elbows in love with him for the better part of five years. Wonderful, awful Derek, who goes to yoga with Lydia on Saturdays, who helps Scott study when he gets overwhelmed with work and veterinary school, who volunteers at the local women’s shelter whenever he can and thinks no one’s noticed.
“Scott’s an asshole,” he grumps, tugging a few packets of Sweet'n'low out of the sugar holder and stacking them like a house of cards.
“He’s just worried about you.” Derek’s voice is uncharacteristically gentle, and Stiles steadfastly refuses to meet his eyes until he feels the pressure of a knee against his own. He immediately regrets it when, against his better judgement, he glances up and sees the look on Derek’s face. His eyebrows are drawn in concern, eyes soft with affection and understanding.
Jesus.
Stiles stamps down on the fluttering of his heart.
“Stop that,” he snaps, without really meaning to. Derek blinks at him, confusion wiping away the worst of his expression.
“What?”
“Never mind.” Stiles sighs, dragging a hand across his face. “Sorry. Really sorry. I’m not mad at you.”
“Okay.” Derek fiddles with his napkin, picking at a tear in the paper. “If you want to talk about it–”
“No.”
It comes out more caustic than Stiles had intended, the possibility of Derek finding out sending a shudder of panic across his skin. Derek flinches at his tone, his eyes widening with a flash of hurt before the shutters come down, leaving an impassive mask in its place.
Stiles hates that mask.
“Derek, I–”
“It’s fine.” Derek shifts in his seat, digging into his back pocket for his wallet. He drops a twenty on the table and reaches for his phone. “I’ll call Lydia to come drive you home. I know I’m not– I don’t know why Scott called me.”
Because he’s a surprisingly manipulative asshole with unwavering faith in True Love, Stiles doesn’t say, guilt flaring hot and shameful in his chest.
“Wait, that’s not–”
“I get it, Stiles.” Derek’s voice is flat, his face expressionless as he slides out of the booth. The line of his shoulders are rigid with tension. “It’s none of my business. It’s not like– we’re not friends.”
Stiles jolts back like he’s been slapped. Derek might as well have hit him– the pain twisting his chest into knots hurts more than a punch would have.
Stiles knows his faults. He knows that he’s abrasive, and irritating, and somehow always manages to take up too much space, but he’d thought that Derek was okay with that. He’d thought they’d gotten to a good place– nowhere near where he wanted them to be, but still better than he had ever dreamed possible. He’d thought–
“You don’t think we’re friends?” He hates how small his voice sounds. Derek’s nostrils flare, and his mask wavers, frustration and guilt breaking through that awful blank.
“Do you?” Derek jams his hands into the pockets of his jeans, staring down at the tabletop. “You’ve been avoiding me for a while now. I make you anxious.” His jaw clenches, and he resettles his weight like he’s bracing himself.
“Look,” he mutters, his voice raw and vulnerable in a way that Stiles has never heard it, “I’m sorry if I– if my feelings make you uncomfortable. I know you don't– I get that you don’t feel the same way, I don’t blame you, but I–”
“Woah.” Stiles stands so quickly he gets head rush, although that might be because his heart is suddenly beating so hard that he can feel the thudding in his own temples. He holds his hands up in the universal 'time out’ gesture. “Hold up, big guy. Rewind for a sec. What are you talking about? What feelings?”
Derek’s glare is vicious. It could probably strip paint. It would have thoroughly intimidated any sane person it came into contact with. Because Stiles is a grade-A piece of work with some seriously crossed wires in the sections of his brain that control fear and lust, he has to bite back a sigh as his dick twitches in his jeans. He watches in fascination as a flush spreads from the tips of Derek’s ears to his cheeks, disappearing beneath his full beard.
“Don’t.” Derek hunches in on himself, like he needs protecting. He turns to go. “You’re an asshole, Stiles, but you’re not cruel.”
“We were fighting about you.” He blurts it out without thinking, is just desperate to stop Derek from leaving. “Because I– I’m so gone on you it’s stupid, and I didn’t think you’d ever– I mean, why would you?”
Derek freezes, still half turned away, his face unreadable.
“You’re right,” Stiles says, laughing hollowly. “Scott’s right, too, the fucker. I am an asshole. And I’ve been a dick to everyone for ages because it was easier than telling you that I–” he cuts himself off, clears his throat. Can’t quite say the words, even now.
“I spent ten years getting my feelings thrown in my face, and that was okay because it was Lydia, and once I really got to know her it was like, nothing that I felt for her ever had a foundation, you know? We never even really knew each other until I let that stuff go. So that was okay.” He scrubs his hands through his hair, trying to find the right words. “But I couldn’t do that with you. You, uh, you know me. And I’m not– I know I’m not– well. You’d be, y'know, nice about it. It would kill me.”
Silence stretches between them for a long, uncomfortable moment. For the first time, Stiles becomes aware of their surroundings.
With a sick lurch, he realizes that he’s just poured his heart out in the middle of relatively crowded diner. There’s a vaguely familiar off-duty cop sitting at the counter, texting rapidly on her phone. Two teenagers have their heads bent together, whispering furiously. The waitress is gaping at him, eyes wide, frozen in the act of refilling a cup of coffee. And still, Derek is a wall of silence.
“Right,” Stiles says. The room is too small all of a sudden, his breath not coming fast enough. “Cool. I’m just gonna–”
He grabs his coat and all but runs out the door. He makes it halfway down the block before Derek catches up with him.
“Stiles.” Derek darts in front of him, blocking his escape. “Stop. You forgot your phone.”
“Great. Thanks,” Stiles mutters, accepting the offered device and jamming it in his jacket pocket. He tries to step aside, but Derek uses his bulk to cut him off. “Get out of my way.”
“Stiles. Did you listen to anything that I said?”
“Sure,” Stiles says, through gritted teeth. “You said you had feelings, which I took to mean something it obviously didn’t. And I just stood there and told you everything, like some kind of– like some kind of Scott.”
Derek kisses him.
On the Richter scale of first kisses it barely registers, because Stiles’ mouth is still open indignantly, so their teeth clack together and Stiles bites his own tongue when he jerks back in surprise.
“Ow,” he mutters, grabbing at his jaw.
“I’m so sorry,” Derek says, face turning a mortified beet red, “are you–”
“"Shut up,” Stiles says, and throws himself into Derek’s arms.
The second kiss goes a long way towards making up for the first.
After a while, Stiles pulls back, panting. His whole body feels sort of tingly and glazed over, like he might melt away at any moment. Derek looks wrecked, his lips swollen and flushed, his hair a total disgrace thanks to Stiles’ roaming fingers.
I did that, Stiles thinks giddily.
“So,” he says, and if he had any presence of mind he would be humiliated by how low and carnal his voice sounds. “We should do that more often.”
“You–,” Derek breaks off and shakes his head, like he’s trying to clear it. Stiles crowds closer, lets his hands fall to Derek’s hips, sliding under his sweater and shirt until his cold fingers meet warm, smooth flesh. Derek’s nostrils flare again, and he drops his head into the junction of Stiles’ neck and shoulder, breathing him in. “Jesus, Stiles. You make me crazy.”
“Yeah.” Stiles tries to get himself under control, with very little success. His heart feels like it’s doing cartwheels in his chest. “The feeling is mutual. Um, the feeling is mutual. Right?”
Derek pauses, his mouth soft and hot against Stiles’ pulse point. Stiles valiantly doesn’t whine when he pulls away.
“Stiles, I–,” Derek’s face is so open it’s almost painful to see. He’s never looked quite so young. “I love you. It feels like I’ve loved you forever.”
“Oh.” Stiles’ breath catches in his throat, and he clutches at the fabric of Derek’s sweater. “Um, me too. Obviously. You’re, like, it for me.”
Over the years that they’ve known each other, Stiles has often lamented the fact that Derek almost never smiles. Sneered, yes. Smirked, definitely. Grinned that fake, shit-eating grin whenever he wanted to con someone, absolutely. But now, watching the soft, slow smile take over Derek’s face like the rising sun, Stiles can’t help but be grateful that he does it so infrequently. He’d never get anything done, otherwise. He’s pretty sure that smile just obliterated any chance he had of not being ruined for literally every other person on earth– Lord knows what it would have done to him as a teenager.
He falls into Derek like a magnet, capturing that beautiful mouth with his own, letting himself cup Derek’s jaw with a gentleness he hadn’t known he possessed, because that’s allowed.
“Now what?” he asks huskily. He’s close enough to rub his cheek against the scrape of Derek’s scruff, shivering deliciously at the knowledge that he’ll have beard burn to show for hours. Derek tightens his arms around him, nuzzling at his temple.
“Now I take you home,” he says, “and you go to bed.” He cuts Stiles’ protests off with another kiss, this time nearly chaste, and Stiles can almost taste the sweetness of it.
“In the morning,” Derek continues, “you’ll call Scott, and you two will work out whatever it is you need to work out, because you always do.” He chuckles softly when Stiles pulls away to scowl at him. His ridiculous eyes are bright. Happy, Stiles realizes, and his scowl melts away into a truly embarrassing smile of his own.
“Then tomorrow night, I’ll come pick you up at six, and we’ll go see that movie you’ve been telling everyone about for weeks, and afterwards we’ll go get takeout and you can explain to me why it wasn’t as good as the book.” He brushes his thumbs across Stiles’ cheekbones, searching his face. “Okay?”
“Yeah,” Stiles sighs, letting himself lean back into him. “That sounds good to me.”
He groans when Derek smiles that blinding smile again.
“Scott’s going to be totally impossible about this, you know,” he complains as they make their way to Derek’s car, never straying too far from each other.
“I don’t mind,” Derek says mildly, his pinky catching Stiles’, tangling their hands together. Stiles peeks at him from the corner of his eye and is delighted to see his cheeks flushing. The sap.
“Yeah,” he sighs, squeezing Derek’s hand in his. “You’re worth it.”