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“Bilinski! Hale checks harder than you do. Do I need to tell you how completely pathetic it is that you literally cannot even play like a girl?”
Cora looks conflicted: Should she be insulted about the sexist jibes that fall out of Coach’s mouth about every five minutes, or should she be smug about being considered more suited to the violence of lacrosse than one of the boys on the team, who is not only taller, but considerably broader in the back and shoulders? Stiles would sympathize, but he’s too busy recovering his own wounded pride. He glances up at where Cora’s older brother is sitting in the stands, watching the entire incident unfold. Why did he have to be the one with a work schedule flexible enough to allow him to pick his little sister up from practice? No, really, why? And why are there so few girls at this school interested in playing lacrosse that the select few - Cora and Erica - have to play on the boys’ team?
Puffing out a resignedly humiliated breath, Stiles squares his shoulders and adjusts the grip on his crosse. “That’s okay, Coach. I think I got it.”
“Then hit the showers. I’m sick of watching you embarrass yourself.” He looks it, too.
Shaking his head, Stiles turns to nod at Scott, claps Erica on the shoulder, grins sheepishly at Cora, and then begins to trudge his way off the field. He talks to himself sternly - and thankfully, silently - about the importance of not looking back at Derek Hale. Clumsy seniors in high school do not get to gaze longingly at assistant librarians with stubble that is just this side of work-appropriate and a leather jacket that somehow still works for him even though it’s spring.
Could this day get any worse? First, his jeep wouldn’t start this morning, meaning he had to call a tow to take it to the mechanic who is depressingly familiar with both Stiles and his mom’s old vehicle by this point in the game. By the time that was taken care of, Scott had already left his house and was more than halfway to the school, so Stiles had to either walk or call his dad to pick him up. There was no way Stiles was riding to school in the back of the cruiser, no matter how cool he still thought his dad’s car was, so he hoofed it. He was red faced and huffing when he finally ran into his first class of the day, sliding into his desk just before the bell. In AP Physics, Harris graced them all with a pop quiz for which Stiles was only mildly prepared. The worst thing was realizing he’d left home without packing a lunch or grabbing his wallet; Erica had been kind enough to gift him with half her PB&J sandwich and Scott had nobly pitched in a bag of Funyuns, but Stiles still felt sort of hollow and unsatisfied after. He’s a growing boy.
The stench of the locker room hits his nostrils with the same force as Jackson had slammed into him earlier during practice (His shoulder may never be the same. He would sue, but Mr. Whittemore is unfortunately the best and most respected attorney in town, aside from Peter Hale, who just generally gives Stiles the willies and will therefore never receive his business.), but he continues gamely on into the utilitarian space, too eager to wash off the overall suckitude of the day to care. To distract himself from all the awful that is currently his life, he starts thinking about things he can put together for dinner tonight, based off of the contents of the fridge, which really isn’t much. Normally, Wednesday nights are the ones he chooses to go to the grocery store, since most people are either off at church or doing various other family-type things, and Stiles doesn’t have to battle the soccer moms of Beacon Hills for access to the shelves or a space at the deli’s counter. Unfortunately, no jeep equals no grocery run, unless he can sucker one of his friends into taking him.
Erica is out, since Mrs. Reyes still doesn’t like to let her daughter drive around town unsupervised, even though she hasn’t had a seizure since freshman year. Scott’s mom has the car tonight, because she’s working nights this week, and the bike isn’t really conducive to transporting groceries. Cora drives, but she’s a little reckless (She’s already received seven tickets for speeding since getting her driver’s license. It would be impressive if it wasn’t so terrifying.), so she isn’t allowed to have her own car; there is no way that Stiles is going to ask Cora and her brother to take him shopping for groceries. Boyd still has to ride the bus to school, and he pretty much only tolerates Stiles because Erica and Cora are his friends. Isaac has lived with the Hales since about a year after his older brother Camden died, and he says that if Cora can’t have a car, he shouldn’t have one either.
Basically, what that all boils down to is that Stiles and his dad are either going to have to order takeout, or have spaghetti with no meatballs, because all the ground beef has been used up for the week. For once, Stiles hates his ability to plan out the consumption of their resources to the point that it’s practically an art form. There’s being frugal and then there’s being woefully unprepared. What if there was a torrential rain for three days, and he and his dad were stuck in the house with no food? Not that the sky had looked particularly cloudy during practice today, but that’s beside the point. Maybe he should start buying a few extra things in case of emergencies. His stash of Oreos and Reese's Pieces do not count.
…
In the end, Stiles decides that he is too tired to cook anything anyway. In a rare show of benevolence, he orders a pizza about twenty minutes before his dad is due home from work. It’s veggie pizza, but Stiles figures his dad will simply have to work with what he is given.
The sheriff is gratifyingly appreciative of the reprieve from heart-healthy cooking, and he makes sympathetic noises about the state of the jeep. He knows how important it is to Stiles, and so he has never once suggested the practicality of buying a newer, less finicky model. Stiles has always been unspeakably thankful, but then again, he supposes if anyone would understand, it would be the man who, even nine years later, still wears his wedding ring.
“You want me to take you to the store tomorrow night?” his dad offers after they’ve polished off most of the pizza.
Wrapping the two remaining slices up in aluminum foil for his lunch tomorrow, Stiles tries to imagine putting groceries in the trunk of the cruiser. The image is odd enough that it puts a quirky cross between a smile and a grimace on his face, but in the end, he agrees. He already knows his dad cheats on his diet at work. Any further splurges at home and Stiles genuinely does not want to think about what it will do to the man’s cholesterol.
Things are quiet after that, leaving Stiles more than a little surprised when his dad says, “You’re quiet tonight. Something on your mind?”
There are a lot of answers to that question. The pile of college acceptance letters he has collecting on his bedroom floor. The question of whether he will ever actually get to see any time on the field this season, even though he’s been first line since last year; it’s hard to find chances to play when Stiles is a really good player, and yet almost everyone else on first line could pretty much be playing pro already (Cora and Isaac have been offered full rides to their school of choice because they’re just that good. It would be sickening if Stiles wasn’t so happy for them.) The enormous and almost crippling crush Stiles has harbored for Derek ever since he graduated from NYU and started working in the school library.
He shakes his head. “Just a really long day at school.”
“You sure?” his dad probes gently.
“Yeah, dad. I’m sure. And if I don’t want tomorrow to be even longer, I should really go get started on my homework.”
His dad studies Stiles and then nods. “Okay, son. Don’t stay up too late.”
Stiles makes sure to smile a little before he says, “You got it,” and then starts to make his way up the stairs.
…
The next morning sees Stiles clinging to his best friend’s middle as they ride to BHH. Though this isn’t the first time he has ridden on the back of Scott’s bike, it will never be something with which he is completely comfortable. He’s seen some of the pictures from scenes where bikers have come out much worse for the wear after an accident, and he very much does not want to be one of them. It’s been more than a year, and Stiles still isn’t sure how Scott got his mom to agree to allowing him to buy his dinky little green thing. Whatever. The point is, when they finally reach the security of Scott’s favored parking space, Stiles is plastered to his friend’s back, his arms coiled desperately around his waist, and it takes him a few moments before he feels secure enough to let go.
Scott pats his right forearm comfortingly. “You alright there, buddy?”
Slowly, Stiles unlocks his arms and pulls back. “I think so.” He wiggles around on the back of the bike and then reports, “Everything seems to be where it belongs.”
“Think you might be ready to try getting off?”
The reply is automatic after being friends for so long. “Oh, I’m always ready for that with you.”
Even though he groans, Scott also laughs a little. “Something tells me this isn’t really the place.”
“What, you’ve never had thoughts about the good things that could happen on this bike?”
“Oh, no, I definitely have. I just never thought about them happening with an audience.”
Stiles looks away from the back of Scott’s ear and follows his line of sight. He chokes and feels himself go crimson, because there’s Derek Hale, holding the door open for a gaggle of junior girls who are making their way up the sidewalk, and he’s staring right at Scott and Stiles with an inscrutable look in his eyes.
Swallowing, Stiles throws himself off the bike, stumbling until he can regain his balance. When he looks over at the doorway again, Derek is smiling genially, and he’s too far away to hear, but Stiles is fairly certain he is telling the four juniors good morning, because what else would he be saying?
Scott’s dismount is distinctly more graceful, which causes Stiles a good bit of jealousy. Why did Scott get to grow into his own body when Stiles still finds himself floundering and uncertain of his gangly limbs?
He shakes himself, because it is way too early in the day to feel so angsty, and he reaches out to wrap an arm around his best friend’s shoulders. “Sooo, my birthday’s in a few weeks.”
“I’m not telling you what you’re getting, Stiles.”
“Oh, come on! You know if you don’t tell me I’ll just go snooping for it.”
Grinning easily, Scott shrugs. “That’s okay. This year, I know for a fact that you’re never gonna find it.”
As curious as he is, Stiles still finds it in himself to say, “This confidence you’re showing is really doing things for me.”
Scott rolls his eyes. “Oh, baby, tell me more.”
They both stop and stare at the door, which slammed shut with unnecessary force.
“I guess we’re just not pretty enough to rate a “Good morning,” and a held door from Derek Hale.”
“Maybe he realized he really needed to organize some books before class starts?” Scott muses skeptically. “They are looking for a new volunteer.”
His head turns so fast that Stiles is pretty sure he’s going to need to make an appointment with a chiropractor later. Mrs. Martin is a chiropractor. Maybe Lydia could get him in for free. In his head, he hears Wayne Campbell scoff, “Shyah, and monkeys will fly out of my butt!” Just because they’re sort of friends now that he has moved on from his first debilitating crush and he’s the only one who can keep up with her academically - aside from Boyd - doesn’t mean that they are at the point where she would be willing to pull him any favors.
“They’re looking for a new volunteer in the library?”
Nodding, Scott tells him, “Supposedly, the junior who was doing it had to stop because she was getting too overwhelmed with AP classes, theatre, and,” he waves his hand, “you know, everything else.”
“And you didn’t think this was something you needed to tell me?” Stiles demands in a voice which is, admittedly, a little shrill.
“Uh - no? You’ve been done with applications for ages, man. It’s not like you need the volunteer hours.”
Mouthing wordlessly for a moment, Stiles fumes. “Forget the volunteer hours, Scotty! This could be my chance to win over Derek.”
“I thought we weren’t pretty enough for Derek Hale,” Scott remarks dryly.
“That was before I knew there was an opening to spend thirty minutes in the library every morning before school.”
They have to head to class soon, or Stiles would insist upon going over to the library to sign up right this very second, but he knows exactly where they’ll be going right before lunch.
…
Stiles peers through the windows of the library doors. He sees no sign of Derek or the head librarian. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
He and Scott walk in, making straight for the check-out and help desks, searching for the signup sheet. They find it right next to the book scanner, and Stiles accepts the pen his friend proffers helpfully before jotting his name and contact information down. That done, he caps the pen and straightens. When he turns around, he sees Derek pushing a cart of books over to one of the aisles. Stiles lets out a slightly strangled noise, and Scott turns to look where Stiles is looking just as Derek glances towards them.
Stiles immediately grabs hold of Scott’s arm and starts pulling him towards the doors.
“Oh, hey, he saw us,” Scott says cheerfully. “We should go say hi!”
“Keep walking.”
Thankfully, Scott’s compliance is full. Unthankfully, he feels the need to share some home grown wisdom once they’re finally out of the library and away from Derek’s eyes. “I’d just like to point out how hard it’s going to be for you to get him to like you if you never actually talk to the guy.”
“Scotty?”
“Yeah, buddy?”
“Please shut up.”
…
That night, after Stiles and his dad finish the dinner he was able to make because the two of them gave the grocery store some business - elbowing soccer moms the entire time, except not really, because his dad is the sheriff, and has to set a good example for the rest of the townsfolk - he goes upstairs to get started on his homework for the night. Before he really gets down to it, though, he hops onto the internet to check his email and lets out a whoop.
There is a message from the school librarian, and when he opens it and reads the contents, it feels like Christmas and his birthday have both come early.
Look out, BHH: There’s a new library volunteer on campus.
…
Okay, so, in hindsight, Stiles should have thought this through a little more. He looks up at the early morning sky and frowns slightly.
Without the jeep, Stiles is still having to be creative about how he gets to school. As much as Scott loves him, getting up thirty minutes earlier in order to give him a ride to school and then just wait around while Stiles does his thing in the library does not, for obvious reasons, appeal. This is why Stiles is, for the second time this week, walking all the way to school, although this time, he left the house an hour earlier.
He should win Derek’s heart for the effort alone, but then, Lydia had never seemed very impressed by his attempts to woo her, so what does Stiles know?
It turns out, Stiles doesn’t know much of anything at all.
When he arrives in the library, he walks straight up to the help desk. Derek is sitting there, looking as beautiful as always and doing something on the computer. He looks up at Stiles and says, “Oh, good, you’re here.” Then he glances over at the full cart of books over behind the check-out desk. “You can start putting those away before you have to get to class.” Then he turns back to the monitor in front of him and begins typing something, leaving Stiles standing there with his mouth hanging open in what is sure to be an embarrassingly unattractive manner.
The words, “But I’m supposed to marry you,” are on the tip of his tongue, but he holds them back through what has to be superhuman effort. He is not Sandra Bullock, and his life is not a romantic comedy from the Eighties. Instead, all he says is, “Right,” the word clicking in his throat uncomfortably. He walks around behind the desk in order to collect the book cart, setting his backpack down first, and then he gets to work.
As he makes gradual progress around the library, he wonders why the total indifference of Derek hurts a million times more than it ever did from Lydia. The thing is, he thinks, that unlike Lydia, who is almost always calm, cool, and calculating, he’s seen Derek act warm and affectionate. He’s seen him smile. He’s seen him laugh. He’s seen him cheer. He’s seen this incredibly sweet and open person every time Cora has been within shouting distance, and Stiles wants to get to know that person.
He wants to feel the way it feels to be someone Derek Hale loves.
…
On Saturday, his dad drives him over to the mechanic’s in order to pick up the jeep, which is functional once more. Stiles promises to babysit the Hanson twins, Jared and Jathon, for the next four of Mr. and Mrs. Hanson’s date nights in order to help defray some of the repair costs; the Hansons, who live on Jackson Whittemore’s street, are filthy rich and pay him incredibly well for his services, so he doesn’t really mind the hell their children put him through. It pays to have a plastic surgeon and a neurologist in the same household.
Sunday is completely uneventful.
On Monday morning, Stiles is determined that this will be the day that he gets Derek Hale to notice him. He stops by his favorite coffee place and gets a mocha for himself and an Italian soda for Derek, because Cora had mentioned once that her brother loved them. He drinks his mocha on the way to the school building, fairly confident that none of his dad’s deputies will catch him sipping and shifting at the same time, and then tosses it in the trash can located conveniently close to the side entrance.
When he places the Italian soda down beside Derek, he looks down at it and furrows his brow. Instead of hearing some sort of thanks, Stiles gets, “There’s no food or drink allowed in the library.” It isn’t said meanly. It’s just soft and quiet and a little confused.
“Wh-uh, well, then, I guess you could go out and drink it in the hall?”
Derek looks conflicted, much the same as Cora had on the lacrosse field the week before. The family resemblance is rather startling sometimes.
“Come on, Derek - um, Mr. Hale,” Stiles corrects, not sure if he is allowed to be so familiar when they’re here, in the library, where food and drink are apparently not allowed. “I won’t tell Mrs. Hall you left me alone in the library if you don’t.”
It takes a while, but eventually Derek looks up with his remarkable eyes and says, “Okay.”
He picks up the to-go cup carefully, as though it is made of glass, and walks silently out of the library, leaving Stiles staring after him.
When Derek is presumably done with his drink ten minutes later, Stiles is hard at work shelving books. The assistant librarian walks up to Stiles and thanks him quietly and then walks back to his desk. He gives Stiles a small smile when it is time for him to leave.
Perhaps it isn’t what Stiles was hoping for, but he supposes it could have gone much worse. He starts bringing an Italian soda for Derek every morning after that. Mrs. Hall, who is almost always in her office or off helping a teacher set up some sort of equipment or research engine, never suspects a thing.
…
“What do you mean, you aren’t coming?”
”I mean Stilinski, that I am sick, and I am not coming. Boyd, Erica, and Isaac are all out with the same thing. Looks like you’ll be playing tonight, after all.”
“Are you forgetting about the fact that this is the finals? We can’t have half our starting players out sick tonight, Cora!” Stiles is about to hyperventilate or something here. There is no way that the team can pull this off. He’s told Coach Finstock over and over that they shouldn’t have focused all their plays around their star players, but here they are, the day of the final game of the season, and they are completely unprepared.
”What exactly do you expect me to do about it, Stiles? I am not sacrificing myself for king and country, okay? It won’t kill you and the others to play one game.”
She doesn’t know that. “You don’t know that.”
”Goodbye, Stiles. Have a good birthday and kick some ass out there.” The line goes dead, and Stiles glares down at his phone in stunned betrayal. This is not how today was supposed to start out.
Gritting his teeth, he finishes getting ready for school. He scoops up his backpack and thunders down the stairs, heads out the door, and hops into the jeep. Needing to distract himself from his anxiety over the game he’ll apparently be playing tonight, Stiles flips on the radio to his favorite station. He listens to Seventies and Eighties music all the way to the coffee shop, one of the songs sticking in his head to the point that he mumbles the lyrics as he pays for Derek’s drink.
He’s still singing that song under his breath as places the clear plastic cup full of frothy, sugary liquid down near Derek and hops up to sit on the desk. When he looks up at Derek, he’d swear for a second his eyes flash blue, but then Derek is looking down at the Italian soda. “Thank you, Stiles.”
“Sure thing. And, may I just say, I am happy to see that you’ve managed to escape the plague that has struck Cora and most of our friends.”
“Yeah, well,” Derek says, “I’m a little too old for what’s ailing them.”
Huh. Maybe it’s mono. With the way Cora and Isaac suck face, to say nothing of Erica and Boyd, Stiles would not be surprised.
Either way, there are more pressing matters to deal with. Stiles claps his hands together and then sets them in his lap. “Speaking of age: I’m eighteen today.”
With a slow nod, Derek gives him a smile that looks slightly pained. “And I’m sure you and Scott have something fun planned to celebrate it after the game. Happy Birthday, Stiles.” He’s gone before Stiles can say anything else.
He lets his head hang back so he can look up at the ceiling. “Oh, come on! When am I gonna catch a break, here?”
For once, Mrs. Hall sticks her head out of her office. “Mr. Stilinski, please keep it down. This is, after all, the library.”
Yeah.
…
With most of his friends out for the day, the first half of his eighteenth birthday is very subdued. He does find cupcakes in his locker from Lydia, and Danny makes sure to wish him well at lunch - which may or may not be because Stiles is gracious enough to share Lydia’s gift with the whole table. There’s only the five of them today, so they all get two (Yes, even Jackson.). Stiles decides to give the other two to Derek when lunch is over.
He isn’t at his desk or anywhere inside the library when Stiles slips in, so he sets the container on Derek’s chair. On his way out the door, he passes Derek, who is, oddly enough, talking to Scott. They both stop when Stiles calls out a greeting, Scott looking as though he has been found with his hand in the cookie jar, and Derek with his eyes wide and vulnerable.
“Am I missing something?” Stiles asks slowly, tilting his head.
Scott steps forward and slings his arm around his shoulder. “Nope. I was just telling Derek that I hope Cora gets better soon.”
“Were you, now?”
“Yep.”
“That’s your story, and you’re sticking to it.”
“Pretty much.”
Pursing his lips, Stiles shrugs. “Okay.” He’ll find out what that was all about eventually. “See you later, Derek.”
“Yeah,” Derek says, recovered from whatever was going on with him earlier. “You will.”
As they walk towards away, Stiles hisses, “What is with everyone today?”
Trying to look innocent, Scott gives him Puppy-eyed Look Number Nine. “Well, it is supposed to be the full moon.”
They both glance back when they hear a dull thump. Derek is pulling himself up from the linoleum floor, looking chagrined.
“Dude, did you trip over your own feet?” Stiles asks, not trying to be a jerk; he’s never seen Derek so much as stumble, so the fact that he wound up on the floor is highly surprising and, to his knowledge, unprecedented.
Cheeks going an attractive shade of red, Derek mumbles something vaguely affirmative and then disappears into the library.
Maybe the cupcakes will make him feel better.
…
It’s his birthday. His dad and Scott’s mom are sitting together in the stands watching both of them play. It’s the biggest game of the season, and they’re losing.
The game is pretty much over, and Stiles has only scored one goal. He glances up at the spot where he knows his dad and Melissa McCall are sitting, and he sighs. As he is moving to refocus on the field, his eyes catch on something vaguely shiny under the stadium lights.
A leather jacket.
He squints, and just barely makes out Derek Hale’s face.
A second wind he never expected hits him, and he goes after the ball, dodging the other players with more finesse than he ever has before.
He scores, and he scores, and he scores again.
When the game ends, he looks up at the place where Derek is from his place on Scott and Danny’s shoulders. He’s close enough that he can make out the look on Derek’s face. It’s the exact same look he gives Cora whenever she wins a game, and he’s aiming it right at Stiles.
He heads off to the showers with his head in the clouds.
…
Stepping out of the locker room, Stiles expects to find the rest of the McCall and Stilinski party of four waiting for him. Instead, he spots Derek, standing with his hands in his pockets, as relaxed as he ever looks in a crowd.
Heading over, he calls over the sounds of the other players being collected by friends and family, “Hey, have you seen my dad?”
As he gets closer, he watches Derek nod. “I asked him if I could be the one to take you home.”
“Oh,” Stiles says, his already round eyes falling open even further in soft surprise. “And he said that it was okay?”
Derek bites his lip, which is every bit as adorable as Stiles always thought it would be if the guy ever did it with his little bunny teeth. He vows never to share this truth with Derek, figuring that sort of thing could be pretty damaging to a man’s ego. “I might have asked him if I could do something else with you, too.”
Bewildered, Stiles cocks his head. “Dude, what are you-”
Taking a step closer, Derek slips one of his hands out of the pocket its been hiding in, making it feel toasty warm as the fingers of it thread through Stiles’s own. “Stiles Stilinski,” Derek utters deliberately, “will you go out with me?”
“Whu - buh - uhm -” Stiles stutters, completely caught off guard. Isn’t he supposed to be the one trying (and failing) to do the wooing? For the first time since their conversation began, Derek is starting to look a little uncertain, and Stiles simply cannot have that. Who cares about who is trying to woo whom? Obviously something he’s been doing must have worked, so now he should definitely reap the benefits. “Absolutely, I will go out. With you.” Somewhere, Lydia must have a hand over her face as she despairs over his utter lack of articulation. “Uh, but won’t that be a problem with the school? I mean, I was kind of planning on waiting until graduation to actually -”
Confident once more, Derek smiles gently, taking Stiles’s breath away a bit. He looks down at their entwined hands and then back up at Stiles. “I think if I have the support of the sheriff, I shouldn’t have any problems with the administration. Besides, I’m not actually your teacher.”
“This is true.” They start walking out towards the parking lot, their joined hands swinging gently. When they are away from most of the fans and students, Stiles asks, “So, what was it? Was it the cupcakes? Because I didn’t actually make them.”
“What?”
“It’s just, you never really seemed all that interested, and the only thing that I can think of that was different today was the cupcakes, so-”
They are at Derek’s little black Toyota now, which allows Derek to back Stiles up against the trunk, his arms on either side. Stiles supposes he could feel threatened right now, but it’s Derek, with his bunny teeth, and his stupid Italian soda addiction, and his ridiculous all-weather leather jacket, and this warm look in his eyes that makes Stiles want to melt.
“It definitely wasn’t the cupcakes.” He leans in and skims his nose along Stiles’s neck, and for half a second when he pulls back, his eyes are that brilliant blue from this morning.
“No?” Stiles gasps, feeling strangely hot after such a fleeting touch.
“No.”
“Then what was it?”
Taking in a deep breath, Derek lets it all out in a hot rush. “It was everything.”
“But you never said anything,” Stiles points out, confused.
“Neither did you.” Derek’s lips are twisted into a small, wry smile. “You’ve been friends with my little sister since middle school, and you barely said a word to me for years.”
“Wait,” Stiles interjects, feeling as though this thing between them is turning out to be even bigger than he ever imagined, “how long have you wanted me?”
Tilting his head awkwardly and not meeting his eyes, Derek says, “Longer than would probably be considered appropriate.”
“I thought - I really thought that you didn’t want anything to do with me. You always stayed so far away whenever I came over.”
“I promise, it was never a matter of not wanting you.”
Hesitantly, Stiles asks, “So you - what? - you waited for me?”
“For you to be old enough to want me back, yes,” Derek nods.
Fishing for the whole story, Stiles probes, “But what about when I started volunteering in the library? I’ve been trying to get your attention for, like, two weeks, and you never seemed interested.”
For some reason, Derek looks a little mortified. “Two things: One, you weren’t eighteen yet. Two, I thought you were with Scott.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Believe me, I wish I was, and I can assure you that I have been thoroughly disabused of the notion.”
Stiles thinks back to that weird meeting outside of the library after lunch, and he has to laugh. ”That’s what that was about? Oh, man, Scott must have thought the whole thing was so bizarre. Did you go looking for him as soon as our lunch period ended?”
Blinking, Derek tells him, “Actually, Scott came looking for me.” He’s silent for a moment and then he says, “Oh, he said I should tell you something, and you would know what it meant.”
“Lay it on me,” Stiles says gamely.
“He said to tell you ‘I told you that you would never find it.’”
For once, Stiles is forced to admit that he was wrong. He’s too busy laughing about it to care.
“So, do I get to know what that means, or is it a secret?” Derek asks, smiling purely because Stiles is, which is a pretty heady feeling for Stiles. He wasn’t exaggerating when he told Derek it seemed like his never wanted anything to do with Stiles. Growing up, Derek was always withdrawn any time Stiles was around, and he has smiled more at Stiles in the past fifteen minutes that he has in the entire time that Stiles has known the Hale family.
“It’s just this thing that Scott and I do every year,” Stiles starts, still smiling, but also shaking his head. “He hides my birthday present somewhere I’ll supposedly never find it, and I always do, but this year, I couldn’t, because he gave me you.”
No one has ever looked at Stiles like Derek is looking at him right now. It’s an expression he’s seen on Boyd’s face when he looks at Erica, and Isaac’s face when he looks at Cora, and especially his dad’s face when he used to look at his mom, but this is all new for Stiles. He feels his breath hitch, because he knows what is coming, and he leans up for it, ready when Derek’s lips first meet his.
Though he has nothing to compare it to, Stiles feels pretty sure this is the best first kiss in the history of first kisses. He tries to capture that line at the end of Princess Bride but it slips away from him, enthralled as he is by the warm press of Derek’s mouth, the gentle rasp of his stubble, the slight caress of air as he breathes out through his nose.
When he breaks the kiss, Derek remains close, pressing their foreheads together. “You already had me.”
“Yeah,” Stiles breathes. “I’m starting to get that.”
Eventually, they move away from the trunk, Derek opening it so that Stiles can stow his lacrosse bag inside. Derek, the adorable dork, opens the passenger door for Stiles.
Apparently he is pretty enough.
After he gets in, Derek says, “So, your father said that you had to be home by midnight.”
“What time is it now?”
Derek starts the car. The dash lights up. “Ten-thirty.”
Reaching over to take Derek’s hand again, he pulls it over to rest on his thigh and rubs his thumb over the broad back of it. “Wanna go get an Italian soda?”
Another smile. “I thought you’d never ask.”
This is a good thing, because they obviously have a lot they still need to talk about - flashy blue eyes and long years of pining absolutely included - and Stiles isn’t nearly ready to tell Derek goodnight. As they pull out and drive away from the school, Stiles finds himself humming that song again.
“I feel like I know that song,” Derek remarks.
“You probably do. It’s You Make My Dreams Come True.”
There’s a flash of white teeth. “Appropriate.”
Stiles squeezes Derek’s hand. “I thought so.”