Archive of Our Own ^beta

David after Dentist, that was it. The little kid on laughing gas or whatever who kept asking, “Is this real life?” That’s who Derek realized he was feeling like. Because things like this didn’t happen, did they?

It had all started innocently enough. He’d had a particularly exhausting day at work, and then had decided, on a whim, that he was going to take himself to the trendy new hipster Thai fusion place  all on his own. Social norms be damned. He deserved it. And it had been great. Reclaimed wood on the walls, candles in mirrored holders, orchids floating in bowls of water. And the food, from what he could smell wafting from the kitchen and could see from other diner’s colorful plates, was amazing. But he’d hardly begun to feel the stress of the week bleed from his shoulders when abruptly, someone practically flung himself into the seat across from Derek.

“Oh my God, Tyler--Tyler, right? I’m so sorry, so, so sorry, I’m Stiles, it’s just, oh man, this guy just about sideswiped me as I turned into the parking lot, oh my god, it was so damn close I’m so happy to be alive, I’m still freaking out, fucking hell--did you order yet?”

Derek, never too good with people, could only stare at the total stranger across from him as the man ran shaking hands through hair that stood on end as if he’d been electrocuted.

“Um, I think you might--”

“Oh shit man, I know this is a terrible first impression, I’m so sorry, I bet you never want to agree to a blind date again, no matter how pushy Erica is. Maybe I should just leave--”

The man--Stiles--continues to babble, but Derek can only register the distress etched into his face, and the panicked sheen in his arresting whisky-brown eyes. If he admits to not being the mysterious “Tyler,” he can only imagine the way Stiles’ face will crumple even further. And Derek--Derek really doesn’t want that. So he does something stupid.

“Uh, no, it’s fine. Stay. I haven’t ordered anything yet?”

Stiles’ whole body sags in almost comical relief, and he smiles at Derek then: wide, stunning, and beautiful.

Shit, thinks Derek.

***

As the evening progresses, Derek has an internal litany growing ever louder in his mind. It sounds a lot like Laura, and it goes something along the lines of you are the absolute worst, Derek Hale. Because even though Stiles continues to be rattled and practically never stops talking and gesticulates so wildly that a fork goes sailing across the room at one point, Derek is utterly smitten. He’s not even sure what Stiles is even going on about at this point; he feels drunk on the curve of Stiles’ mouth and the moles scattered across his face, and what is a man doing with eyelashes that pretty anyhow? And frenetic though Stiles is, Derek can tell he’s incredibly intelligent. Derek’s never sat and just listened this long to anyone talk without becoming bored. And it’s freeing, in a way. Stiles had apparently been too shaken to remember the social nicety of small talk, for which Derek is eternally grateful. Derek can let him carry the conversation. He just floats along on a current of words, nods occasionally, and feels himself start to dread the moment Stiles calms down enough to figure out Derek is not his date.

***

Stiles is stabbing his fork emphatically into his duck pad kee mao while pontificating on the deplorable inaccuracy of television police procedurals when a shadow falls across the table.

“Well, if it isn’t Stilinski.” It’s perhaps the douchiest voice Derek has ever heard, and when he looks up, there’s a sneering Abercrombie model to match it. Wearing an expensive pastel shirt that screams, “Of course we vacation in the Hamptons.”

Across from him, he sees Stiles appear to fold into himself, shoulders hunching a little as he mutters a low “Hey, Jackson” into his water glass. Derek feels his metaphorical hackles rise. From what he’s seen so far, anyone with the power to dim Stiles’ exuberance like that is an asshat of epic proportions.

This is verified milliseconds later when Jackson gestures haughtily between Derek and Stiles and asks Derek, voice dripping with derision, “This had to have been a blind date, right?” Stiles flinches in response.

Before he can stop himself, Derek straightens up and flashes the interloper the grin Cora calls his “flirty serial killer” face. “Naw, actually it’s our anniversary dinner. Right, babe?” He reaches across the table and takes Stiles' hand in his. “I mean, it may be a little much to celebrate after only a month”--rueful shake of the head--”but I’ve never been with someone who made me this happy.” Derek lifts Stiles’ hand up and brushes a kiss along his knuckles. “Or this...satisfied.” He lets a little bit of a growl enter his voice and continues to gaze into Stiles’ shocked eyes as if completely mesmerized. Which is much easier than it should have been.

Jackson coughs awkwardly. “Okay then. You guys...have a nice night, or something.”

“Oh,” Derek replies, never taking his eyes from Stiles’. “We will. Bye now. Go needlessly interrupt someone else’s evening.” What is he doing? What the hell is he doing? Where are these words even coming from?

Jackson disappears like a douchy Houdini , leaving behind only a cloud of pretentious cologne. Stiles, eyes wide and shining, mouth fallen open, stares back at Derek.

“You--” Stiles breathes. Derek tenses, afraid that Stiles will be angry, but then he continues with “--are my favorite” in a tone of great conviction and reverence.

No, Derek sternly tells the warm feeling welling up under his ribcage. Don’t you dare.

***

By the time, they’re nearly ready for dessert, Derek feels like he wants to throw up. He still can’t believe he’s doing this, letting Stiles think Derek is his date, and his stomach is churning with guilt. But it’s like some mysterious force has possessed Derek’s body. He can’t seem to stop looking at Stiles, or now that Stiles has calmed down enough for conversation, talking with him. Laughing with him, even though guilt is clawing at his gut. And, admittedly, some jealousy. Jealousy for Tyler. The guy who was supposed to be on this date, to be the one discovering how Stiles’ eyes look with candlelight reflected in them.

He might be getting a little lost in how Stiles’ forearms and hands look like he could Do Things with them when Stiles pulls out his phone to check the time. Derek’s veins run cold in an instant.

“Oh man, what is this? I’ve got like, a million messages, the hell-” Stiles’ voice trails off, and Derek waits, waits for Stiles to look up, dreading the expression he’ll wear.

Stiles does finally look up from the texts he’s silently been thumbing through. His face is still, the first time his expression has been this neutral and flat all night. It’s horrible. He stares at Derek, eyes hard.

“Who. The. Fuck. Are. You.” Each world is bitten off, except the last, which wobbles dangerously. Derek wants to die. He wants to stab his fork directly into his own arm.

“My name is Derek Hale, and I’ve been trying to make myself tell you that you sat down at the wrong table all night.” He isn’t able to make the words any louder than an almost-whisper. Stiles is still staring at him, face frozen.

“You--you--” For the first time all evening, Stiles appears lost for words. Derek feels within a hairsbreadth of vomiting.

Say something, damn you, just say something, he tells himself.

“I’m so sorry, Stiles, it’s just, you were so--” And he feels his face and and his damn silly ears flushing red with heat. He’s ducked his head and hunched his shoulders, but he allows himself to look at Stiles then, just a second, through his lashes.

“So what, Derek?” There is a steadiness in Stiles’ voice that wasn’t there before. A surety. “What was I? Because I know what you were.”

Derek flinches in anticipation. A liar, he thinks, An ass. But then Stiles goes on.

“One of the kindest and most fucking adorable men I’ve ever seen in my life. I mean, really. That thing with Jackson? And also I think I talked about the history of male circumcision for nearly fifteen minutes and you… asked freaking follow-up questions like you were interested in what I was saying.”

“I was interested in you! I mean, what you were saying, uh, and also, well, you, but I--” Derek fumbles, desperation squeezing his throat. He feels like this whole insane encounter,  wobbling like mad on its axis from the start, is about to go spinning completely out of orbit. And Stiles will get up, and he will walk out of the door and Derek will never see him again. And Derek has to see him again, he decides. He has to. “Please.” Derek swallows, willing the words to come. “Please. Stay. I know I have no right to ask you to after keeping quiet about who I was--or wasn’t, all evening, but.” His knuckles are white around the napkin ring he’s found himself clenching in his fist.

Stiles blinks at him a moment, expression unreadable. Then, slowly, as though he can’t really believe what he’s doing, a smile blooms on his face. “I think I’d be pretty stupid to let you slip through my fingers because of that. This is fate, right?” He flicks open the dessert menu. “How do you feel about coconut?”

***

All attendees at their wedding three years later agree that Laura’s maid of honor speech recounting how Derek and Stiles got together is possibly the best wedding speech they’ve ever heard, and Mason Hewitt, who strangely enough was now dating the Tyler that Erica had set Stiles up with, laughs until he cries.