Chapter Text
“It’s good to know that you’ve all stayed alive while I was gone,” Stiles grinned over the rim of his coffee cup. Derek couldn’t help smiling back. Stiles always had that effect on him and it’d been a problem since day one. “With no broken bones or concussions!”
“One concussion.”
“Okay, one concussion. But that’s basically zero concussions when it comes to our pack.”
Derek had to push back violently against his animal instincts whenever Stiles said ‘our’ pack instead of ‘the’ pack; if only he meant that word the way Derek wanted him to. He replied smoothly enough, “We managed to feed ourselves somehow.”
“I’ve honestly missed cooking for those cretins,” Stiles chuckled. “I thought it would be a nice break to cook for only myself during college but… Well, one night during the height of my winter exam panic I went into some kind of fugue state and churned out enough lasagna to feed a small army. Or the pack on a full moon night, I guess. Either way my entire floor ate like kings and did really well on their tests the next morning. So that’s a plus!”
“Carb loading on Stilinski Family Super Secret Recipe Lasagna never fails.” Derek’s chest tightened pleasantly at the scent-memory of Stiles making lasagna in his tiny family kitchen – whiffs of homemade bolognese, some relative’s ‘highly coveted cheese and herb mixture’, and sheet after sheet of warm pasta that somehow never burnt his hands despite Stiles’ perpetual clumsiness, mixed seamlessly through the air with bubbling human happiness. Stiles’ happiness.
Derek would be able to catch that specific scent from three counties over. To quote one of Stiles’ favorite movies: If Stiles were a hawk on a cloudy day (a happy hawk, specifically), Derek would still be able to find him.
“So, what does the summer plan for–” Bzzzzt. Stiles glanced down at his phone screen before quickly turning his attention back to Derek. Whatever the message contained didn’t appear time sensitive. “What does the summer plan for Beacon Hills’ most adorable troop of Ranger Scouts look like right now? Do you need any volunteers or temporary staff at the station?”
“Why?” Derek leaned closer and slowly raised one inquisitive eyebrow. They were used to bobbing in and out of each others’ personal space by this point in their friendship, but something about the way Stiles’ scent thickened when he invaded it this time had his wolf half perking up even more obnoxiously than usual. If he’d been fully shifted his tail would have been wagging shamelessly behind him at the rise in some very specific chemosignals. He lowered his voice slightly and added a pinch of gravel to it to better test his theory, “Are you voluntee–”
Bzzzzt. Bzzzzt. Bzzzzt.
“I’m so sorry about that. Let me just–” Stiles snatched his phone off the table and turned the volume off with two aggressive button clicks. His eyebrows gathered over his nose like the darkened front of an impending storm, all those lovely chemosignals from seconds before going sour as he forcefully laid it screen-down on the tabletop again. “Sorry, sorry. But yes, to answer your question from before we were so rudely interrupted. I am definitely volunteering to help out. Even if it’s on a volunteer basis it’ll keep the Sheriff off my back about getting another internship right away. My brain needs a break from academia; the woods are calling.”
Derek watched with growing curiosity and concern as the reflection of Stiles’ phone screen lit up the glass tabletop repeatedly. Someone was frantically trying to get in contact through rapid fire texts but Stiles clearly showed no interest in finding out why. Worried that something had happened to ruin Stiles and his dad’s relationship, Derek hesitantly asked: “Are you okay, Stiles? I’m– Are you guys all good?”
This won him an amused snort and eyeroll combo. “Yeah, I’m good and so is my Dad. This is some idiot who can’t take a hint.”
“Ah,” Derek nodded. After a moment his eyebrow sought even higher ground and he sighed theatrically to lighten the mood. “Good. I’m glad to hear it’s not your dad because I was not ready to coach you through going no contact with the Sheriff.”
Stiles nearly fell off the seat as he doubled over laughing, gasping for breath before launching off into another round of loud guffawing. A few random tears escaped to hover near his lash line and Derek’s thumb itched to reach up and wipe them away. Yet he didn’t dare shake the foundation he’d worked so hard to build in their friendship. He walked a careful tightrope between his fear of losing Stiles and an aching, endless desire to take the awkward, kind, friendly, beautiful human in his arms and kiss him silly.
Derek’s periphery still hadn’t calmed as the phone continued pinging new messages. He exhaled a slow, measured breath to stabilize that tightrope balance and shrugged, “Why not block him?”
“If only it were that simple.”
“It’s not?”
“Pffft, maybe for a six-foot park ranger built like a Marvel protagonist it’s easy to make people get a clue and fuck off. Plus you have the bonus action of using your patented Sour Wolf angry eyebrows. I’m too smiley for my own damn good.
“I’ve blocked him on five different apps and restricted his number from being able to call or text me but he keeps finding new and horrible ways to try getting in touch. I thought it would be over after shutting him down on WhatsApp, Messenger, Instagram, and Snapchat. Then he found my–” Stiles paused to gasp for breath “–My fucking Tumblr?! He found my Tumblr somehow! Like what the fuck!? What kind of absolutely braindead freak goes looking around for somebody’s personal Tumblr account?! This isn’t 2014, for fuck’s sake!”
“It took me years to earn your Tumblr url,” Derek frowned. He’d been on cloud nine for months after waiting it out and being trustworthy enough to receive Stiles’ blog handle rather than falling back on Peter’s repeated offers for help ‘hack’ his information.
“Yeah, cause you’ve actually figured out that respecting my boundaries wins you more favors than pushing them constantly,” Stiles snorted. His tone was playful and light but the anxiously bitter edge to his scent had barely begun to fade. His phone was still lighting up every minute or so with a new notification even if they went ignored. When Stiles glanced up through his lashes and smiled with unnecessarily apologetic softness, every werewolf instinct alerted Derek that he was mere moments away from entering cardiac arrest. For such a slight and inoffensive human, Stiles was often more dangerous than any silver bullet at point blank range. It wasn’t fair. “Anyway, this time it’s Linkedin.”
“Who the hell stalks someone on Linkedin?” Derek scoffed. Stiles finished the last dregs of his coffee and stood from the table with a huff. “Shall we abscond to the comfort of my dorm for the afternoon and discuss my future employment with the Ranger Scouts?”
“And choose a guest list for your Finally Moving Back For Real party?”
“There will be no such thing, Derek Hale.”
“You have to be the one to tell Lydia, then.”
“Shit. Nevermind. Where should we source the streamers?”
Then it was Derek’s turn to laugh so hard he nearly bent in half. Bright, bubbly happiness swirled around their heads and filled the air between them, sweeter than any high end perfume. Derek did his best not to think about how wonderful their mutual joy was to his hypersensitive nose. How it left him warm and comfy down to the bones. He didn’t fixate on how lovely it would be to have that scent forever in his lungs, imprinted into the fabric of his sheets, his pillowcase, his skin…
Stiles desperately needed to master a spell that obscured human chemosignals as soon as physically possible ; or at least before Derek rubbed two of his very emo braincells together and figured out how little had actually changed about Stiles since he last lived in Beacon Hills full time. It had been hell on earth to conceal such an enormously obvious crush during his impulsive high school years, but then Derek never really let them fall out of touch for any period of time while he was in South America. Or while Stiles worked through college.
The torch Stiles carried was born of the Olympic flame – it never fucking went out no matter how hard he tried blowing on it, waterboarding it, or trying to find warmth at other fires. He was simply built to love Derek Hale in secret and he was, after many years of meditation and werewolf themed jerk sessions, totally cool with that. Probably.
Derek was also weirdly invested in Stiles’ whole ‘Keith’ situation. As they ditched their table outside the cafe and started wandering back toward the small town’s single pay-to-park lot (and Derek’s beloved Camaro), he was met by a barrage of clarifying questions. These included but were not limited to:
“When did you meet him?”
Last year.
“Did you date?”
We had coffee exactly one time and then he dragged me to a bad French movie the next weekend where he tried to kiss me and I pretended to sneeze in order to avoid him. I walked home by myself.
“How long has he been bothering you?”
Since the bad French movie – no offence to the French, it was more his company that made it bad... Oh! Right. Probably seven months or so.
“Have you told your dad about any of the ongoing harassment?”
Pffft. It’s barely going to be considered legal harassment if he hasn’t done anything to cause Stiles harm, right? The Sheriff is busy with, like, real crimes and stuff. This is just an annoying guy that Stiles can totally handle on his own.
“Has he ever tried to bother you in person or ‘bumped into you’ somewhere that feels less than random?”
Stiles has bumped into him two or three times at the grocery store, maybe. But those could very well be coincidences! And there was one day he happened to be at the campus green space at the same time. Oh, a– oh no.
Judging by the grunt he received in return, Derek had a point about how weird this guy was getting. None of the behavior showed any sign of slowing down, either. Quite the opposite.
“Fuck.”
“Mhm.”
“Shut up, Sour Wolf. Don’t sound so smug that I’m going to be murdered in my sleep by some random business major named Keith who probably climbed through my window...”
“Hey! I haven’t done that in at least two years. And you’re not going to be murdered.”
“Awww,” Stiles allows himself a moment of hopeless flirtation, batting his eyelashes up at his grouchy werebestie. “Because you’ll protect me?”
“No, because I will have murdered you first.”
Eight years ago Stiles would have taken that joke to heart and read into the meaning unnecessarily. After so many years of friendship and learning each others’ idiosyncrasies, however, he can hear what Derek really meant to say. He picked up what the tone conveyed beneath the kneejerk defense mechanism: Of course I’ll protect you, idiot.
They made it halfway to the parking lot when Stiles heard it, the voice he’d been silently bracing for against his own knowledge: “Hey, Stiles! Is that you?”
“Shit squared, dude.”
“Don’t call me–”
Keith jogged over and stood in front of Stiles, who didn’t miss the way his eyes scanned the six or so inches of space between his and Derek’s bodies. “Hey Stiles, is your family visiting today?”
“Are you seriously pulling the ‘cousin Miguel’ bit after nearly a decade?” Derek deadpanned. He quirked one singular eyebrow at Stiles with such precise timing that the ancient inside joke hit him with the same force as an unexpected freight train to the chest. The combined power of his shock and amusement sent him off balance, forcing Derek to place a steadying arm around his shoulders until he could breathe again and calm down. Only when his heartbeat had totally re-regulated did Stiles realize what they must look like to Keith.
Oh my god, this was so not happening in real life.
“No, I’m not still pulling the cousin Miguel bit, asshole. You’d never let me get away with that a second time. Anyway, Derek, this is Keith from my poli-sci elective. Keith, this is Derek from back home.” Stiles hoped that by keeping their introductions brief and Keith’s relation to his life at a minimum, Keith would take the hint and fuck off.
He was horribly, terribly, tragically wrong on all fronts.
“Nice to meet you, man,” Keith held out a challenging hand that Derek met with an unphased sense of calm. Stiles tensed involuntarily as their palms met and Derek’s grip closed around Keith’s breakable human fingers. He watched how measured the werewolf kept his strength and how it just verged on threateningly painful judging by Keith’s muted smile.
“You, too.”
“Anyway, Stiles,” Keith shook his hand free and tucked it nervously into a hoodie pocket. “I tried getting a hold of you earlier on Linkedin to give you the good news, but it feels even better to do it in person.”
“Good news?”
“Yeah, I got an internship at Beacon Hills Steel!” Keith’s grin was Joker-esque. “We’ll be able to hang out and get to know each other more over the summer. Maybe you could show me around.”
Stiles’ throat closed up. What?! No. No! This could not be happening. He was supposed to go home at the end of this semester with his degree in hand and be safe from Keith. Or any guys like him. Forever. He wasn’t ready to deal with this guy for another three months and then – what if the company he interned for liked him so much they offered him a job?! What if Stiles had to move away from all his friends all over again because this one guy from a bad coffee date wouldn’t leave him alone!? He didn’t want to be a Netflix special.
The research always felt poorly assembled and the writers could never quite balance their use of logos, pathos, and ethos.
Oh god, what if the stupid fucker found out about werewolves and he had to help Derek bury Keith’s body in a shallow grave outside of town?!
Stiles was halfway down a perfectly lovely doom spiral when Derek said a series of words in such an uncannily chipper tone that Stiles was pretty sure he’d paused the panic attack to stroke out: “That’s wonderful news, Keith. Congratulations on the internship. You’ll have to swing by our place sometime for dinner while you’re in town. Right, babe?”
“Huh? Oh. Yeah.”
Derek moved his hand from bracing Stiles’ shoulder to resting over his hip, pulling him gently sideways until the gap between their bodies disappeared. “Stiles is an incredible cook.”
“I look forward to finding out.” The lines of Keith’s posture had tightened significantly since Derek started talking but Stiles could barely take in all the little details like he generally would. His brain was working overtime to go at half its usual speed.
Had Derek just– Did Derek really mean– Was he seriously–
“Well I’ll need to head back pretty soon and we gotta go over some moving details, so… Shall we, babe?”
“Right, of course. I’ll be seeing you around, I guess,” Keith waved. At least his confidence had been shaken. A bit. “Later Stiles. Derek.”
“Later,” Stiles shot him a halfhearted peace sign. His primary focus was breathing normally as Derek escorted him from the scene of the crime. He’d recovered enough by the time they were out of earshot to furiously ask the werewolf: “Did you seriously just imply that we were dating in front of Keith?!”
“I’m sorry, but how else was I supposed to get him off your back? He didn’t stand down even after I almost broke his wrist!”
“He’s a persistent little bastard, I’ll give you that.” Stiles ran a hand over his face. He was struggling to form a plan of action; the many potential outcomes of their scheme ran the gamut from awesome to downright godawful.
“Stiles, he’s taller than me. How is he little in any way?”
“He’s immature and spiritually stunted,” Stiles readily answered. This wasn’t even his most complicated set of beliefs or philosophies. “I don’t like judging people based on appearance or uncontrollable genetic characteristics, but some people just have a short guy complex of the soul. Like most normal human guys under six feet tall are fine! They’re fun at parties, don’t make their height a big deal, and live life the same as everyone else around them.
“It’s really about owning who you are and building confidence in the skills or traits that you find value in. If a guy is under six feet tall and really doesn't give a shit, it’s dope. Same with tall guys who don’t treat it like a personality trait. Or, in fairness, girls who throw other girls with similar hobbies under the bus for attention from subpar dudes. But to my original point: guys who have beef with their own genetics and slowly become self hating balls of furious rage? Wee-woo, red flag on the play, dude.”
“This isn’t about height, is it?” Derek smiled fondly. The genuine affection in his eyes made the expression blindingly handsome and forced Stiles' heart to do a double-take (which he knew Derek could hear, the wolfy bastard).
“No, but you get what I mean, right? You understand my long-winded metaphor?”
“Yes. He’s a big red flag because he’s cocky in the wrong ways and comes across as ingenuine. And he’s a real asshole to boot.”
“Yeah,” Stiles chuckled. “So how should we proceed with this whole, uh, situation?”
Right. How to proceed.
Derek hadn’t really been thinking about the aftermath when he jumped in to save the day. His dumbass wolf-brain had activated like Spock in Pon Farr and sent him into an immediate rage spiral over someone else trying to claim Stiles. His Stiles (totally not his at all, whatsoever – because he was too nervous to make a damn move. Except that he wasn’t, apparently, under the right set of circumstances). Because he was an idiot first and a werewolf second.
“First of all, I am so sorry for coming to your defence in the weirdest way possible,” he ran a hand through his hair and knew he’d be forgiven eventually, judging by the brief spike of lust in Stiles’ scent. “I know you’re capable of handling this bag of trash on your own. It was beyond rude to pull a move like faking a relationship without your consent, especially just to make him leave. I could have done at least twelve other things first.”
“Are you kidding? These are some top tier shenanigans.” Stiles grinned. “My real question is this: who gets to tell the pack?”
Derek’s horror must have been evident on his face because Stiles immediately burst out laughing. He nearly fell into the grass beside the sidewalk as he cackled gleefully over Derek’s tragic mistake. How could he have forgotten about the pack?!
“That’s– Ah, fuck. That’s all you, Stiles.”
“Yay!”
Derek put on his best deadpan once again and struck hard with: “I’m completely terrified by the level of malicious joy in your tone, but I’ve made my bed. Guess I’ll curl up at the end of it.”
“Self-burn dog joke?! Oh no, I’ve broken you.”
No self respecting werewolf would let those be the last words in this conversation. “I suppose you have. Now are you going to kiss me goodbye or not, babe ?”
“Asshole.” There was no heat behind the words, but the same could not be said for Stiles’ face. He was red as a tomato.
They finally reached the furthest parking lot, where Derek’s prized Camaro was one of the few vehicles left. Determined to do a good job in his accidental fake relationship, Derek hurriedly rounded to the passenger’s side first and opened the door for Stiles.
“Are you truly this determined to spend your summer doing unpaid boyfriend improv?”
“Who knows?” Derek winked over the top of the doorframe. “Could be good practice for both of us.”
Stiles waited until Derek closed to door to slowly exhale through his nose.
Oh yeah. His death may not be the result of any murderous throat ripping, but Derek Hale would absolutely be the cause.