Archive of Our Own ^beta

The music is loud and something generically hip hop, and Stiles is pretty freaking bored. He loves a good party, but this is just an excuse for teenagers high on rampant hormones to drink and rub against each other or fight in the backyard.

It is a nice yard, though, he’ll give Jackson that. Dude’s got a gorgeous house.

The backyard is landscaped, a rolling hill of lush grass, a kidney-shaped pool with underwater lights and shit, filled with inflatable islands and girls in bikinis, with some shrubs and trees along the fence line just perfect for illicit activities – pot or sex or whatever else it is that the cool kids are up to these days.

Stiles wouldn’t know. He’s not exactly cool. He hasn’t got the face or body for it – too pale, too lanky, too unable to stay quiet and still and maintain a proper air of mystery. He hasn’t got the personality, either – too sarcastic, too over this shit, too busy waiting for college to waste his time on teenaged shenanigans.

The problem is that Scott, his best friend and step-brother, doesn’t exactly share Stiles’ dislike of everything high school and is currently following along after the newest object of his affections – the new girl, who’s all pale, elfin faced with far too many black curls bouncing around her perfect face and shoulders etc. etc. etc.

Stiles has been hearing a lot about how perfect Allison Argent is these days. And she seems nice.

And Stiles’ dad has this ridiculous rule where Scott and Stiles cannot attend any party, or date, or socialize, or generally engage in teenaged shenanigans, without the other one. He says it’s so Stiles can keep an eye on Scott and minimize the amount of times he manages to fall in love and get his heart broken before college, to cut down on whatever emotional baggage Scott’s future spouse will have to deal with, but Stiles is pretty sure it’s because his dad knows that Scott’s a terrible liar. So if Stiles gets into anything dangerous, it’ll take Scott about an hour to crack and come clean about it to their dad, despite his best intentions.

This way, everybody wins. Sort of.

Stiles does have to spend more time than he would prefer at these ridiculous parties in the name of brotherhood, though.

He’s doing his best not to be a creep and stare at Scott and Allison, who are sharing a lounger beside the pool, and he’s playing a rousing game of Angry Birds instead, when Jackson walks by, sees him, does a double take, and says, “Dude. I am so sure I did not invite you.”

Stiles looks up. Lydia’s got her arm linked with Jackson, and she looks like a goddess, of course, dressed in something shiny that shows a whole lot of leg, her hair falling around her face perfectly, as usual, and Jackson’s simply not worth looking at. “Hey, Lydia,” Stiles says with a bright smile.

“Allison invited him,” Lydia says, wrinkling her nose. “Sort of.”

Jackson points at Stiles with the hand holding his plastic beer cup and says, “Don’t steal anything.” And then he walks away, laughing, and Lydia goes too, and Stiles is so, so sick of these parties.

*

He walks home with Scott, who’s staggering a little, though he allegedly hasn’t had anything to drink. He’s high on love, apparently.

“She asked me to go bowling,” Scott says, beaming. “That’s a date, right? I think that’s a date.”

“You better hope not, Scotty,” Stiles says, bumping shoulders and nearly sending Scott stumbling off the curb. “You can’t date if I don’t date and no one wants to date me, so…”

Scott looks properly appalled. “Dude, so many people would date you!”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Name one.”

“That girl, from econ. You know the one, with the –” he waves his arms around vaguely. “The hair.”

“Erica?”

“Yes!”

“Totally dating Boyd, I think. Also, she’s terrifying.

“A little,” Scott says, and he’s deflated a bit. “Boyd? Really?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Well… someone. There has to be… you’re so great, Stiles, you’re the best, and—” He keeps going, a long, rambling monologue about how Stiles would make the best boyfriend, and Stiles appreciates it, he does. But he’s also pretty sure Scott has had a drink or two, even if he didn’t admit it, because he is delusional. And Stiles is okay with it, really.

Some people peak in high school. He fully intends to peak in college, when there is far less possibility of pain and humiliation in figuring out just how bisexual he thinks he is – which is pretty damned bi.

He catches Scott’s arm before Scott can stagger into on-coming traffic, and guides him back onto the sidewalk, sighing. “Let’s get you home before one of Dad’s deputies sees us,” he says.

Keeping Scott from underage drinking is one of his many responsibilities.

*

It’s been three days. Three days, and with each passing hour, Scott’s eyes get wider and more tragic.

They’re in the cafeteria, sitting together in the far corner as usual, practically invisible, except for the way Allison keeps shooting gooey, blushy looks over from Jackson’s table, and Stiles doesn’t know how much longer he can take this.

If he doesn’t find someone willing to date him soon, Scott’s going to fall over dead of a broken heart.

Stiles looks around the cafeteria desperately. There has to be someone here, at least one fucking person, who would meet him for coffee or something.

Anyone whose eyes he happens to catch looks at him blankly, like they don’t even know him, and that’s a little harsh. He’s been with these jerks since kindergarten.

He hesitates on Greenberg, who slowly stops chewing his PB&J and cocks his head in confusion when he realizes Stiles is actually, for maybe the first time ever, looking at him. Maybe Stiles can manage it… just a 40 minute coffee date. And maybe Greenberg won’t even know it’s a date! That would keep the likelihood of humiliation down to a manageable degree, right?

“Dude, he’s totally staring at you.”

“I know, it’s freaking me out.” Because Greenberg’s drooling a little, what the fuck.

“No, not Greenberg.” Stiles follows Scott’s very unsubtle head jerk and holy mother of god, it’s Derek Hale.

Strong, silent, terrifying Derek Hale. Seriously, Stiles has lost count of the amount of terror boners he’s had to hide behind textbooks and lacrosse sticks because of that guy. He’s tall, and broad, and more muscular than a high schooler ought to be, which is probably why there are all those rumours going around that he got held back after missing a year or two due to a certain fondness for starting fires in the shop wing bathroom, oh my god.

But damn, he does fill out a leather jacket well. Not to mention those jeans. And cheekbones. And scruff – Stiles looks away, swallowing hard, because Derek’s staring at him in this weird, predatory way that looks like he wants to have Stiles for lunch, and not in a good way! Hello, terror boner #17.

“He’s still looking,” Scott says, and Stiles hisses and kicks him under the table.

“Stop looking, oh my god, what does he want, he looks like he’s going to eat me,” Stiles says.

“I don’t know,” Scott replies, obediently looking up at the ceiling, all casual-like. “Maybe if you mean, like, sexually.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles says again, shoving Scott out of his seat. “We gotta go, c’mon, c’mon, before he gets any closer.”

Scott yelps and grabs his stuff, casting one last longing glance back at Allison before they slip out of the cafeteria through the back door and onto the quad, and Stiles lets himself relax, just a little.

Now he could forget all about Derek Hale and his beautiful face and return to his regularly scheduled attempts to find a date to keep Scott from descending further into his Romeo and Juliet story with Allison.

But forgetting Derek Hale turns out not to be as easy as he’d hoped.

*

The Lacrosse team practises at the same time as the soccer team and it should be fine, but because the soccer team is full of whiny jerk babies, Stiles not only has to focus on his own practice, he’s got to make sure he keeps an eye out for incoming soccer balls too.

He’s on the bench, watching Jackson dominate on the field, as usual, this time with Scott in net, when the soccer ball comes out of nowhere and bounces off the back of his head.

“What the fuck,” he snaps, spinning around as he catches his balance and stands up, totally ready to destroy the hapless soccer player who dared kick a ball at him – and comes face to face with Derek, who’s holding the offending soccer ball under one arm and waiting, one eyebrow lifted skeptically, for whatever fightin’ words Stiles is going to say next. He squeaks instead.

“You – you don’t play soccer,” Stiles says.

Derek’s nose twitches – his nose twitches, like a bunny, what the fuck—in disgust and he says, “No.”

Derek doesn’t do sports. Or school participation. Or bother showing up to many classes, probably.

Stiles rubs at the back of his head, which is aching, and glances around to make sure someone’s got his back here in case Derek turns rabid. No one’s paying attention.

“Is your head okay?” Derek asks finally, gruffly.

“Uh. Sure. Sure.” Stiles shrugs, taking a careful step back. “Did you want something, or…” he trails off.

Derek’s eyes are bright and sort of lingering on Stiles’ neck – he’s too dark to be a vampire, isn’t he? And he says, finally, “Isaac kicked it. He’s a dick sometimes.”

Stiles glances over Derek’s shoulder and yep, there’s Isaac in his soccer gear, smirking from the sidelines and waiting for Derek to throw the ball back. “Oh.”

Derek shifts awkwardly on his feet. “Did you, uh,” he says.

Stiles rubs at the back of his neck, wants to look away, but his flight or fight instinct won’t let him take his eyes off the threat. “What?”

“Want to go.” He clears his throat, glances back at Isaac, shoots Stiles a glare, and stares down at his feet. “To the movies. With me.” He’s gritting his teeth so hard, Stiles can barely understand him.

And then his eyes go wide. “Like a date?”

Derek nods tersely.

And Stiles laughs. “Yeah, right,” he says, laughing again. It’s a high-pitched, desperate, hysterical sound because Derek Hale is so far out of his league, this has to be a joke. Stiles has been the punchline of jokes like this before, particularly after that incident with Jackson when he was 14 and even more awkward looking than he is now.

But Derek doesn’t smirk or laugh or anything at all. He sort of half flinches and then goes stony except for the flush high on his cheeks and his ears and he ducks his head and mumbles, “Sure. Sorry.” And walks away.

And Isaac looks at Stiles like Stiles is the villain of this piece, and he stands there for a long time, long after Derek has viciously tossed Isaac the stupid ball and slipped around into the shadows of the bleachers and disappeared, and he wonders if maybe, maybe, it hadn’t been a joke at all.

But that’s impossible. Derek would never. Would he?

*

He’s in art class the next day, listlessly daubing moss green on his already mouldy-looking piece of pottery, when he happens to glance up to scratch at the splotch of paint on his cheek and catches Isaac’s glare from across the room.

The fact that Isaac bothered to show up for class at all is sort of a miracle. Stiles hadn’t even known Isaac was in second period art. But here he was, wearing that silly leather jacket, his hair all messy like maybe he did it on purpose, his lips pursed a little, and his eyes narrowed into a hateful glare.

Stiles glances over his shoulder real quick, hoping someone behind him was kicking a puppy or something, but no. Isaac seems to be glaring at him.

Stiles generally stays under the radar. He doesn’t get bullied, he isn’t popular, he doesn’t date, he doesn’t skip class, he keeps his generally amazing grades under wraps, and he does his best to keep his smart ass comments to himself. Aside from that truly awful period of time when he was fourteen, when he’d first realized he was bi in practically the worst way possible and Jackson had taken every opportunity to make him feel like shit about it, Stiles had remained pretty much a non-entity in the social structure at BHS.

He’s not liking this new development.

So he ducks his head and does his best to ignore Isaac (even when Isaac starts pointedly sharpening at least half a dozen pencils into dangerous points, all the while looking like he intends to use them on Stiles’ face) and keeps up his splotchy paint job.

His shaking hands help.

When class ends, he shoves his drying vase on the rack and takes off before Isaac’s even out of his chair, booking it down the hall, around the corner, through the crowd on the stairwell, and into the English wing before Isaac can track him down and beat him up for whatever transgression he’s accidentally committed.

“Scott,” Stiles hisses, skittering to a stop at his locker, twisting the lock with shaky fingers. “Isaac Lahey wants to kill me and I don’t know why.”

Scott instantly looks worried, which is nice, since it’s a change from the usual love-struck puppy thing he’s got going on. “Are you sure you didn’t do anything? Maybe it was an accident.”

“Pretty sure,” he says, jerking his locker open and glancing nervously over his shoulder. “He’s much more terrifying than he should be, considering his, you know.” He gestures to his face and his hair, unable to quite explain how pretty Isaac was, really, when he wasn’t glowering like Stiles had done something unforgiveable. “But even yesterday, he hit me in the head with a ball, and—”

Stiles stops. His whole body freezes, mouth half open, eyes wide, remember what had happened right after that soccer ball incident. He’d done his best to forget, because it had been a stupid, cruel joke, right? Not worth getting bent out of shape over. Not worth angsting over.

Derek Hale had asked him out as a joke and Stiles had laughed it off like it didn’t matter (because it didn’t matter) and that was the end of it.

Except now, Isaac wanted to kill him. Isaac, who just happened to be one of Derek’s best friends.

Clearly this was a more complicated joke than Stiles had first assumed.

It had to be, because the alternative – that it wasn’t a joke at all – made absolutely no sense at all.

“It’s Occam’s razor,” he mumbles, and Scott looks confused.

“What?”

“The simplest explanation for something is most likely the truth,” he says. “And the simplest explanation has to be that Derek Hale and all his friends want to destroy me.”

Scott frowns. “I don’t think—”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” Stiles says, English books in hand as he kicks his locker closed. “Isn’t it?”

Scott is much more slowly closing his locker, clutching his own copy of the Crucible. “Or maybe Derek actually wanted to date you.”

Because Stiles had told him as soon as he’d gotten home, of course, expecting to share in Scott’s indignation and rage on his behalf. Scott had just hummed thoughtfully instead.

“Impossible,” Stiles says, leading the way down the hall.

“If you say so,” Scott huffs, hurrying to keep up with him. “Hey, so, I had a question. Since I can’t go on a bowling date with Allison, she thought maybe we could make it a bowling party. And then you could come too. Which means I’d be allowed to go.”

Stiles pauses long enough to give Scott a truly horrified look, because being dragged along to parties was one thing, but the actual third wheel on a date? That was a new level of hell.

“Please, Stiles?” he asks, as they duck into the class room. “Please, please, please?”

People are starting to stare. “Sure, Scotty, sure,” he hisses, to shut him up, and also because he’d never stand in the way of someone else’s happiness, just because he was doomed to be alone and miserable.

*

In gym class, they’re randomly partnered up, with one partner assigned to run three laps while the other does push ups until the first partner is done and they can switch places. Usually, the incentive of the partner’s growing rage as they attempt to do push ups is enough to inspire the runner to move quickly.

Stiles gets matched up with Boyd, who’s a decent runner, so he’s not too worried.

He’s struggling through his 47th push up when he finally glances over, arm muscles turning to limp noodles, to see Boyd lazily trudging around the track.

“What the fuck,” he calls, and Boyd offers a sloppy salute and then stops to chat with Erica, who’s waiting in line at the long jump alongside the track.

He glances over at the gym teacher to see him flirting awkwardly with the girl’s teacher, unaware of the levels of treachery happening on the track, and Stiles remembers that Boyd and Erica are pretty close with Derek too, just before his arms give out and he falls face down with a groan.

Definitely out to destroy him.

*

Stiles is mildly relieved when he follows Scott into the bowling alley later that week and finds that it’s not just going to be him, Scott and Allison after all. He’d be more excited if he wasn’t going to be forced to hang out with Jackson, but Lydia makes up for that a little bit – or she would, if she ever decided to acknowledge Stiles’ existence. But whatever; beggars can’t be choosers.

And then he notices that Isaac, Erica, Boyd and Derek are all camped out by the last lane, and he quickly starts calculating all the ways a person could be murdered in a bowling alley.

But his first game goes okay – he loses, of course he does. Stiles is a terrible bowler. He can barely move his hands and feet at the same time, never mind do both while somehow manage to roll a ball aimed at a bunch of pins. He and the gutter are pretty good friends by this point in his life and he’s okay with it.

Lydia absolutely slaughters everybody after Jackson condescendingly attempts to show her how to throw the ball, which is cool.

And Derek’s merry band of misfits keep the violence down to a few hateful glares, which Stiles is content to ignore.

After the first game wraps up, while Jackson is up getting Lydia a slushie and Allison and Scott are giggling and whispering across the table, Lydia slides in next to Stiles, twists one of her perfect curls around her finger, and says, “What’s going on with you and Derek Hale?”

Stiles swallows hard, almost unable to look away from her, because Lydia Martin is actually freaking talking to him, this is amazing. And then he shoots Derek a startled look. He’s carefully lining up his ball, his friends are all catcalling and making comments about his ass – he does have a nice ass – and none of them are paying attention to Stiles at all.

“Uh, nothing? Why?”

“He keeps looking over here,” she says with a smirk. “At you.”

“Oh.” Stiles shrugs, uncomfortable. “He and his friends have been jerks lately? I don’t know.”

“Jerks?” She laughs. “That’s not what it looks like. I heard he asked you out.”

Stiles shoots Scott a quick glare, but Scott’s paying attention suddenly, shaking his head. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Then it’s true?” Lydia’s still smirking. “And you turned him down?” She looks over at him, eyeing Derek up appreciatively. “He’s pretty hot, Stiles. You sure that’s not your type? I’ve seen you looking over at him.”

“Totally not my type,” he lies. “I’m only looking out of self-preservation or whatever, I’ll be right back.” He flings himself out of the booth and dashes off to the bathroom to avoid any more awkward questions.

Stiles loiters in the bathroom as long as he can without making it weird, and when he finally opens the door to get back to the table, he runs right into Erica, who was probably waiting for him, because that’s just how his luck is going these days.

She smiles at him, a predatory sort of smile, and then steps so close that he has no choice but to squeak and stumble back against the wall.

“What’s your problem, Stilinski?” she asks.

“My problem?” he asks, trying his best to be indignant instead of terrified. She’s standing a little close and there have been too many gorgeous-yet-terrifying women in his personal space today, and fear boners are totally a thing. “What’s yours?”

She smiles and shows too much teeth. “You’re my problem,” she says. “You’re an asshole.”

He gapes at her, struck speechless, before managing to stutter, “Me? I’m the asshole? I haven’t done anything!”

“You were a dick,” she snaps. “Derek asked you out and you were a fucking dick to him.”

“Derek asked me out as a joke,” Stiles tells her, though she should probably already know that. “I’m not – I’m not stupid enough to fall for that, not again, not—I just, listen, I get it. He would never actually, seriously want to go out with me, I get it, okay, it’s hilarious. But what did you want, did you want me to fall for it, did you want me to let him – let him make me into a punchline, I’m already a punchline, Erica, I don’t need his help with that!”

She’s staring at him now, eyebrows up, something startled in her eyes and around her mouth, and then, after a moment, she echoes, “A joke.” She starts tugging at his shirt, smoothing it back into place, fixing his collar. “You thought it was a joke.”

Stiles throws up his hands. “What else could it have been?”

She rolls her eyes and tidies his hair. “Derek doesn’t make jokes, Stiles. He barely has a sense of humour.”

And before Stiles can reply, Derek is snapping, “Erica. What are you doing?” from the end of the short hallway that leads back to the bowling alley, and Erica is rolling her eyes.

“Nothing,” she said. “Just having a little talk with Stiles.” She steps back and Stiles looks from her to Derek and back again, feeling like the world tipped a little sideways.

It had been a joke. Hadn’t it?

“Leave him alone,” Derek says, sounding weary now. “All of you.”

She smiles at Stiles, bright and terrifying, and saunters away down the hall, sliding by Derek and saying, “Sure thing, Derek.”

And then it’s just Derek and Stiles and Stiles’ growing horror as he wonders just how much of a dick he really is here, and Derek mumbles, “Sorry. I’ll tell them to back off. And—and sorry for being here. They didn’t say you’d be here.”

“Who—what.”

Derek shrugs his shoulder and turns to go and Stiles can’t get his syllables in order quickly enough to call him back.

*

Stiles keeps an eye out for Derek in the halls the next day. They don’t have any classes together and never have. Derek is a senior and probably a delinquent and Stiles is a junior on the honour roll. But the school isn’t that big. He wishes he had some idea of where high school delinquents hung out during class, but he really doesn’t know.

He arrives at lunch time a little late, and he’s half way towards his usual table when he realizes that Scott isn’t there. With a feeling of agonizing inevitability, he turns towards Lydia, Jackson and Allison’s table, and yep. There’s Scott. Pressed up against Allison and grinning his lopsided, besotted grin, while she blushes and shares her fries with him.

For a long moment, Stiles considers his options. He could sit alone, more of a social pariah than ever. He could skip lunch and keep searching for Derek. He could go eat in the library or the bathroom or in the English wing by his locker, which should be empty by now.

Before he can decide, Lydia is calling his name, her voice sweet as honey, and instantly making him suspicious.

“Come sit with us, Stiles,” she says, with a pretty smile. Jackson rolls his eyes.

“Dude!” calls Scott, finally seeing him there. “C’mon!” He scoots over, pressed more against Allison than ever, and makes room, and Stiles sits down reluctantly.

He carefully unpacks his paper bag lunch, ignoring Jackson’s comments about his juice box, his sandwich, his apple, and his granola bar, and then Lydia says brightly, “Jackson and I were just trying to convince Scott that it’s okay if he and Allison go on a double date with us.”

Scott’s looking wide-eyed and panicky, and Stiles sort of gets the impression this was something he had meant to bring up later, in private.

“There’s a party,” he says quickly. “On Friday? It’s at the lake – at Lydia’s lake house.”

“We were going to go out for dinner before,” Allison adds. “If that’s okay? I know that Scott’s not allowed to date, unless you’re dating too, and I totally respect that, I was just hoping that maybe…”

“Dinner?” he says skeptically, because does he really have to tag along on a dinner date? He has got to talk to his dad about these ridiculous rules, this is torture. “Maybe I could—”

“Just the four of us,” Jackson interrupts. “Not you.”

There’s a beat of silence. Scott winces, Allison looks awkward, Lydia elbows Jackson in the ribs, and Jackson looks like he’s enjoying all this far too much.

“Oh,” Stiles says. “I could talk to my dad, I guess?”

“Or Scott could just tell a fucking lie for once,” Jackson says, rolling his eyes.

“I told you,” Scott says, scowling. “I’m really bad at it.”

“Or,” Lydia says, before an argument breaks out. “Stiles can just get himself a date. You’re more than welcome to come to the party with someone. I mean, I know a guy whose probably up for it.” She’s looking pointedly over his shoulder and Stiles nearly sprains his neck, he turns his head so fast.

And there’s Derek, scowling at him from the doorway to the quad before abruptly turning and going back the way he had come.

“Shit,” he says. “I’ve got to – we’ll talk about it later, Scott, we’ll figure something out.” And then he’s stumbling away from the table, lunch forgotten, and hurrying after Derek.

By the time he gets out to the quad, however, Derek has disappeared.

*

The bell hasn’t even finished ringing at the end of the day before Stiles is up out of his desk and hurrying down the hall to his locker. He grabs his things, slams the door, and speed walks outside and into the parking lot.

Derek Hale’s car is almost as famous as Jackson’s. It’s a sleek, black Camaro, and it’s easy to pick out amongst the crowd of rust buckets and pick-up trucks.

He’s not quite brave enough to lean against it or anything, but Stiles definitely loiters as close to the car as he dares.

Stiles still isn’t sure what to make of the situation with Derek. Was Erica’s intervention just part of the joke? Or was it possible that it wasn’t a joke?

But one truth he has come to is that he’d rather be the punchline in someone else’s cruel joke than make someone else the punchline to his. So if there was even a chance that Derek had meant it and Stiles had been a complete asshole about it and laughed in his face, than he was going to apologize, even if it meant looking like a fool.

Stiles has always been spectacularly good at looking like a fool.

What he doesn’t anticipate, however, is that Derek just doesn’t show up. The buses all leave, the parking lot clears, and it’s nearing on four thirty, and still, Derek hasn’t come for his car.

It wouldn’t be such a big deal, but Stiles had forgotten to eat his lunch, had skipped breakfast, had basically been running on anxiety and Adderall since yesterday, and now he’s missed his after school snack too. He’s freaking starving.

He’s about to give up and start the walk home when the gymnasium door swings open and Derek comes out, all casual.

He’s wet. His hair is dripping and his shirt is clinging to his chest and arms and holy crap, high schoolers are not supposed to have muscle tone like that.

Stiles crosses his arms over his own chest self-consciously.

Derek stops abruptly when he realizes Stiles is waiting there, and the ease in his gait and his posture is gone in a second. “Stiles,” he says, wary.

“Uh, hey. Did you have detention?”

“No? Should I have?”

“You’re leaving school so late.”

Derek frowns. “I work out after school,” he says. “To help with conditioning for track.”

Stiles blinks. “You do track?”

“Cross country,” he says, shrugging and looking awkward.

Stiles avoids track like the plague. It’s boring and there’s no goalie to score on and all he gets from running is cramps and shin splints. “Oh,” he says. “Huh.”

“Did you… need something?”

Stiles blinks and flushes and says, “Oh, yeah, right, I was, uh.” He clears his throat. “I wanted to apologize. I mean, I don’t know if you meant it, the other day at Lacrosse, when you asked me to—”

“I did,” Derek says simply, still frowning.

Stiles’ heart stutters a little bit, because, what. “Oh.” He swallows. “Well. I shouldn’t have been a dick. I thought it was… that you were making fun of me.”

Derek’s frown somehow looks even scarier. “Oh.”

“I mean, why would you want to go to the movies with –” he waves his arms around, gesturing to his skinny body, his pale face, his general awkwardness. “I guess maybe because it’s dark, and you wouldn’t have to actually see—”

“No,” Derek says.

Stiles trails off, shoulders slumping. “Oh. Well. I’m sorry, then.”

There’s an awkward hesitation and then Derek sighs. “Do you want a ride home.”

His voice is so flat, it takes Stiles a moment to register that it was a question. He shoots the gorgeous car a hesitant look. “Uhm,” he says.

“Or not. That’s fine.”

He unlocks the passenger door and is about to get in and drive away and Stiles has got to get better at this!

“No!” he blurts. “I mean, yes. Sure. A ride. Yes.”

Derek looks at him, searching his face like he’s looking for clues that Stiles is about to get mean again, but then he relents with a nod. He gets in, leans over, opens the passenger door for Stiles, and then starts the engine.

Stiles lets out a shaking breath and wonders what the hell he’s doing and then climbs in.

“I live over on—”

“I know where you live,” Derek says.

“Oh.”

It’s quiet while they drive, and despite the gorgeous, soft leather interior, Stiles has trouble relaxing. Derek turns on the radio, which is good, and the air conditioner too, and the noise fills the quiet.

Finally, when Derek pulls up to the curb in front of Stiles’ place, and Stiles has his hand on the door handle and is about to open the door, he takes a deep breath and says, “But if you still wanted to do something, with me, like a date, or whatever, there’s a party on Friday we could go to.”

He’s staring at his hand on the handle and there’s a pause just long enough for him to think that Derek’s going to start laughing, that Derek didn’t mean it, that Derek didn’t hear him or maybe doesn’t know what to say because whatever passing craziness inspired him to ask Stiles to the movies was gone now and there was nothing left. And even if he did still want to do something with Stiles, Stiles is pretty sure that Derek avoids parties even more vehemently than Stiles does.

And then Derek says, pained, “Party?”

Stiles shoots him a grateful look. He’d started to worry that the awkward pause would go on forever. “At Lydia Martin’s lake house.”

Derek’s lips tighten a little, and Stiles is pretty sure he’s about to be shot down – hopefully more gently than he’d rejected Derek on the Lacrosse pitch. And then Derek says, “Okay. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“Seven,” Stiles echoes, and then he scrambles out of the car before Derek can change his mind. Derek drives away as soon as the door is closed and Stiles watches him go.

He’s still not sure what the hell is going on.

*

“So. Dad.” Stiles shoves his mouth full of healthy veggie burger and chews while the sheriff looks at him skeptically. Melissa’s working a late shift at the hospital and Scott’s working at the vet clinic and it’s just like Scott to leave the difficult conversations to Stiles.

“Usually you make real burgers if you want something,” the sheriff says suspiciously.

“I don’t want anything!” Stiles says, mouth still full. He swallows and lifts his hands up, the picture of innocence. “I just want to share something with you.”

If anything, the sheriff looks even more suspicious, so Stiles just sighs, braces himself, and says, “I’ve got a date on Friday and so does Scott, it’s a party at the Martins’ lake house, I’m sorry.”

The sheriff sets his fork down and blinks. “Oh,” he says, and Stiles is relieved. His dad isn’t a crazy, angry sort of dad, just protective, what with all the teenaged shenanigans he regularly has to deal with on the job. And then he adds, “I thought you weren’t interested in dating any so-called ‘small-minded, small-town folk’ until you were out of the watchful eye of your father the lawman and Mrs. Cuthbert, the nosey next door neighbour and her snoopy church spies?”

It’s basically a word-for-word quote. Stiles sighs. “That was two years ago, dad. I’ve grown. I’ve evolved. I’ve—”

“Scott begged you to do it, didn’t he?”

Stiles blinks. Sometimes he underestimates his father’s investigative skills. “He really likes her,” he says.

“And did it ever occur to you that you two could have just come to me and talked about it, that I’m a rational sort of guy who isn’t really into the idea of enforcing rules that don’t even make sense, that were half made as a joke because Scott was 14 and crying over another broken heart and it was just a lot for a dad to have to deal with?”

“No,” Stiles says, scowling.

“So who’s the girl?” he asks.

“Allison. Scott says she looks like a Disney princess.”

“I mean your girl.”

Stiles blinks, opens his mouth, blinks again, and then says, “Derek Hale?”

“Derek Hale? Arsonists who nearly burned down the school Derek Hale? That Derek Hale?” And there it is. There’s the furious, overprotective father Stiles was expecting.

At least he’s not flipping out that Stiles’ date isn’t a girl. That’s progress.

*

Stiles is jumpy for the rest of the week, expecting to be confronted at any moment by Derek or his friends or someone else, ready to laugh in his face. Instead, it’s business as usual – except with more Jackson and Lydia than he’s used to, but they seem to be content to ignore him, so that’s a win.

He practices for Lacrosse, he does his homework, he goes to class, he doesn’t see Derek at all, so even if he no longer technically has to go on his weird date with Derek on Friday, Stiles doesn’t have a chance to cancel. Which he would totally do, if he happened to see Derek in the hall.

Totally.

So Scott goes off to pick up Allison in the jeep they share, already high on love and hormones and whatever else, and Stiles is left home alone to panic about what he’s going to wear and what actually happens on a date, and if Derek is as scary in private as he seems to be at school, or if the awkward inability to form complete sentences and the murder eyebrows are as bad as it’ll get.

Maybe he should cancel.

But he doesn’t; he pulls on his nicest jeans and his cleanest t-shirt, throws on his trusty plaid shirt, makes a half-hearted effort to dust off his converse, and decides that’s just about as good as it’ll get.

It’s not a real date anyway.

Derek pulls up at 6:58, which is two minutes early, and Stiles is not ready, like, emotionally, but he runs out of the house, locking the door behind him, and throws himself into the passenger seat, because keeping someone waiting is rude, and Derek is scary enough.

“Uh,” Derek says. “Did you want me to…” he trails off, rubbing at his hair and looking everywhere but at Stiles. “Say hi to your dad? Or something?”

Stiles stares. Derek showed up two minutes early to meet his parents?

“He’s at work,” Stiles says, and Derek shrugs one shoulder like it doesn’t matter and puts the car in drive.

It’s quiet and awkward and Stiles doesn’t know what to do to break the awkwardness, or even if he wants to, so he slides low in the amazing leather seat and taps his fingers nervously on his thighs and tries to imagine how this whole date thing is going to work out.

“Did you want to get something to eat first?” Derek asks finally, and Stiles turns to look at him blankly. “We could go to Olive Garden?”

“Oh god no,” Stiles says quickly, because the last thing he needs to do is show up to Olive Garden where Scott is on his double date with Allison, Lydia and Jackson. It’s not til Derek turns to glare back at the road ahead of them and clenches his jaw that Stiles realizes he’s accidentally being a dick again.

“I’m not hungry,” he adds awkwardly. “And Scott’s there on a date, with Jackson – not a date with Jackson, but a double date, with Allison and Lydia, and I’ve fifth-wheeled enough of their dates. Thanks, though.”

Derek’s jaw relaxes, just a little, and he nods once.

Stiles wonders if this is how all first dates go.

*

The party is loud. Lydia’s not even there yet, but there are already people crowding into her lake house and spilling out into the back yard and down the gentle slope to the dock that stretches out over the black water. Patio lanterns are swinging from the trees, someone’s started a fire in the pit out back, and the ground is shaking with something hip hoppy. The whole party is lit up like a circus among the dark shadows of the countryside, no neighbours in sight.

Derek hesitates in the doorway, looking wide-eyed and out of place, and it’s pretty much the way Stiles is feeling too, so he says, “Want to go around back? It should be quieter.”

Derek nods and they go back outside, circling the house, and the back yard is just as busy, but the music is muffled, at least.

“I’ll get drinks,” Stiles declares, because people are staring at him and Derek and he’s already feeling awkward without people gawking like the fact that he actually managed to show up at a party with someone as hot as Derek is completely mind blowing.

“Sure,” Derek says, quiet. “Just water’s good.”

Stiles threads his way through the crowd and into the kitchen, grabbing two bottles of water before making his way back, and he finds Derek sitting on the stairs leading up to the deck along the side of the house, where it’s darker and less populated.

After a slight hesitation, he sits beside him.

They sip water in silence and then Derek finally breaks it, saying, “Does your dad know you’re out with me?”

“Yes.”

Derek glances at him, surprised. “I didn’t think he’d let you go, if he knew it was me.” He scowls a little. “He didn’t seem to really like me.”

“You met him?”

“After that, uh. Fire in the bathroom. Yeah.”

Stiles’ eyes widen. “Oh. Right. Uh, he mentioned that. He had some… concerns.”

Derek snorts and downs half his water but doesn’t reply.

It’s quiet for a little while longer, and then Stiles says, “He’ll probably just chalk it up to my teenaged rebellion. It’s about time I had one.”

Stiles looks sideways at Derek and sees him smile a little, which he takes as a win.

“We can go in, if you want. To dance or whatever,” Derek says finally, playing with the label on his water bottle. “It was just a lot, when we first got here. Parties aren’t really my thing.”

“Oh god,” Stiles laughs. “Me either. Don’t worry. I’m not really the party type.”

Derek is staring at him, eyes narrowed, like he can’t figure Stiles out, and Stiles guess that’s warranted. He did invite the guy to a party and then admit that he hates parties.

“But we could go walk by the lake, if you want? There’s a boardwalk, apparently.”

Derek shrugs but he looks relieved, and Stiles gets up to lead the way. They’re just making their way around the fire pit when Stiles stumbles a little and trips, bumping into someone, and of course it’s Jackson. Why wouldn’t it be, with his luck?

Jackson turns around – he’s got a beer in his hand and a sneer on his face that just gets worse when he sees it was Stiles who accidentally shoved him.

“Stilinski,” he says, rolling his eyes. Then he sees Derek right behind him and his face twists with something cruel. “And Hale. Holy shit, Stilinski, look at you go.”

Stiles’ eyes narrow but he says politely, “Sorry, I tripped.” And he tries to go around him but Jackson sidesteps and won’t let him pass. “I didn’t think partying was your thing,” he says with a smirk. “At least anymore.”

Stiles goes cold and still. “Move,” he snaps, but Jackson ignores him.

“Where are you going?” Jackson asks. “Going to hook up on the beach? Fuck, Hale, you’re really slumming it tonight, aren’t you? Don’t worry, he’s pretty easy. He’ll practically beg you for it, whether you want it or not.”

And Stiles can’t breathe. He’s so angry but he can’t make his hands stop shaking, he can’t make his mouth open to spill out the furious words he wants to say. His stomach is sick and his mind is sicker and he feels stupid and awkward and 14 again.

“Stiles,” Derek says, quiet, hand slipping to Stiles’ shoulder. “Would you mind getting me a drink? I’d like to have a word with Jackson.”

Stiles doesn’t move for a long moment and Jackson is still looking snide and smug. Derek’s hand tightens, just a little, and his thumb runs up the side of Stiles’ neck, making him shiver, and he stumbles back a step and stares at Derek, startled.

“Sure,” he says, because getting away from Jackson sounds like the best idea, before he does something stupid like start to cry. “Water?”

“Whatever,” Derek says, smiling at him like things weren’t awkward and stupid between them.

Stiles nods and stumbles away and doesn’t look back, even when he hears glass breaking.

*

He grabs a bottle of water and then Scott’s there, hanging off his shoulders and tipsy and so happy to see him. He’s talking about his date with Allison and tugging Stiles into the dining room and calling for shots and Stiles is sick and shaking and so fucking angry.

So when Scott offers him a shot and a hopeful smile, he takes it, and then another and another and with each one, he’s a little less angry, he’s shaking a little less. And fuck it, Stiles is a fucking master at partying, he’s fun when he drinks, he hasn’t had fun in two years, so he’s going to have fun now. He’ll drink and he’ll dance and the next time he sees Jackson, he’ll puke on his shoes.

It’s a great plan.

*

They’re dancing and the music isn’t so bad when he can barely hear it over the buzzing in his ears. Stiles loves dancing, how could he forget how much he loves dancing, he is the best at dancing, all his awkwardness is gone, his arms and legs do what he wants them to and if they don’t, he just shrugs it off and keeps dancing. He’s bouncing around the crowd of dancing, grinding people like a pinball, all kinetic energy and exuberance and everyone is laughing but they’re laughing with him, they’ve gotta be, because Stiles is laughing too.

He’s searching for Scott, and his face is aching, he’s smiling so big, stumbling around and peering into the faces of everyone around him, trying to pick out Scott’s familiar mouth, his hair, his stupid jaw.

He runs into a hard wall of muscle that’s definitely not Scott, and he tumbles backwards, laughing, and peers up into Derek Hale’s face.

“Oh!” he says. “Oh, my date. I didn’t forget, no sir.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “I was getting you a beverage.”

“Shit,” Derek huffs. “I lost you for 20 minutes, what did you do?”

“Forgot all my troubles,” Stiles says, throwing his arms out. He hits a wall with one hand and someone’s arm with the other. “Fuckin’ Jackson, am I right?” He looks around, because if he sees Jackson, he’s totally going to throw up on his shoes, but Jackson is nowhere in sight.

“I thought you said partying wasn’t your thing.”

Stiles squints up at him, but he’s having trouble focusing. Those last three shots are hitting him all at once and the room has started tipping sideways. He staggers to the left to keep his balance. Derek catches him by the wrist.

“I’m turning to jello,” Stiles tells him solemnly, because he can feel it, starting in his shins and moving upwards. Soon he won’t be upright at all.

“Oh hell,” Derek grumbles, but he’s scooping Stiles up against his side, arm around his shoulders. “Outside. The fresh air will help.”

They stagger out the backdoor together, down the stairs, around the fire pit, and down towards the lake, and someone’s catcalling, saying something lewd about what they intend to do down there in the dark, which is stupid.

“I’m too drunk to consent, dickweed!” Stiles shouts, and Derek holds him closer.

“Keep walking,” he says grimly. “I think I saw a bench over here when I was looking for you.”

They make it to the boardwalk and turn to the left, and he’s right. There’s a bench just where the shadows get thicker, overlooking the lake, and Stiles gratefully melts into it when Derek lets him go.

He’s on his back, one foot up on the bench, knee pulled up, the other trailing down on the ground, by the arm that’s turned to jello. His head is tipped back and he can see the stars, which are swaying to the rhythm set by the lake lapping at the shore. It should be making him motion sick, but instead, it soothes his stomach a little, and the quiet calms his mind.

Derek sits at the end of the bench, scooping up Stiles’ leg and propping it across his knees. It’s another anchor point that keeps Stiles from spinning away, and he’s grateful for it.

“Pretty cheap drunk,” Derek says.

“Says you,” Stiles hums. “I’m a great drunk. The greatest. Everything is better with alcohol.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Stiles props himself up on one elbow, pointing an accusing finger at Derek. “You asked me on a date,” he says, scowling.

Derek just watches him quietly, looking bemused.

“That’s not fair.” Stiles flops back down and blinks back at the stars. “Movies,” he scoffs. “Who does that.”

“What’s wrong with movies?”

“I love movies,” Stiles says. “Movies are the best. Jaws. E.T. Did you see Captain America? Amazing.”

“Okay.”

He huffs a little. “Asking me to the movies. I don’t go to the movies. Dates. Dates are the worst. Who – I don’t need you.”

“Oh.” Derek is quiet for a minute, and then he says, “Okay. You don’t have to be on a date with me if you don’t want to. But I’m not going to leave you here like this.”

Stiles sits up, sliding back and turning until he’s sitting properly eyes wide. “No, no, I don’t – no, see, my dad, he said Scott couldn’t date unless I date.” He leans extra close, trying to make sure Derek knows how serious this is.

“I heard something about that,” Derek says, wary.

“So, you.” He points again, poking his finger against Derek’s chest. It’s a nice chest, he knows, and he uncurls his hand to press his palm there instead, letting it linger. “So, you…” he trails off, swallowing, staring at his hand. “You.” And then Derek reaches up, takes his hand, and doesn’t let go. They’re basically holding hands, on Derek’s knee now, and Stiles feels like his brain skipped a beat somewhere.

“What about me?” Derek asks, and Stiles looks up at his face, startled.

“You. I asked you on a date,” Stiles remembers. “But I didn’t have to.”

Derek scowls a little. “Yeah, I got it. Do you want me to take you home?”

Stiles considers. He glances around at the lake, at the stars, at the trees, at the light filtering through them from the party, and then down where Derek’s loosely holding his hand.

“No,” he says, quiet. “No. But people like you don’t ask people like me on dates.”

“I do,” Derek says, his face softening a little. He clears his throat and his gaze skitters away, almost shyly, and he says, “I like people like you. Or just. Just you, specifically.”

“Specifically,” Stiles echoes, uncertain.

Derek shrugs a little and looks back at him and says, “I’d probably have picked a better date, though.”

“Like the movies?”

“Like… canoeing on the lake. Or hiking. D’you—is that—if you’d want.”

Stiles’ eyes go wide. “You’re shy,” he breathes. “You’re not scary and mean, you’re shy. Oh my god, that’s—”

And then he throws up on Derek’s shoes.

After the puking is done, his head feels much clearer – just clear enough for the humiliation to come seeping in, and he says mournfully, “That was supposed to happen to Jackson’s shoes.”

Derek laughs. It’s nice and unexpected and better than freaking out and leaving him there, but then he says he should probably get Stiles home, and he probably should. Stiles has embarrassed himself enough for one night.

Stiles doesn’t remember much about the ride home, which means he probably fell asleep, which he decides not to think about.

The hangover lasts the whole weekend.

*

Scott is on cloud nine, whatever that means. His feet are barely touching the ground. Allison is a princess made of fairy glitter and angel wings and whatever else, and they spend the weekend doing coupley things, without Lydia and Jackson, and Stiles is grateful that he’s got the house to himself. It’s good for his recovery process, and it gives him space to work on overcoming his humiliation.

By Monday, he’s feeling better, but exhausted, and also not looking forward to running into Derek. He puked on Derek’s shoes. After getting trashed at a stupid party he hadn’t wanted to go to, because Jackson had been a dick. Way to go, Stilinski. Best first date ever.

He’s anticipating a day of avoiding Derek, slumping through his classes, barely surviving, and then running home to hide in his room and play more Call of Duty while pretending this day – this weekend – hadn’t happened.

Instead, he turns down the hall to his locker and sees Derek leaning awkwardly against it, shoulders hunched up in his leather jacket, hands in his pockets, staring down at his feet with a scowl.

“Uh, hi,” Stiles says, and behind him, Scott stumbles to a stop, his monologue about Allison’s fantastic personality trailing off.

“Stiles.” Derek looks relieved. He straightens up, shoots Scott a quick, nervous look, and then smiles a little at Stiles. “Hi. I was waiting for you.”

“Uh huh. Yeah. Uh, what’s up? Sorry about the…” he gestures to Derek’s shoes. “And the drinking. And the… pretty much all the awkwardness, I guess.”

Derek shrugs like it doesn’t matter (it totally matters!) and then looks at Scott again, hesitates, and then says, “We were going to go hiking this week. If you still want to. Or if you even remember. I was going to call you on Sunday to see if you wanted to go then, but I never got your number.”

Stiles blinks; it’s a lot of information, and before he can process or even begin to filter it, Scott’s rattling off Stiles’ phone number and grinning like an idiot.

Derek scrambles for his phone and types it in quickly and then glances at Stiles and looks awkward, so he finally says, “I remember… something about hiking.” He says it cautiously, because things are still pretty hazy.

“I thought we could go hiking in the Preserve,” Derek says. “Maybe after school?”

“As a date,” Stiles says, just to make sure.

“I think you called it a ‘do-over’ of our first date,” Derek says, smiling a small smile. “If you still want to.”

“He totally does,” Scott says, and huh. It’s kind of true.

Derek just watches him steadily, waiting for Stiles’ answer, and finally, Stiles huffs a little and says, “Okay. Sure.”

“I’ll pick you up after school,” Derek says, most of the tension leaving his shoulders.

“Sweet.” Stiles grins. “My dad’ll be home this time.”

Derek goes a little pale, but nods grimly before walking away.

*

It’s a well-known fact that Harris is the worst, and for some inexplicable reason, he’s determined to destroy Stiles’ life by failing him in Chemistry. It doesn’t make much sense, because if Stiles fails, he’ll have to take Chem again, and if Harris really hates him, he should probably be doing his best to pass him so he never has to see him again.

That logic seems too much for Harris, though, and Stiles has to put up with Harris’s passive aggressive dickishness on a regular basis.

Stiles and Scott are sitting together, as usual, at the back of the room and Scott is trying his best to interrogate Stiles for details on what happened at the party Friday, details which Stiles himself is struggling to recall, when Harris loses his temper.

“Mr. Stilinski,” he snaps, which is blatantly unfair. Stiles was trying to pay attention, but Scott kept poking him, asking him questions, teasing him, and passing notes that said things like, “SERIOUSLY, DID YOU MAKE OUT Y/Y?!?!?!” and really, how is Stiles supposed to focus under these conditions? He has trouble focusing at the best of times.

But it just goes to figure that Stiles gets called out instead of Scott, who instantly looks contrite.

“If your conversation with Scott is so much more important than my lesson, maybe you wouldn’t mind sharing with the class.”

“Oh, no, sir,” Stiles says smartly. “Nothing is more important than covalent bonds, Mr. Harris.” He says it with a smarmy, wide grin, because it’s so easy to rile Harris up, and sometimes the power goes right to his head.

“Really?” Harris arches an eyebrow. “If that’s true, what is it about covalent bonds you find so fascinating?”

He’s obviously anticipating that Stiles doesn’t even know what a covalent bond is, and that’s just rude. He has the second highest grades in the school. Stiles may come off as a hyperactive kid who can’t pay attention, but he does is best.

So he rattles off the definition of a covalent bond easily – a molecular bond involving the sharing of electrons between atoms, forming bonding pairs which form stable balances of attractive and repulsive forces – and then launches into an impassioned speech linking those shared bonds, positive and negative electrons, etc., to current events, cultural trends, and a few literary devices, all linked back to the history of circumcision.

It gives Scott just enough time to finish destroying all of his stupid notes, which is great, and also results in Harris looking constipated and confused, which is better.

“Fascinating,” he says dryly. And also, “Maybe you’d like to write a report about it in detention after school.”

Which is totally cool, Stiles is used to detentions courtesy of Harris – and then he remembers he has a freaking date and he groans and slumps in his chair.

Harris smirks, all triumphant, and Stiles wishes he’d just kept his mouth shut for once in his life.

*

Stiles sends Scott off with the unfortunate task of telling Derek that Stiles has to reschedule their date and then spends an hour morosely poking at his homework and scowling. It’s a beautiful day out, and he glares resentfully at the cloudless, sunny sky mocking him from the window. A perfect day for wandering the woods with the oddly attractive guy who weirdly wants to go on a date with him despite the puking incident.

He checks his phone as soon as he’s out of detention and scowls when he has no messages. He hadn’t been smart enough to get Derek’s number and Derek hasn’t texted him at all, so he’s probably pissed about having to reschedule. Or maybe he hadn’t intended on showing up at all. Or maybe Scott hadn’t found him and he he had showed up at Stiles’ place and Stiles hadn’t been there and the sheriff had scared him off.

They’re all terrible scenarios, and Stiles is feeling pretty shitty when he trudges out of the school, squinting against the sun and gearing up for the long, stupid walk home.

“Uh, hey.”

Stiles stumbles to a stop and blinks. He was so caught up in his own misery that he didn’t even see Derek standing there, leaning against his amazing car, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Derek,” he says. “What are you – Hi.”

“Scott said you got detention, so I thought I’d pick you up here,” Derek says. “If you still want to go? I got cheeseburgers and curly fries and drinks, if you’re hungry.”

He looks awkward and uncomfortable and not scary at all and Stiles is beginning to think that Derek might not be the super angry scary dude he’d always assumed him to be.

“Clever,” Stiles says, beaming. “Once again avoided meeting my dad.”

Derek’s eyes widen. “No!” he says. “That wasn’t – we can go by your house if you want, I would love to meet your dad!”

Stiles ducks his head to hide a smile. Derek is totally a secret marshmallow. “Nah,” he says. “Next time.” He climbs into the passenger seat and Derek looks over as he does up his seat belt, smiling a little shyly.

“Next time?” he asks.

“I mean, unless I puke on your shoes or something,” Stiles says, feeling a little awkward, but pushing past it.

“I wore washable shoes this time,” Derek tells him, so solemnly that Stiles can’t tell if he’s joking.

It’s quiet on the ride out to the Preserve, but it’s a soft, anxiety-free sort of quiet, with classic rock on the radio and his mouth full of curly fries, so Stiles doesn’t mind.

He spends the time drafting up a mental list of Discussion Topics to help ease any awkwardness.

They park by the gate, and Derek looks reluctantly impressed by how many curly fries Stiles can shove in his mouth at once.

It’s cooler in the forest than it was by the school, which is nice, with sunlight falling through the tree branches above and a breeze that smells of earth and woods, which Stiles has always loved. He and Scott spent so much time out in these woods as kids, best friends before their parents decided to marry and make them brothers, but with high school and lacrosse and Scott’s sad attempts at a love life, they hadn’t had much time for wandering lately.

“Want to go anywhere in particular?” Stiles asks, and Derek shrugs one shoulder like he doesn’t care, but then takes the lead, so Stiles follows along happily – it’s a nice view.

Derek’s ass, that is. Stiles isn’t too shameless to admit it.

Twenty minutes in, he’s already quizzed Derek on his favourite movies, what would be on the soundtrack of his life, his family life, what he wants to be when he grows up, his dream car, his dream vacation, his favourite superhero, if he prefers dogs or cats, his favourite colour, his favourite class, his favourite food and his preferred super power.

He’s also struggling to keep up. Endurance has never really been his thing – whenever Coach makes then run suicides or laps, he nearly dies before it’s done. Derek, though, apparently wasn’t joking about that cross country thing, because he isn’t even winded. It could be that Stiles has been doing most of the talking – launching into long monologues about his own thoughts on movies, music, careers, cars, vacations, heroes, dogs, colours, classes, foods and super powers.

And sure, Derek has offered to slow down or rest or whatever, but Stiles isn’t about to let this date derail itself by his weak lung capacity, not after his weak alcohol tolerance derailed the first one.

So he does his best to soldier on, grim, sweaty, and out of breath, and finally, finally, can’t keep talking.

The silence he’d so dreaded falls, and it’s not as awkward as he had worried it would be.

And Derek slows down. But he doesn’t ask if Stiles needs him to, so Stiles will take it with his dignity bruised but intact.

The silence and slower speed also gives him the focus he needs to pay attention to where he puts his feet. Stiles has never been the most graceful of people, and the forest floor is littered with rocks and roots just waiting to trip him up.

He’s lost his footing more times than he can count, and it’s only be the grace of God that he hasn’t totally wiped out and ended up face planting somewhere.

“The lake my sister and I used to swim in when we were kids is just down here,” Derek says, and Stiles eyes widen a bit as he realizes they’ve come to a rocky, muddy, steep slope. There is no way his tired muscles and uncoordinated limbs are going to make it down there with his dignity intact.

“We can go back, if you want,” Derek says, frowning a little.

“No, no,” Stiles says airily. “I’m good.”

And he sets off down the hill with all the confidence he doesn’t feel, and it doesn’t take too long before he staggers a bit, causing the muddy ground under his feet to give way, and he’s about to tumble headlong down the hill when Derek jerks him up by the back of his shirt.

“Maybe I should go first,” he says, and Stiles laughs to hide how embarrassing this is.

But maybe it’s not so bad. Derek is the best at making sure Stiles doesn’t fall, and he does it by holding his hand and always finding the best, sturdiest places to put his feet with some sort of supernatural instinct. He turns back to help Stiles over particularly tricky terrain, and at one point, even reaches up with both hands at Stiles’ hips to brace him as he hops down a little incline.

With Derek’s help and a whole lot of concentration, it’s possible this whole thing won’t end in tears.

But maybe the silence is getting to Derek, or he wants to distract Stiles from how shitty he is at functioning like a normal person who has grown into his lanky limbs. He says, “Any more questions? I was expecting an interrogation from your dad, not from you.”

And he’s teasing, Stiles can hear it in his voice, but it’s distracting. “I learned all I know about interrogation from my dad,” Stiles says, glancing at Derek quickly before focusing on keeping his footing. “I’m really good with a set of handcuffs, too, but he didn’t teach me that.”

And he glances up at Derek, trying to be flirty, and Derek’s head snaps around, eyes widening a little, and then he smiles, this slow, devastating sort of beautiful smile, and says, “Yeah? One day you’ll have to show me.”

And, shit. Just. Stiles is instantly so taken by the image – and by so many questions — like if Derek means sexually — he probably means sexually —and who would be wearing the handcuffs (Stiles is an equal opportunity sort of guy) and what exactly it would be like to be tied down with Derek above him, or below him, or beside him, or inside—

Yeah, so, it’s not exactly unexpected when he takes a step without looking, misses the rock Derek had found for him to step on, hits loose shale instead, and loses his footing in a spectacularly violent sort of way. His foot flies out from under him, his balance is shot, his other foot skids in the shale and gives it up for lost and he flies forward, slams into Derek, knocks him off balance as well, and they tumble down the hill in a grunting, gasping, pained tangle of limbs.

Stiles lands hard on his back, halfway in the lake, Derek heavy on top of him, and in his brief handcuff fantasy before he’d fallen, he’d sort of imagined it going differently.

Slimy lake water hadn’t been soaking into his underpants, for one.

“Ow,” he breathes, eyes squeezed shut as the world keeps spinning. “Ow.”

He’s expecting some sort of anger from Derek, because who wouldn’t be angry, being shoved down a hill and halfway into a lake? But Derek panics instead. “Fuck,” he says. “Stiles – are you okay? Is anything broken? Can you walk?”

And his hands are on Stiles’ face, brushing something – leaves? Mud? Who can tell – away from Stiles’ face and then shoving his hair out of his eyes and maybe if Stiles keeps his eyes closed, he can pretend that they’re just… making out or something. Or that none of this is happening at all.

Except Derek’s shaking him now, his voice getting more and more panicky, and it’s possible he thinks Stiles is dead.

“Your shoes are in the lake, aren’t they?” Stiles says reluctantly, opening his eyes. “I mean, it’s got to be better than puke, but. There are probably leeches.”

Derek blinks down at him, and fuck. Life is unfair. Because Derek’s eyes are wide and beautiful and it’s just so unfair.

“Leeches,” Derek echoes. “But you’re okay?”

Stiles does a quick mental tally, and other than aches and pains, he seems to be fully functioning. “Yes,” he says miserably. “Sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I was trying, I really was trying not to be a clumsy fucking mess, I swear I was. I got distracted.” He waves one muddy hand, spraying dirty water, and winces when it lands on Derek’s perfectly sculpted cheekbone. “By the handcuffs.” He looks away, defeated. “And probably your face. It’s a very nice face.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, exasperated.

But Stiles has no self- respect left, so he keeps talking. “My dad says I’ll grow into my arms and legs eventually. And maybe I’ll even be tall. That’ll be cool, right? Scott says if I learn to move my hands and feet at the same time, I’ll probably make a pretty decent lacrosse player, so maybe when I’m a senior, I’ll actually do more than warm the bench. But I can’t see it happening, I’m just—”

“Hey.”

Stiles finally gives up, sighs, and looks up at Derek. “I can walk home, if you want. So I don’t get your seats muddy.”

An eyebrow goes up. “You could barely manage to walk this far into the woods, I don’t know if I trust you to make it all the way home safely,” he drawls.

“I could probably call my dad? If my phone survived the fall, I guess.”

“Stiles.” Derek’s laughing now, and Stiles isn’t sure if he’s laughing at him or with him, because Stiles isn’t exactly laughing. He’s feeling pretty miserable, actually, but Derek’s whole face brightens when he laughs, and Stiles isn’t sure he’s ever seen it before.

“I like your arms,” Derek says, still smiling. “And your legs. And your face.”

Stiles blinks at him. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

And Stiles isn’t sure he believes Derek, really, but then Derek’s rolling his eyes almost fondly, and kissing him, so Stiles is willing to believe that it’s possible that maybe, just maybe… maybe Derek does like him. At least a little.

Because Stiles knows he has mud splattered on his face and Derek doesn’t seem to mind.

“Stop thinking,” Derek says, breaking the kiss but only to brush his lips down along Stiles’ jaw. “You forgot to kiss me back.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, a grin finally cracking the muddy pout he could still feel on his face. “Oh, I did, kiss me again.”

So Derek does, and it’s amazing, and if it tastes like mud, Stiles doesn’t mind, because it’s the best kiss he can remember, and it makes his fingertips tingle, and his toes go numb – though that could be the cold lake water.

And then something slimy wiggles up his pantleg and Stiles starts to scream about leeches and water-borne vampires and Derek’s laughing so hard that he’s finally having trouble breathing, and after they pull each other out of the lake, they decide to head back to the car and into town for ice cream, because it’s probably safer.

*

Stiles might possibly owe Scott a few apologies.

Because everything is different. School is different – practically glittering with possibility because at any moment, Stiles knows he can run into Derek, and get those stupid, magical, ridiculous butterfly feelings in his stomach. Lunch is different because Derek’s waiting shyly by his locker to ask Stiles if he wants to come and eat on the bleachers with all his friends. Gym class is different because Boyd is reluctantly friendly instead of antagonistic, and it’s amazing how different a game of dodgeball goes when you’ve got Boyd on your side.

Not even Harris can bring Stiles down these days, because whatever rage and angst used to linger after chemistry class is gone the instant he’s out the door and in the hall again, because Derek’s bumping shoulders with him or smiling at him or shyly asking him to the movies or offering him a ride home or just existing with his magical eyes and smile and face and shoulders and ass and his sparkling personality too.

So it’s possible that now that Derek seems intent on, like. Dating him. Or whatever. Hanging out in a non-platonic manner? Whatever it is that they’re doing – it’s much harder than Stiles thought it would be to keep all his sappy, love-struck, afterschool special declarations of the amazingness of Derek Hale to himself.

He’s determined not to be like Scott and Allison, so he manages, but it’s a struggle. And there are plenty of wordless sighs and heart eyes that he may or may not admit to.

But Scott’s always got Stiles’ back, so he doesn’t mention it, only grins and kicks him under the table when Derek appears in the library during study hall, or gamely distracts their dad whenever he tries to bring up Stiles’ personal life by launching into another Allison Is So Great Monologue.

And everything is amazing. Sometimes Derek holds his hands in the hallway, and a few times, he’s appeared and solemnly offered to carry Stiles’ books, he even swings by Stiles’ house to pick him and Scott up in the morning to make sure they’re not late for homeroom – which Stiles is sure his teacher appreciates.

Yeah, okay, it’s only been a week. And Stiles isn’t entirely irrational. He knows that high school romances aren’t exactly built to last until the end of time. But there’s suddenly a possibility now, whereas before, the only certainty he had was that he would be alone until he got out of Beacon Hills, and then maybe he’d find someone who wanted to hold his hand and maybe kiss him.

It does seem too good to be true. And Stiles does try to caution himself to take it easy, to be cautious, to be careful, not to just tear his heart out and chuck it at Derek willy-nilly and hope for the best.

But Derek makes it so easy.

So a week later, they spill out of the theatre together – Boyd and Erica leading the way, holding hands and laughing, Isaac sullenly following behind, and Stiles tucked under Derek’s arm and curled into his leather jacket against the autumn chill.

Erica is teasing Boyd about homecoming, which is a few days away, something about a corsage and matching shoes and maybe putting out afterwards, and Stiles isn’t really listening. He’s happy, and Derek smells amazing, and Derek’s jacket is warm, and they’re walking through the pools of light from the streetlights, towards the car, when Derek tugs him closer and says, “Hey.”

He sounds weirdly nervous, which he hasn’t been all week, the awkwardness fading after that spectacularly awkward fall into the lake. “Yeah?” Stiles asks, wondering if this was it.

He’s not sure which ‘it’ he’s thinking it might be – is Derek going to dump him? Or ask him to go steady? Is that a thing that happens anymore?

“You want to go with me?” Stiles blinks up at him, blank, and Derek smiles crookedly, hopefully. “To homecoming.”

And Stiles has never cared about homecoming. He and Scott would usually just eat their body weight in junk food and play video games until 4am. But this year, Scott’s probably going to the dance. And for a moment, Stiles wonders if this could be real, if he could have this. He never let himself want it before – the clichéd high school romance, the afterschool special he’d always mocked before. But he’d never thought he could have it before.

And he wondered what it would be like, walking into the gymnasium all decked out in disco balls and streamers, holding Derek’s hand, and dancing together to Stairway to Heaven, and maybe making out a little bit, and maybe they were officially Together, if Derek is asking him to arguably the second most important high school social function of the year.

“Yeah,” he breathes, because for the first time, he thinks, yes. He’s good enough to have this. Someone finally wants to have this with him.

And if he’s got butterflies again, no one has to know.

*

Scott and Allison are getting a limo with Lydia and Jackson, apparently, but when Derek worriedly asks Stiles if he wants something like that too, Stiles just laughs. He’s not half as ostentatious, and besides, the Camaro is so much hotter.

Maybe they can make out in it after. Which would be amazing.

So the night of the dance, he dresses in his trusty best jeans and a button down shirt that Melissa always tells him brings out his eyes. Derek looks amazing, which isn’t a surprise, and for the first time in a long time, Stiles isn’t nervous about going to a teenaged social rite of passage.

The gym is a baby powdered, smoky, streamered disaster, and someone’s already spiked the punch by the time they get there, but Stiles doesn’t care. The music is awful, people are already making out on the dance floor, he can smell pot smoke wafting in through the door cracked open at the back, but he still feels like Cinderella.

“You clean up okay,” Erica says, and Stiles is pretty sure she was one of the people making out on the dance floor when they walked in.

“Thanks,” he says, and she smiles like she means it, which is nice. She’s not half as scary as he always thought she was – in fact, he’s coming to the realization that Derek and his friends are all bark, no bite. He’s not even sure they were the ones responsible for that bathroom fire.

Stiles is on his way back from the bathroom when Scott appears out of the smoky shadows and beams at him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He smells like spiked punch and happiness.

“I think you like him,” he declares, and Stiles stares at him blankly. “Derek!” he says. “You totally like him. I mean, I know you’re only hanging out with him so that I could date Allison, but I can tell, you actually want to date him, don’t you? Admit it.”

“Dude,” Stiles says, laughing. “Where have you been? Of course I want – like, have you seen him? Also, he’s hilarious. And adorable. And not scary at all. I was never – you know Dad said that rule was ridiculous, right? That you could date whoever you wanted without me having to do anything at all to make it okay? Apparently that rule was just a joke.”

Scott’s eyes got big. “Huh. That makes more sense, really.”

“Uh huh. So I was never…” his face was flushing but he clears his throat and soldiers on. “I wanted to. I mean, who wouldn’t? Have you—”

“I have seen him,” Scott says solemnly. “Not my type. But totally yours.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees.

Scott grins and elbows him in the gut and then hugs him sloppily and declares, “I am so happy!” And then he spots Allison, Lydia and Jackson and stumbles off towards them, calling, “Allison! I have awesome news!”

Stiles rolls his eyes fondly and goes in search of Derek, who’s waiting for him by the back door, cracked open for ventilation. Erica and Boyd are with him, and Isaac’s probably sneaked off to do something nefarious.

Cryin’ by Aerosmith comes on and Erica squeals something about how amazingly awful the music is before dragging Boyd out to dance, and Stiles says, “We should—” and he’s going to suggest something like ‘stand awkwardly by the wall’ or maybe ‘make out by the bleachers if you want to’ or even ‘go outside, I totally need some air, this fake smoke is killing me, and we can definitely make out in the dark, right?’

Instead, Derek interrupts and says hopefully, “Dance?”

Stiles blinks. And maybe he blushes. “Yeah,” he says, like that’s what he meant to suggest the whole time. “Totally.”

He’s never actually done the slow dancing thing before. But how hard could it be?

So he plants his hands on Derek’s shoulders and he’s standing about a foot away, and this is how it works, right? He doesn’t want to be too presumptuous about how much of Derek’s personal space he’s allowed to take up here.

“I’m probably worse at dancing than I am at hiking,” he confesses, and Derek just laughs and his hands are on Stiles’ hips and it’s just as perfectly awkward and hilarious as Stiles knew it would be – until Derek tugs him forward and Stiles stumbles against his chest, and Derek’s hands slip around to his lower back, and it’s still awkward for a moment, until Stiles slides his arms up around the back of Derek’s neck, and then it’s not awkward at all anymore.

“Better?” Derek asks, and Stiles blinks up at him and can’t really find any words to describe just how amazing it was to have Derek all pressed up against him without the distraction of the cold lake water or slimy things slipping up his pant leg.

This is probably the best and most clichéd night of Stiles’ life. Dancing is awesome. He’s beginning to see the appeal of those awful teenaged rom coms that Scott always made him watch when it was too late at night for a horror movie but neither of them could sleep.

Happily ever afters are totally possible.

He’s daydreaming about following Derek to college and getting an apartment together and jobs at a nearby coffee shop and adopting dogs together when he finally gathers up his courage and says, “Are we going steady?”

Derek laughs. “What? I don’t think anyone says that anymore.”

“I know! But we’ve gone on dates, so if I asked if we were dating and you said yes, there’s still room for misinterpretation, and I’ll probably still have anxiety about it but wouldn’t know how to clarify, and I didn’t want to say something stupid like, ‘are you my boyfriend?’ because that sounds totally juvenile and maybe ‘going steady’ was the wrong way to phrase it but it seemed my best option at the time!”

“Yes,” Derek says.

“To going steady?” Stiles looks hopeful.

“Yes, I’m your boyfriend.” There’s a brief hesitation. “I want to be, I mean. If you want me to be.”

Stiles’ eyes widen and he beams. “Oh my god, okay, can I wear your class ring? Do you have one? Is that a thing? Or your letterman’s jacket! This is going to be amazing.”

Derek’s frowning a little, a little bemused, and he says, “I don’t have a ring, no. Or a jacket. But I have a track and field hoodie? You could wear that.”

“And you could wear mine! This is amazing! It’s like fate!” Stiles laughs and the song is winding to a close and they’ve forgotten the whole moving their feet part of dancing but Stiles doesn’t even care.

“We’ll work something out,” Derek says, and then they’re kissing and Stiles has officially become one of those couples who makes out on the dancefloor – the ones he’s been mocking his whole life – and he doesn’t even care.

The song ends. He doesn’t care. Something fast and frantic comes on, and it doesn’t matter. Derek’s teeth are tugging at his bottom lip and his hands are sliding up the back of his shirt, hot against bare skin, and it’s basically all Stiles can do to twist his hands in Derek’s shirt and hold on tight, because his knees are losing the ability to keep him standing.

“Let’s go – let’s go outside,” Derek says, breathless, and Stiles is so totally in favour of that plan.

They break apart and Derek tugs him towards the door and Stiles is breathless and giddy and it’s the best night and they run into Jackson, Lydia, Allison and Scott.

“Hey, Stiles,” Allison says brightly, holding Scott’s hand. Scott looks pointedly at Stiles and Derek’s hands and grins.

“Hey! We’re, uh, busy,” Stiles says, because Derek is practically dragging him towards the door and he definitely would rather be out there with him. “I’ll see you later!”

“Oh hey, Derek,” Jackson drawls, and Stiles is barely listening because he does not have time for Jackson right now. “Didn’t you hear? You don’t have to hang out with him anymore.”

Stiles doesn’t understand what the fuck he’s talking about, but Derek goes very still, and then slowly turns to look at Jackson, eyes narrowed. “Jackson,” he growls.

Jackson just smirks. “No, seriously, their psycho dad changed his mind. No one gives a fuck about Stilinski having someone willing to fuck around with him anymore. You can keep the money, though. It’s practically charity.”

“Jackson,” Lydia snaps, elbowing him hard, but Jackson laughs, and Stiles isn’t really sure what’s happening, but it feels like the ground is shifting under his feet – like on that slope, just before he fell into the lake. Only this time, he’s pretty sure there won’t be anybody to catch him.

“What are you talking about?” he asks quietly.

“Stiles,” Derek says. “Wait.”

Jackson shrugs. “Lydia wanted Allison to be happy and Allison wanted McCall to be happy – who the fuck knows why – and that couldn’t happen unless someone was willing to fuck around with you. So I found someone who’d do it for dirt cheap. I mean, I’m a generous guy, but I’m not stupid.”

“You – you paid Derek –” Scott says, but Stiles barely hears it. He’s turning slowly, staring at Derek, who’s eyes going wide and panicky. Derek’s grip on his hand tightens but Stiles doesn’t care. He jerks his hand away and he’s vaguely aware that Allison is losing her shit, that Scott is trying to punch Jackson in his stupid face, that Lydia’s angry too, but he doesn’t care, because Derek isn’t denying it.

And Stiles knew this whole teenaged fairy tale was too good to be true.

But he’d kind of trusted Derek enough not to make him the punchline of another joke.

“Stiles,” Derek says again, low and a little desperate. “Just let me—”

“But it’s true,” Stiles says, voice shaking, breaking a little. “Right?”

Derek grimaces. “Yes,” he says. “But—”

Stiles doesn’t care. He’s going to cry. He’s such an idiot, he should have known, people like him don’t get the high school fantasy.

He pushes past Derek and out the side door, into the darkness where kids are smoking or making out, and starts running. It’s a long way home but he doesn’t care. He just needs to be as far away from Derek and all the evidence of his own inability to learn from past mistakes.

It starts to rain half way there and Stiles just runs faster.

*

Scott gets home not too long after Stiles does, but he pretends to be sleeping when Scott opens his bedroom door, and Scott swears quietly and goes away.

Stiles lays awake all night thinking, staring up at his ceiling, maybe crying a little because he’s so angry at himself, but he’d never admit it. His phone keeps lighting up with texts and calls, probably from Derek, but he doesn’t have the least inclination to check it.

He should have known, that’s the thing – and he had known, in the beginning. But he’d let his guard down, which he’d sworn never to do, because he’d been distracted by Derek’s awkward charm and his stupid face.

Falling asleep near dawn, Stiles walks at noon, stumbling downstairs and more thankful than he’s ever been that today is Saturday. Scott is probably out with Allison, Stiles vaguely remembers that they’ve got plans of some sort, so hopefully he can avoid his dad and Melissa and just hang out at home and soothe his wounded pride.

It was only a week and a half – he’s not willing to admit to having a broken heart that needs soothing too.

But Scott’s waiting in the kitchen, two bowls of cereal poured with spoons carefully placed beside them, the milk in the middle of the table.

When Stiles stumbles to a stop and then considers fleeing, Scott pointedly pushes the milk towards him, and Stiles gives in with a sigh.

“I’m fine,” he says, collapsing into a chair and pouring milk on his Froot Loops.

“I didn’t know,” Scott tells him. “Neither did Allison.”

“I don’t want to talk about Allison,” he grumbles, before adding, “She needs better fucking friends.”

Scott accepts that with a quiet nod, pouring milk on his own cereal and letting Stiles retreat into silence for a moment, before saying, “Jackson’s a dick. I’m really sorry.”

Stiles shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “I never really liked Derek anyway,” he lies.

“Okay.”

More silence. More chewing. Then, finally, Scott says, “Jackson said a bunch of shit after you left, while Lydia was trying to stop the bleeding.”

“Why was he bleeding?”

“I tried to punch him in the face,” Scott says. “He shoved me; Derek punched him instead, split his lip.”

Stiles doesn’t care. “Oh.”

“Jackson said that… that you had a crush on him – on Jackson – in eighth grade. That you tried hooking up with him, at a party, when you were drunk.”

Stiles is abruptly not hungry. “Jackson’s a liar,” he snaps.

“Yeah,” Scott says. “I didn’t think you ever liked him.”

“We did hook up.”

Scott chokes on his cereal and stares, wide-eyed, so Stiles ducks his head, stirs his cereal listlessly, and says, “He had that party, after Lacrosse, after the championship our first year, remember? At his place. Before he became such a douche. He—I – he kissed me, upstairs. I’d never kissed anyone before. I think he was drunk.” He shrugs. “We ended up in his room, kissing and stuff, on the bed, and I was stupid, I thought it meant… that he liked me, that we were going to be together, I was so stupid, and then he…” He grimaces and then says delicately, “Came in his pants? I guess? It was all kind of sudden and I didn’t realize, and he flipped out and shoved me off the bed and told me to get out and that if I told anybody what happened, he’d tell everyone that I was a liar, that I threw myself at him and he pushed me away and then found me jerking off in his bedroom.” He shrugs, cheeks burning, and risks a quick look up at Scott, who’s staring at him, mouth open. “I didn’t tell anybody. I—I wouldn’t have, without the threat, but.” He shrugs and looks away again.

“But. But Stiles. Why didn’t you tell me?” Scott whispers, voice cracking.

“You were upset… you’d just been dumped at the same fucking party, remember? You were crying. Dad was pissed, said we weren’t allowed to date anymore, you thought the world was ending, I didn’t… have the words to explain it, I barely understood it myself. And the next day, Jackson shoved me into a locker and called me gay and everybody laughed and I just never told anybody. And just decided that if Jackson was going to convince everybody here that I wasn’t worth dating, than I’d just wait until I got the fuck out of Beacon Hills and then I’d figure everything out.”

“Stiles,” Scott says.

“It’s not a big deal,” Stiles tells him quickly. “I just… forgot. With Derek. And now I’m thinking about maybe switching schools?” He laughs a little shakily.

Scott scowls. “I’ll go with you,” he says.

“But Allison—”

“I’ll go wherever you go,” he says stubbornly, and Stiles sighs, because he’s not going to switch schools. He’s not going to drag Scott away from Allison, who, despite her shitty friends, seems like a decent person.

“Maybe Dad’ll let me skip on Monday,” he says instead, hopefully.

*

The sheriff takes one look at Stiles’ face and lets him skip Monday, but that doesn’t help Tuesday.

It feels like everybody’s staring, and it helps that he can stick with Scott at first, but they have to split up eventually, and then he’s left making his way through the halls alone. People are looking and talking and laughing and he knows it’s about him, and it feels like the day after Jackson’s stupid party when he was 14 all over again, like he was a joke and everybody knew it.

He tries his best to keep his head down and make his way to history class, and he’s so anxious about everybody else that he doesn’t even think about how shitty it would be to run into Derek until he smacks straight into someone and panics.

It’s not Derek, though, it’s Erica, and she grabs his shoulder to keep him from running and says, “Fuck, Stiles, are you okay?”

And people are smirking, staring and laughing, and Stiles is going to have a panic attack and maybe Erica can read that on his face because she swears again, glares fiercely at everyone watching, and tugs him out the nearest door, into the cool, sunny autumn day.

“Just breathe, you’re okay,” she said.

“Why are you being nice to me?” he snaps, slumping against the wall and sucking in shaky, burning breaths. “You don’t have to anymore, didn’t Derek tell you?”

She scowls. “Derek didn’t tell me shit,” she says. “Including whatever the fuck arrangement he and Jackson had going on. He’s an idiot. Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Her eyes narrow. “Derek’s a dick,” she said. “But he doesn’t let anybody convince him to do something he doesn’t already want to do.”

Stiles doesn’t care. “I have to get to class,” he says, ducking back towards the door.

“Stiles!” She reaches for him to stop him but Stiles jerks free and lets the door close in her face.

He slides into history class just before the final bell.

*

At lunch time, Scott’s waiting for him in their old familiar spot, which is a relief, and Stiles slides into the seat nearest to the corner with a grateful smile.

“Today’s the worst,” he says.

“It’ll get better,” Scott tells him grimly.

A moment later, he’s distracted, and Stiles looks up to see what’s got his attention, and it’s Allison, hesitating halfway across the cafeteria, obviously torn between sitting with Jackson and the rest of them across the room, or Scott and Stiles, though she doesn’t seem sure of her welcome.

So Stiles does his best to smile at her, kicking a chair out a little, because it isn’t her fault that she’s friends with assholes.

She joins them with a nervous smile and says, “Hey, Stiles, how are you?”

“Okay,” he chirps, and she doesn’t look like she believes him, but that’s okay.

She and Scott start chatting about plans to see a movie later in the week, and Stiles tunes them out, focusing as best as he can on his lunch. He keeps waiting for Derek to show up, because Derek definitely knows where to find him. Stiles isn’t sure what he’ll do if Derek does show up, but it will be something suitably vengeful, and it’s almost anticlimactic when lunch ends without seeing him.

Scott walks with him to his next class, staying close and glaring at anybody who looks their way, and just before Scott hurries off to make it to his own class, Stiles blurts, “I haven’t seen him.”

Scott blinks at him. “Jackson? He was in the cafeteria.”

“No. Uh. Derek?”

“Oh. No, he’s suspended for a week,” Scott says with a shrug. “For punching Jackson in the face at the dance.”

It makes sense. And besides, even if he was in school, why would Derek seek Stiles out when he wasn’t being paid for it?

*

Lacrosse practice is a nightmare, and it’s not even Jackson’s fault. He doesn’t go out of his way to antagonize Stiles, to trip him, to smash the ball into the side of his helmet. In fact, he almost seems afraid of coming too close.

But people are still whispering and laughing and Stiles is just exhausted.

Maybe he’ll quit.

*

Wednesday is the same, and Thursday, and then on Friday, Lydia corners him in the art wing, flipping her hair over her shoulder and rolling her eyes.

“How long is this moping going to continue?” she says sharply. “You’re even harder to look at than you were before.”

“Sorry?” he says. “I didn’t know you were looking.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re hard to miss, especially with all this pining. Listen. Jackson’s an idiot, okay? He can’t come up with a decent scheme to save his life. So I think you’re letting his asshole behaviour distract you from what really matters.”

“It was a pretty good scheme,” Stiles argues. “Pretty much an epic humiliation. He paid someone to date me and I actually fell for it. I’m a joke. He did an awesome job.” His voice stings with sarcasm.

“Yeah, that was his scheme,” she allows. “He decided the best way to make me stop scheming ways to convince Allison to lie to your father was to make it so she didn’t have to lie, and he even came up with the ridiculous plan of hiring someone to date you. He was going to ask Greenberg.” She huffs. “Greenberg, Stiles.”

“So?”

“So, I wouldn’t let him. Sure, maybe Greenberg would have done it, he’ll do anything for a few dollars, but there were a few flaws in that plan. One, I couldn’t see you agreeing to a date with him, and two…” She trails off, and her face softens a bit. “Listen, Stiles. Jackson’s an idiot, but he’s my idiot, okay? I know you think you’re in love with me –”

“I don’t!” he says. At least not any more. “Don’t pretend you noticed.”

She rolls her eyes again. “Your crush was visible from space, Stiles. It was awkward for everybody. And I can’t blame you, because I’m amazing, but I thought, maybe, if I could find you someone else, you’d stop… just stop. And actually be happy for once. So the scheme was Jackson’s idea, but Hale was mine.”

“But… but why?” he asks.

“Have you seen him? He’s gorgeous, which is obviously your type.” She smirks. “I asked him out last year, you know. Jackson and I were fighting and I wanted to make him jealous and Hale was just the kind of bad boy rebel I needed. But you know what happened? He turned bright red and stuttered and ran away. He’s an awkward loser, Stiles. Like you.” She says it almost fondly. “You guys are practically perfect for each other. So what if it took a little money to convince him to do what he wanted to do to begin with? Jackson’s got enough of it to spare.”

“I’m not – it wasn’t real,” he argues, flushing. “It doesn’t matter what you thought you saw, it was fake. It was a lie. I’m not just – I’m not an idiot, I’m not a joke, he was laughing at me, the whole time!”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not true. Anyway, that’s enough of an intervention for me, all this honesty is giving me hives. Look, do whatever you want about Hale. But Jackson will leave you alone. I threatened his car if he doesn’t. So talk to Derek, ignore him, whatever. It’ll all blow over eventually.”

She shrugs and walks away and Stiles watches her go.

*

He’s half way through a pint of tiger tail ice cream, curled up alone in the dark on the sofa, when his dad gets home that night.

“I got Parrish to take my shift on Thursday so I can come to your game,” the sheriff says, sitting beside him. Stiles wordlessly hands him an extra spoon.

“Awesome,” he says. “Maybe they’ll even let me off the bench this time.”

“Hmm.”

They share the ice cream in silence for a little while before the sheriff says, “So, do I have to go over to his place with my gun?”

Stiles chokes. “What?!”

“Derek. I mean, I’m a reasonable dad. I gave him two weeks to fix whatever he did wrong, and you’re still walking around like someone broke your heart, so.”

“Dad. No. Derek didn’t…” he trails off. Derek kind of did. His dad just waits quietly, eyebrow raised, spoon in his mouth, and Stiles finally sighs. “Jackson paid him to go out with me so Scott could go out with Allison,” he confesses.

“Huh.” The sheriff takes another spoonful, looking thoughtful. “Interesting. You want me to arrest him?”

“You need probable cause, Dad.”

“Well, that arson case just might have a few leads I could dig up. Might need to question the boy again.”

“I don’t think he had anything to do with that, actually. I think it’s a cover up. Have you looked into Isaac Lahey? He’s clumsy with matches, and Derek would do just about anything to keep him out of trouble because his dad’s a dick.”

The sheriff hums. “How much of a dick?”

“If you’re looking for probable cause, I’ve got my theories.”

Maybe Stiles only dated Derek for two weeks, but it was long enough to notice that Isaac seemed particularly frightened of his father, which might explain the bruises he sometimes tried hiding in gym class.

The sheriff shoves his spoon back into the ice cream. “I’ll look into it,” he promises grimly.

“And leave Derek alone?”

“No promises, kid.”

*

On Monday, Stiles finally sees Derek in the halls. When he does, he stops still, startled, and Derek’s eyes widen and he hesitates. For a moment, Stiles thinks Derek’s going to come over, to apologize, to explain – but no. His mouth tightens up and he turns and walks away and Stiles is left there like an idiot.

So he stops looking for Derek in the halls.

And the whispers die out, and the smirks fade, and it probably helps that Jackson is polite to Stiles whenever he’s forced to interact. It’s a stilted, uncomfortable politeness, but it’s not asshole-ishness, so Stiles will take it.

The weather takes a turn towards chilly in the middle of the week, but that doesn’t keep the fans away from Thursday night’s lacrosse game against Devenford Prep, which always draws a good crowd, and Stiles is hoping he actually gets to play in this game, because he’s got a lot of aggression to work out.

His dad actually makes it to the game, which is a miracle, and Stiles waves at him before the game begins.

He’s benched at first, which is no surprise, and the game starts off pretty roughly, which still helps his anger management issues as he cheers on his teammates and shakes his fists at the refs. The crowd is into it, he’s into it, the score is pretty evenly matched.

It isn’t until half time that Stiles stands up and bends over to grab a bottle of water and hears Erica catcalling him that he gets a sick feeling in his stomach and glances up into the stands.

Of course Derek is there, sitting next to Isaac and looking ridiculously uncomfortable. He’s wearing his stupid track hoodie, which seems a particularly calculated move against Stiles, which sucks. It looks ridiculous, too, maroon is definitely not Derek’s colour – his usual leather jacket suits him much better.

There’s a brief, awkward flash of awareness when Derek realizes he’s looking, and he even lifts a hand like he’s intending to wave at Stiles, but Stiles just scowls and looks away.

“Stilinski!” Coach bellows, and Stiles turns his back on Derek and joins the huddle. “Hendricks sprained a knee,” Coach snaps. “You’re in for the second half. Try not to lose the game for us.”

Scott grins at him and elbows him in the side and Stiles smiles grimly because he’s got this, he’s so got this. He can feel the right amount of aggression and energy under his skin.

It’s pretty much the best game he’s ever had. He slams through defense without fear, his ball always seems to find the back of the net, he’s more agile and aggressive than he’s ever been, and when he does get taken down, he’s up again before he feels the impact.

By the end, he’s muddy, grass-stained, panting and sweaty, but glowing with a grim sense of accomplishment. They won the game, even Jackson looks grudgingly impressed, and this is just proof that no matter how shitty the rest of his life is turning out, there’s always a bright side – even if that bright side is the fact that Stiles managed to channel his anger and hurt into an epic game of lacrosse.

Scott hurries into the locker room to shower and change because he and Allison are going out after, and Stiles follows a bit more slowly, because he’s still technically in charge of gathering up the gear. His father waves, shouts that he’ll meet him at home for some celebratory pizza, and Stiles rolls his eyes but allows it.

Greenberg waits around for him, and that’s weird.

“Hey,” he says, falling into step beside Stiles, who is awkwardly lugging the practise balls, water bottles, clip boards, and spare crosses towards the locker room. Greenberg doesn’t make any effort to help him out. “Good game.”

Stiles looks at him with half a smile. “Thanks?”

Greenberg nods, looks around, furtively, and then back at Stiles. “You, uh. Busy after this?”

“No? Homework, maybe.”

“Oh.”

Stiles grunts a little, adjusting all the shit he’s carrying, and Greenberg still hovers, glancing at Stiles and then away quickly. His face is mottled, sweat beading his upper lip where he seems to be trying to grow some sort of moustache. It’s a tragic attempt.

“Uh, I have $60?” Greenberg says finally.

Stiles doesn’t get it. “Cool,” he says. They’re halfway to the locker room, the stands are nearly cleared out, and this is awkward as fuck.

“I mean, if you want to… hang out after.”

Holy shit. Stiles drops the bag of balls, swears, and starts gathering them all up, so he’s basically on his knees, shoving them back in the bag, while Greenberg stands there and watches. But apparently Greenberg is, what, asking him out? That’s a thing now?

“Uh,” Stiles says, because he’s not really interested, because it’s probably a joke, but he’s pretty sure Greenberg isn’t clever enough to come up with a joke like this. “As, like. A date?” he asks cautiously.

“If that’s what you call it.” Greenberg shrugs and looks away and says, “I know it was like, $50, with, uh, Derek Hale, and I heard you gave him, uh, you sucked him off? In his car? My truck’s in the parking lot.”

“I…” Stiles trails off, slowly straightening up. “You think I…” He wants to laugh, because surely, surely that’s not the rumour going around here. Derek didn’t pay Stiles for sex— they didn’t even have sex! “You want to give me $60 for sex,” he echoes, just to clarify.

Greenberg looks so horrified that for a moment, Stiles is relieved. He’d obviously misunderstood. But then Greenberg says, “Shit, no, not sex,” and he shutters. “I’m not gay. But like, a blowjob – no homo, right? It’s just the same.”

Stiles is hot and cold all over. He wants to throw up, he wants to scream, he wants to kick Greenberg in the nuts. He wants to laugh, or maybe cry. He can’t even tell. So he stands very still and stares and tries to understand just what part of the whole disgusting mess Greenberg just said is the most disgusting.

And then Greenberg reaches out, like he’s going to touch Stiles’ mouth, and he jerks away with a yelp, stumbling backwards. He slams right into someone else and he’s so startled that he lurches sideways, and of course it’s Derek – Derek who reaches out automatically to grab him by the wrist and steady him.

“Fuck,” Stiles gasps, jerking away from that touch too. “Fuck, fuck, shit, don’t. Shit.”

“Are you –” Derek says, uncertain, looking from Stiles, who probably looks like he just saw the most disgusting ghost imaginable, and Greenberg, who just looks confused and embarrassed. “Are you okay?”

“This is none of your business,” Greenberg says, and the fact that he says ‘business’ when he’s literally trying to pay Stiles for a blowjob makes him laugh, high and sharp.

“Oh my god,” Stiles says, and Derek’s eyes are narrowed, concerned and suspicious. “Oh my god, Derek, are you jealous? You don’t have to be jealous, he’s not asking me out, he’s offering to pay me for sex.” He snickers again, but he’s starting to feel nauseous. “Like he thinks you did.”

“Not sex,” Greenberg says quickly. “Just a—”

Derek shoves him, just hard enough to hurt, and growls, “You better go.”

He doesn’t even have to threaten him with anything specific and Greenberg still pales and nods agreeably before stumbling away as quickly as he can.

It’s just Derek and Stiles, then. Alone on the field, surrounded by the balls Stiles dropped, lit up by the floodlight at the side of the field.

Derek turns back to Stiles, looks helpless for a moment, and then starts picking up the stupid balls.

“We didn’t –” Stiles starts, swallowing hard when Derek looks up at him. He clears his throat. “We didn’t even have sex,” he says.

“I didn’t tell anybody that we did,” Derek says quietly. “I didn’t say anything.”

Stiles lets out a breath that’s a little shaky, and holds open the bag so Derek can shove the balls inside.

“Thanks,” he says, not looking at Derek.

It’s quiet for a moment and then Derek says abruptly, “Has anyone else been giving you shit like that?”

Stiles glances at him quickly and then away. “No? I haven’t been listening to anything they’re saying. It isn’t a big deal, anyway. Forget it.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, almost gently. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. When I agreed to Jackson’s stupid plan, I was just thinking, if it wasn’t me, it would be someone else, and you deserved…. Someone who actually gives a fuck. Someone who would do it for free. I’m sorry.”

“How much did he pay you?” Stiles asks, harsh.

Derek takes a deep breath and then says, “$50.”

Stiles laughs. He’s dragging the balls towards the locker room again. “I’m worth more than that,” he snaps.

“I know,” Derek says. “I donated it to the library the day he gave it to me. They’re trying to raise money to replace some books that, uh, accidentally got singed a few months ago.”

Stiles is just going to walk away. He’s going to forget about Derek Hale and his pyromaniac friends and his stupid face and move on with his life.

But the floodlights get turned off then and it’s pitch dark – just Stiles and Derek and the moon and the pile of balls at their feet.

It makes it easier when he can barely see.

“Was any of it real?” he asks, his voice smaller than he’d like.

“I’ve come to every home Lacrosse game you’ve ever played,” Derek tells him with a small shrug that Stiles can barely see in the darkness. “It’s been real for me for… for a while. I’ve even managed to convince Erica to drive to a few away games with me.”

It’s chilly and Stiles crosses his arms over his chest. “Are you… are you just really into school spirit?”

“I didn’t go to a single game until you made the team,” Derek says.

“Why?” he whispers.

Derek steps closer. “Because I like you.”

Stiles wants more. He wants details, he wants facts and examples and maybe a pie chart – he wants proof. He’s not good at trust and he’s already trusted Derek once before, and it had hurt.

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” he asks, instead of demanding any of that evidence.

“You didn’t really know who I was?” Derek says, shrugging again. “I didn’t really think you’d go out with someone like me – with my reputation. Your dad’s the sheriff, and I’m – I’m just, kind of a mess. I’m not really good for you. I’m nothing, and you’re… well…” he trails off helplessly.

“I’m what?” Stiles pushes, because he knows what he is. He’s hyperactive, spazzy, awkwardly-shaped Stiles Stilinski, smartass kid of the town sheriff who can’t sit still. He knows the rumors about him – about how he threw himself at Jackson when he was 14, about how he’s such a waste of time and space that no one in their right mind would ever want to be around him for longer than they have to – except Scott.

“Smart?” Derek says, shifting uncomfortably. Words aren’t his strong suit, Stiles knows. “Bright, and enthusiastic, and – and sweet. And good. And really fucking adorable. And probably better off without me. I’m sorry. I’m really, really fucking sorry.”

Stiles inches closer, just a little, but close enough to touch. He reaches out, hooking his finger in the pocket of Derek’s hoodie, running his thumb along the fabric. “If he had never paid you, would you ever have asked me on your own?”

“No,” Derek says automatically. “I’m not really that brave.”

Stiles breathes out, and feels most of the hurt that’s wound up so tightly around his heart ease, just a little. “Okay,” he says, soft. “But I’m never going to thank Jackson for it.”

“Okay,” Derek says, after a moment, and sounding a little lost. “Okay, but what –”

Stiles cuts him off. “But you’re wrong. You are good for me. You’re the best for me. If – if you still want me.”

Derek seems at a loss for words, struggles for a moment, and then finally, helplessly, says, “But why?”

“Because I like you,” Stiles says simply. “And maybe I shouldn’t, maybe I should be more careful not to put myself into positions where I can get hurt, but I trust you. And maybe I shouldn’t, but I do, because despite what everyone says about you, you are sweet, and you are kind, and you are good for me, and if you still want me –”

“I do,” Derek says quickly. “I really do.”

Stiles smiles at him, feeling brave and reckless, because if Derek can be brave and reckless after admitting that he’s normally not really that brave, than Stiles can too.

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Okay. Then ask me to go steady with you.” His face hurts, he’s smiling so hard.

Derek is silent for a moment and then he’s laughing so hard and so suddenly that Stiles is worried he’s going to choke – but either way, Stiles is determined to get that hoodie off him, because if he can’t have a ring or a letterman’s jacket, he’ll take what he can get.

And then Derek tugs him forward and kisses him and Stiles forgets all about his plan to get Derek out of his hoodie – though he’s still all about getting out of his clothes.

*

“So. Derek.” The sheriff’s eyes are cold and calculating, and Derek carefully sets his forkful of peas down and looks up.

“Yes, sir?” he asks respectfully.

Beside Stiles, Scott snickers softly into his pork chop.

“Stiles tells me that it’s only right that he give you a ‘do-over’ since you gave him one after the, and I quote, ‘shoe puking incident at Lydia’s lake house.’ Care to explain what exactly led to that puking incident?”

Derek shoots Stiles a quick look across the table, panic in his wide eyes, and then he looks back at the sheriff and says weakly, “Food poisoning, sir?”

Scott snickers even more, and Stiles has to kick him under the table. He’d been so, so wrong to think subjecting Derek to dinner with his dad and Scott as a do-over first date would be a good idea. This was humiliating.

“There were bagel bites,” he says helpfully. “I ate like fifty, and I’m pretty sure they were past the expiry date.”

His dad shoots him a narrow-eyed look that says just how likely he finds that story – not likely at all – and then turns back to Derek and says, “How familiar are you with Rohypnoll and GHB?”

“Dad!” Stiles cries.

The sheriff rolls his eyes but changes the subject, saying instead, “It must have been quite the party. We usually have to break up six or seven ragers out at the Martin Lake House every summer.”

Derek politely eats some peas. He’s still chewing when the sheriff says, “Gotta arrest tons of drunk teenagers, too. You much for underage drinking, Derek?”

Derek chokes. “No, sir. Parties aren’t really my thing.”

“And after I got sick,” Stiles says pointedly, “All Derek did was bring me straight home, drop me off, and leave again. Jeez, dad.”

“Don’t worry,” Scott says brightly. “He was about this bad with Allison.”

*

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, collapsing on the top step on the back porch. He sent Derek out a few minutes before, giving him time to negotiate terms with his dad – they had twenty minutes, the porch light doesn’t have to be on, the door only has to be open a crack and no, his dad isn’t allowed to sit nearby glaring with menace as he cleans his gun.

Derek shifts over to make room for him and shrugs with a small, easy smile. “He cares about you a lot.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “But he’s not actually an overprotective crazy person. It’s mostly just for show. Like, he’ll totally arrest you on trumped up charges if you cheat on me, but he’ll probably only hold you for long enough to express how disappointed he is. He won’t like, send you to jail or anything.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, and he’s laughing a little. He slides an arm around Stiles’ shoulders, tugging him closer. “It’s fine. He’s fine. You’re worth it.” There’s a beat of silence and then he adds smugly, “Just wait until you meet my family.”

Stiles laughs and lets his head fall to Derek’s shoulder but he can’t help but think that sounds nice. He’s nervous, of course, because relationships are tough -- putting himself in a position where someone can hurt him, willingly making himself vulnerable like that, but he trusts Derek, despite everything. So they will go on double dates with Scott and Allison, and they will go on double dates with Erica and Boyd (and Isaac will probably come along and pout the whole time), and they will go on dates just the two of them, and they will kiss and make out and eventually probably have sex and Derek will graduate and they’ll figure out a way to make it work. They’ll try the long distance thing, and it’ll work or it won’t work and if it doesn’t work, maybe they’ll stay friends, and maybe in a few years, when Stiles is done with high school and Beacon Hills, he’ll run into Derek somewhere – at a dog park or a coffee shop or the library at college, who knows? But maybe they’ll decide to try again. Or maybe they won’t. Or maybe they won’t have to because they’ll still be together.

But the point is, Stiles thinks, that it’s worth the risk. Derek is worth it. And he thinks Stiles is worth it too.

So that makes the fear a whole lot easier to handle.

“You’re thinking too much,” Derek tells him, and that’s always been Stiles’ problem. But before he can think too hard about how he thinks too much, Derek’s hand is on his jaw, tipping his head up, and Derek is kissing him, soft and sweet with just a little teeth, and his dad is flipping the light on and off to signal that his time is up, and Stiles laughs and keeps kissing Derek just to spite him.

Yeah, he thinks. Maybe this high school fairy tale is worth giving it one more shot.