The wind howls past Derek’s ears as he leaps. A bullet tears through the air, grazing his flank. He roars, sprinting forward at a breakneck pace, ragged breaths tearing from his lungs. Kate pulls the trigger yet again, and he rolls, leaping onto another rooftop.
Faster, faster, if he isn't fast enough — bang. No time. He grits his teeth and tumbles off the roof, rolling twice across the ground. Kate is still hot on his heels. Pushing himself up, a brilliant wash of lights greets him. People in formal dresses and suits walk arm-in-arm, chatting and laughing everywhere. Music spills from the building ahead, reaching his ears.
He stands up, finally taking in the scene before his eyes.
Beacon Hills High School.
Amidst the crowd, a tall figure walks toward him. People instinctively step aside wherever he passes. The second his gaze lands on him, it locks in place. His black leather jacket stands out glaringly against the sea of formalwear. He doesn’t belong here. People’s glances linger on him.
His jaw is tight, the sharp lines of his face almost as dangerous, mysterious and compelling as the night itself.
He walks straight up to Stiles and stops in front of him.
“Stiles,” he says.
Stiles has just been trying to work up the nerve to ask Lydia to dance. “Derek,” he says instead, crushing the black plastic cup in his hand. Luckily, there’s barely any punch left in it.
What are you doing here? What do you want? What fresh disaster have you gotten yourself into now?
Stiles could ask a hundred questions, but not a single one makes it out; Derek tilts his head to the side before he can even open his mouth.
Stiles glances in the direction of the head tilt—there is a massive crowd of people dancing over there—and snaps his head back, eyes widening as he stares at Derek. There is no way Derek means that.
"What? Are you seriously—"
Derek stands rooted to the spot, a faint hint of impatience clouding his features, looking as if he will personally haul Stiles to his feet if he stays seated for a single second longer.
The rest of Stiles’s sentence dies in his throat. Does he really mean that? Who invites someone to dance like that? Then again, if Stiles actually asks him, Derek might rip his head off, or yell at him in front of all these people.
He is still staring, unblinking, his brow furrowing deeper with every passing second. The patience he has left for Stiles is wearing thin. Stiles steals another glance at the dancing crowd nearby and fumbles to set his drink down on the table. He much prefers standing up on his own over being dragged up by Derek, but does he really, truly mean that? This is Derek.
He thinks about it for a second, then tentatively raises his hand, palm down, and waits there.
Derek's brow knits even tighter. His eyes flick between Stiles's hand and his face. After a brief hesitation, he raises his own hand as well, palm up, holding it a short distance beneath Stiles's palm.
So he does really mean that.
Something explodes inside Stiles’s head. He places his hand in Derek’s. His hand is warm, broad, rough-knuckled, closing loosely around Stiles’s palm.
And just like that, they step onto the dance floor. Of all things to happen in his lifetime, Stiles is actually dancing with Derek. He is going to be the talk of the school, and not for some uncool reason like his dad being the sheriff.
"Just so you know, I'm a terrible dancer. I'll probably step on your toes in a minute," he says, in case Derek gets angry. Though Derek already looks furious and grumpy. Okay, to prevent him from getting angrier.
Derek says nothing, merely glaring at him from beneath his eyebrows. Stiles should be scared of him, except they are holding hands right now, and he honestly can't bring himself to fear someone who is holding his hand.
He places his other hand on Derek's shoulder. Derek stiffens all over. His grip tightens instinctively before loosening again. He looks at Stiles, a rare flash of confusion surfacing in his eyes, looking as if he wants to say something, but in the end, he simply rests his hand below Stiles's shoulder blade as the music carries them onward.
Stiles grips the fabric of Derek's shoulder. The muscles in Derek’s arm shift beneath his hand, guiding Stiles into a step forward. Stiles catches the beat just in time, his eyes fixing on the stubble on Derek's jaw for a long moment.
On the next beat, Derek steps toward him. Stiles is a fraction too slow to retreat, and the distance between them instantly cuts in half. He can almost smell the warmth of Derek's breath. The glittering light from the disco ball reflects in Derek's eyes. They sway back into position, knees brushing as they pivot their hips, and Stiles takes another step back.
He ducks his head, heat suddenly rushing into his face. Derek's Adam's apple bobs slightly as he swallows. His shoulders are broad, and a faint, woodsy scent radiates off him.
They finish an eight-count, and hey, Stiles isn't doing as terribly as he thought he would.
"I didn't peg you as the type to show up at school dances," he says, because there is no way he can get through an entire dance in silence.
Derek raises an eyebrow.
"Or dance at all," Stiles adds. Or dance with me goes unsaid, even though that's what he wants to ask the most.
"I don't," Derek says.
Stiles blinks up at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Do I look like someone who would come here willingly?" Derek says. "The hunters tracked me here."
So he isn't here to dance, much less to find Stiles to dance with. He is a beat too slow when Derek steps forward, and a beat too fast when Derek steps back, ending up stepping right on his toes. Derek gives his back an annoyed shove, which should have been Derek's own fault to begin with. It's not like Stiles invited him to dance, nor did Stiles tell him to hold hands.
He pettily steps on Derek's foot again, because he had thought all of this was real.
"Then why did you tilt your head instead of using your words?" he says, mockingly mimicking Derek’s head tilt. "You know that gesture can mean a dozen different things, right? How am I supposed to know if you want to go to the dance floor, step aside, or if your head is just itchy?"
Derek rolls his eyes impatiently. What right does he even have to be impatient? The music carries on, and he gently nudges the small of Stiles's back, raising his hand while staying anchored in place. Stiles tucks the hand that was gripping Derek's shoulder behind his own back, executing a small half-spin before facing Derek again, Derek's hand resting right back on his waist.
"You’re a good dancer," Derek says.
Stiles isn't about to forgive him just because of a single sentence, but he can still accept the compliment, even though Derek is clearly the better dancer between the two of them.
"Thanks," he says, placing his hand back on Derek's shoulder.
He gloats inwardly for a moment before silence falls between them again. Finally, he presses his lips together and asks, "So, are you leaving now?"
“Do I have a death wish?”
Since when is Derek this sarcastic? He contemplates whether to step on him again, but decides against it; he still wants to live. Then again, Derek really is safer staying here than outside. The place is packed with high schoolers; the hunters can't exactly barge in and taser him.
But what is he going to do after this dance ends?
Once this dance is over, Stiles still has a home to return to, but Derek is being chased out of his own house by hunters, running all over the place. Even though his home has already been burned down to look like a haunted house straight out of a movie, they still won't let him go. Where exactly is safe for Derek?
The music transitions into the next eight-count as they sway their feet gently. First, rule out the place he's staying at now. Second, rule out the school, the school is where Derek almost died last time, so scratch that. While Scott's house is a decent option, Stiles's house is clearly the superior choice because Stiles's dad is the sheriff, Stiles's neighbor is Scott, and Derek seems more familiar with his bedroom than Stiles himself is.
"So, are you coming home with me later?" Having reached his conclusion, the words slip out.
Derek's eyes widen slightly, his grip on Stiles tightening all of a sudden.
Only then does Stiles realize how many different ways that sentence could be interpreted. "I mean," he rushes to add, "you can hide out at my place."
Derek stares at him in silence for a long moment, and just when Stiles thinks he's going to refuse, he speaks up. "Your dad will kill me."
Even if his dad doesn't kill him, the hunters are waiting anyway. Is Derek just doomed to die today?
On the bright side, though, his dad would at most shoot at him, and Derek would only be in pain for a little bit. Before Stiles can voice that thought, Derek is already pulling him through the crowd and out of the dance floor.
