#sterekmeetcute

[midnightisquiet]

STEREK WEEK 2017: Day 3 - Meet-Cute

[aqua-ref]

Derek : Meet a cutie at work

[paintedrecs]

302, I Love You

[Read on AO3]

It was a beautiful summer morning—mid-70s with a light breeze, ideal weather for soaking up the sun without fear of overheating. If anyone asked, that was why Stiles was sitting on his balcony with a book he hadn’t touched in the last half hour and a mug of coffee he’d been absently sipping from, his gaze fixed on the parking lot several stories below.

Coincidentally, one of his neighbors—Hot Dude From 302, not that it was relevant—had chosen the same morning to wash his stupidly flashy Camaro. Stiles wasn’t watching him. He was sitting on his balcony, which happened to face the back parking lot, and Hot Dude happened to be in his general line of sight. And anyway, if he had been watching him, it was only to document the details of his flagrant lease-breaking activities, in case Stiles decided to file a complaint with their landlord. 

Washing vehicles in their parking lot was explicitly against the rules, along with smoking, loud parties after 11 PM, and leaving trash bags in the hallway for people to potentially trip over, rather than dragging them all the way to the dumpsters—which were also located in their parking area.

If pressed, Stiles might admit that he’d broken the latter two rules once or twice. And that there might be an overstuffed trash bag sitting in the hallway at this very moment—deposited there because the smell had started to bug him, but not enough to motivate him to put on shoes and non-pj pants and make the trek downstairs. But that was more like rule-bending. It wasn’t an egregious violation like the unnecessarily thorough car washing that took place every Saturday, like clockwork.

Obviously this guy wasn’t originally from California, or he’d know how important water conservation was, and how much his utterly unacceptable behavior made everyone else in the building grind their teeth. Beacon Hills was in the middle of a fucking drought. And there 302 was, spraying water not only over the car’s sleek black surface, but over himself, too, making his loose shorts cling to his thighs, his already too-tight white tank top plastering against his chest and abs. 

What was the point of even wearing a shirt to begin with if he was just going to get it soaked through every time, leaving the fabric offensively sheer?

“So you want him to take his shirt off for you,” Stiles's supposed best friend Scott said, kicking his feet up on the railing and crunching through a handful of pretzels.

“Shut up!” Stiles hissed. He instinctively tried to duck down in his lounge chair—as if that would accomplish anything—but 302 didn’t seem to have heard the exchange. He was too busy stretching across the hood, his back to them, the fabric of his wet shorts leaving little to Stiles’s admittedly very active imagination.

“You’re drooling,” Scott said. “This is kinda gross. I thought we were gonna be watching cartoons, not this guy’s ass.”

Stiles spluttered indignantly, then, when Scott motioned at his face, wiped away the possibly-drool from his chin. That happened sometimes when he was tired, okay? He hadn’t had enough of his coffee yet this morning. “I’m judging him,” he insisted. He firmly shut his mouth and twisted it into his most convincingly judgmental face.

“Judging whether you can get into his pants,” Scott said. 

“Judging him for...not knowing how to use his hose,” Stiles countered, scrambling for a reasonable comeback.

Scott was, thankfully, silent for a bit. He popped more pretzels into his mouth and chewed while staring at Stiles meaningfully. Eventually, he concluded, “So you wanna teach him how to use his hose.”

302 suddenly swore loudly from down below, and Stiles jerked in his chair, nearly knocking his coffee—and himself—over. Once he’d made sure his mug and limbs were safe, he leaned forward to see what had happened. 

Point proved, really. 302 had somehow sprayed himself right in the face with the hose, which required a special sort of uncoordinated talent that even Stiles didn’t possess. Scott was right; the guy clearly did need some hose-handling lessons. He was dripping wet, his dark hair flattened, leaving it almost as shiny and black as his car. Even from this distance, Stiles could see the water streaming off the sharp cut off his cheekbones.

Despite all that, the idiot hadn’t shut the hose off —he was just standing there, frozen in place, holding it as water arced into the air, the spray catching the sunlight in a miniature, shimmering rainbow.

He looked absolutely pitiful. Stiles almost felt bad for him. At the same time, though: “You remember that fountain by the library?”

Scott nodded. Of course he did. It’d been major drama when they were starting middle school; the local PTA had campaigned to have it torn out, claiming it was “inappropriate” for a public building to house a lifesize reproduction of The Birth of Venus. The sculptor’s argument—that it was a classic work of art that could be found in multiple books within the library itself—eventually toppled under the ire of parents with too much time on their hands.

Stiles had mourned its loss, taking art classes throughout high school with the vague idea of using his inevitable fame to battle similarly misguided attempts at censorship. As it turned out, he had no artistic skill, and he’d gradually found better channels for his righteous indignation. He was wondering now, though, if his bisexual awakening would’ve happened sooner if Venus had been replaced by something like...Eros. Or by a recreation of the tableau currently spread out below him. He would’ve spent a lot of time studying by that fountain during his teenage years.

“I should take the trash out,” he decided abruptly.

Scott moved his legs so Stiles could clamber over him and back into his studio’s compact living room. “So I should just go home, then?” he called after Stiles.

Stiles was too busy pulling on presentable pants, twisting in front of the mirror, then switching to his tighter jeans, to reply. He was cramming his feet into his shoes when Scott came inside.

“You might as well take this,” Scott said, shaking the now-empty bag of pretzels in front of Stiles’s face. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“You don’t have to leave,” Stiles grunted, tying off his shoelaces and grabbing the crinkly bag as he stood. 

“I really think I do,” Scott said. “Good luck. Please don’t text me any details.”

“I’m not going to hit on him,” Stiles grumbled after Scott rudely slammed the door on his way out. He wasn’t. Mostly because his knowledge of 302 boiled down to a few key facts:

     -  Overcompensating (that car, c’mon)      -  Environmentally unfriendly      -  Antisocial (Stiles had never seen him interacting with anyone, and the majority of their neighbors were annoyingly friendly; most of them had shown up, uninvited, to his last after-11 PM party. Which Stiles had definitely not thrown hoping that 302 would be among the attendees. He’d only posted the sign by the mailboxes as a courtesy notice, not an invitation. Technically.)

Perhaps most importantly, according to those same mailboxes, 302 was living with someone named “Laura Hale.” It was the only name listed, and although Stiles had snooped on the various packages that were too big to fit inside, he hadn’t managed to uncover any additional details. He had lurked in the entryway for long enough to see a beautiful dark-haired woman collect one of those boxes, which had smashed the final hope he’d deny he’d been harboring.

Expecting a guy like that to not have an equally hot girlfriend to ferry around in his douchey car? Dream on, Stiles.

He attempted to crumple the pretzel remnants—something he’d been planning to eat himself, thanks a lot Scott—into the trash bag, which only resulted in squeezing out a mess of banana peels and coffee-stained paper towels. Okay, maybe that rule existed for a reason, too. He sighed, wiped his hands off on his jeans, and heaved the bag up, beginning the trudge down to the garbage bins.

Once outside the building, Stiles stepped gingerly over the sudsy water snaking along the pavement, thumped the dumpster lid loudly enough to announce his presence, then oh-so-casually headed over to check on his Jeep, which was parked two spaces away from 302’s current location. Their building had unassigned spots—too few for the number of residents, leaving the rest to park out on the street. That created a headache sometimes, but it’d allowed Stiles—after some careful planning and light bribery—to set up this accidental meeting.

302 glanced at Stiles when he passed by, then fumbled his hose, spraying himself again.

“Wow,” Stiles said, attempting to hop out of the way, grimacing when that movement sent him splashing right into a puddle. “You have a serious problem, dude.”

“Sorry,” 302 said, in a soft voice that Stiles could barely hear over the water’s relentlessly wasteful flow. Now that Stiles was closer to his elusive neighbor, he was able to see the red shading those marble-carved cheekbones; he’d probably been out in the sun for too long, considering himself too manly to reapply sunscreen.

The thought brought back a sudden flash of memory: an afternoon in late summer; a sprinkler hissing in circles as Stiles jumped through the cool, stinging spray; a dark-haired boy laughing, the silver glint of his braces catching the sun as Stiles tried to flick water in his direction, convincing him to join the fun. Stiles’s mom had come outside then, tsking at him in feigned disapproval, then calling them both over for a fresh coating of smelly, sticky sunscreen that Stiles would immediately do his best to wash off.

Scott, Stiles thought, then: No. He hadn’t moved to Beacon Hills yet. That was when Stiles was younger, when his best friend was a quiet boy who’d always said—despite Stiles’s constant attempts to get him into trouble—that the Stilinski household was a lot more peaceful than his. He’d liked Stiles’s mom’s cookies, his dad’s stories about work, and—Stiles liked to think, anyway—Stiles’s magnetic personality.

“Derek,” he said aloud, and 302 jumped.

“What?”

“Sorry, I was just—” Stiles shook his head. Why was he thinking of Derek now? The guy had moved away ages ago. They’d exchanged letters for a few months, then Scott had moved to town, Stiles had started spending a lot more time noticing girls, and the letters had stopped.

302 was still staring at him, his multicolored—mostly green?—eyes wide. Looking at him for too long was making Stiles feel weird, like there was something pressing at the back of his mind that he couldn’t quite grasp.

“You should be wearing sunglasses,” Stiles said stupidly. The bright light reflecting off the pavement was making him squint, and he’d been out there for less than five minutes.

“You’re not,” 302 said.

“My eyes are darker; more melanin means better protection,” Stiles automatically countered—it was an argument he’d often used as a know-it-all kid who didn’t want to stop playing outside—then tried to restrain his wince. He was being obvious. You didn’t start out a totally innocent conversation with a hot stranger by talking about his eye color, for fuck’s sake.

But 302 smiled. He had front teeth that were a little too big for his mouth—something that he might’ve been teased about when he was younger, because he immediately ducked his head and rolled his lips together, pressing them into a line that didn’t hide the equally endearing dimples in his cheeks.

Damn, Stiles thought. The guy was supposed to be kind of a dick. Not...this. Maybe he avoided hanging out with over-friendly neighbors because he was shy? Stiles had to mentally readjust his entire battle plan, which had mostly involved snarky commentary and a few clever innuendoes designed to test whether he really was taken.

“I was gonna ask you to wash my car,” Stiles said, plunging after his first thought, but unable to resist a slight dig. “While you’re wasting all that water.”

“Oh,” 302 said. His smile dimmed; even the curve of the hose seemed dejected suddenly. He released his tight grip on the spray attachment, the noise in the parking lot fading to the hum of bees in the hedge next door and the metallic creak of swings from the playground down the street. “I guess I could. It’s the Jeep, right?”

“Um,” Stiles said. “Yes. How did you know that?”

302 slid his hand down the hose, like he was planning to start rolling it back up, even though there were still suds on the Camaro’s roof. “It looks like your mom’s,” he said. “I remember you always used to say you wanted a car just like it, once you found out ordinary citizens couldn’t get Batmobiles.”

“How the—” Stiles stared at him. This was new. He hadn’t had a stalker before; at least, not that he’d known.

302 met his gaze for a few seconds, then looked away, his mouth twisting—in disappointment, weirdly, if Stiles was reading that expression correctly. “You don’t remember me, do you.”

“Should I?” Stiles asked. Maybe he’d hooked up with the guy and forgotten him, but that seemed incredibly unlikely. He’d remember a jawline like that. And why the hell would they have spent the night talking about Stiles’s childhood? He didn’t get that personal in relationships until...well, he’d always figured he’d start digging into the really gritty stuff at about the year marker, and no one had ever lasted that long.

“I guess not,” 302 said. “It’s been a long time. Laura said you wouldn’t and that I should get over myself and be the first one to say something. I was trying to work up the nerve, but then, just now, when you...”

He trailed off, so Stiles repeated it. “When I what?”

“When you said my name,” 302 said. “I...didn’t imagine that, did I?”

Stiles looked at him again, like he was seeing him for the first time. That’s what he’d thought this encounter was, but...he traced his gaze over the guy’s inky black hair, drying in the sunlight and beginning to wave slightly at the tips; the delicate curves of his ears, which somehow seemed a little smaller than they should be; the unusual color of his eyes.

“Derek,” Stiles said slowly, pulling that memory back to the forefront, the hazy image of his friend overlaying 302’s features. He had to make significant adjustments for puberty and an apparent explosion of late-blooming attractiveness, but: “Hale. Oh my god. Laura’s your sister. The scary older one you never wanted us to hang out with. How did I not make that connection?”

“It’s a common name,” Derek said. “Not like Stilinski. It was a lot easier for me to connect the dots.” 

“Goddamn,” Stiles said. “Good thing my dad talked me out of joining the force. I would’ve been a shitty detective.”

“I doubt that,” Derek said, as generous as he’d been when they were kids. He had so many of the same mannerisms, now that Stiles was paying attention. “I look a little different than I used to.”

Stiles snorted before he could consider whether that was rude. That brought up a sudden, unsettling thought. “Wait, does that mean I don’t?”

As a kid, Stiles had been 80% eyes and mouth, and always a head shorter than the other boys his age. He’d hit his growth spurt late in high school, then shot up to six feet during college, but if his face was still that recognizable...

Derek was shaking his head. “I told you, I saw your name. A few weeks after we moved in.” He hesitated, then added, “But I think I would’ve recognized you anyway. You’ve changed, but there’s something...”

“Yeah,” Stiles said. He felt it, too. He’d first seen Derek about a month ago—or so he’d thought at the time—and had nearly been bowled over by the degree of instantaneous attraction. It wasn’t just the physical part, although that was undeniable. It was the sense that something about Derek felt right. Familiar, almost. He’d thought stupid things, like maybe soulmates weren’t as outlandish as he’d always assumed. Turned out all it’d meant was that some part of his brain was still connected to those old memories of Derek.

He tried not to let the disappointment wash over him. This was cool, too. It’d be fun to reconnect, to revisit the old times, like: he flushed suddenly, another long-forgotten image drifting out of the past. He touched his lips without thinking, remembering the dry press of Derek’s mouth against his, the brilliant green of his eyes as he pulled back, mouth still parted, looking terrified that Stiles would laugh at him.

“I just...wanted to try that. Before...” Derek had said. Then, before Stiles had any time to react or process it, Derek had revealed that his family was leaving town. He was gone the next week.

The red along Derek’s cheekbones was darkening. So he remembered it, too. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to make you think...” He started to turn away, coiling the hose in abrupt, jerky movements, like he was trying to figure out the fastest way to clear out of there. Just like he’d done after the kiss, dashing off, claiming he had to start packing.

“That last letter you wrote me,” Stiles said. Derek stopped, his back to him, shoulders tensed. “I didn’t reply. I’m sorry. I was a stupid kid; I didn’t know what to say.”

“I never knew if you’d stopped talking to me intentionally,” Derek said. “I tried a couple times, and then I figured if you wanted to get in touch again, you would.”

And Stiles never had. At first, it really had been that he was busy; middle school had seemed like the most exciting and terrifying thing in the entire world, and trying to navigate its treacherous waters while keeping Derek updated had proved too difficult to maintain. Then that third unanswered letter—the last one Derek had written—had arrived. Stiles didn't remember much of it. But he could still see its closing line, a shaky scrawl that looked like it'd been added at the last minute.

I’m sorry I made things weird.

The kiss had made Stiles feel weird, in a way he hadn’t been able to articulate. It’d taken a few more years before he’d really understood why, and by then, Derek was a distant memory. By the looks of it, the reverse hadn’t been true.

“I used to wonder why you did it,” Stiles said.

Derek finished putting the hose back, twisted the water off and removed the nozzle, then finally turned back around. “Why I kissed you? Or why I wrote you that stupid letter?” 

Stiles touched his mouth again, watching as Derek’s gaze followed the movement. Things were a lot different now than they were back then. Odd lingering connection or not, they’d both grown into entirely different people. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t really need an answer to either.”

“So what’s your real question?”

“I liked you back then,” Stiles said. “A lot. I hated that you left me, right when everything started getting really big and confusing. I know you couldn’t help it, but every time I wrote you, it reminded me that you weren’t around anymore.”

Derek’s lips flattened a bit. He nodded, slowly. “So it was easier to let it go.”

“I don’t think it’d ever be easy to let you go,” Stiles said. 

Derek’s mouth parted, his eyes searching Stiles’s.

“My question is,” Stiles said, taking a couple steps forward, then grimacing when that sent his sneaker splashing through one of Derek’s puddles.

“Sorry,” Derek said, but Stiles was already squelching the rest of the way over to him.

“So much for the seductive walk,” he said, close enough now for this to all go horribly wrong.

Derek hesitantly reached out, setting his hands on Stiles’s hips, then tightening his grip when Stiles reacted by leaning closer. “I remember the fountain, too.”

“The—shit, you heard that?”

“You’re pretty loud,” Derek said. “And hard to ignore.”

From most people, that might’ve seemed like an insult. The way Derek was looking at him, though, it felt like one of the nicer compliments Stiles had ever received.

“You weren’t here, though,” Stiles objected. “I remember, because that was the longest letter I wrote you. I think I transcribed half the town hall debate—the part I got to hear before my dad found me and kicked me out.”

“I remember,” Derek repeated, then cleared his throat. “I still have the drawing you sent.”

Stiles paused, his hands halfway up Derek’s chest—thick hair visible through the sheer fabric, as he’d guessed from his earlier vantage point—to his bare shoulders, which he’d been aching to touch for the last hour. The last month, if he was being honest. “Oh, the one of the fountain? God, I can’t believe you kept that. It’s gotta be barely recognizable.” 

“I liked it,” Derek said. “It made me feel like I was there with you.”

It was strange to look into eyes this familiar, belonging to someone Stiles hardly knew anymore. He slipped a finger under the strap of Derek’s still-damp tank top, testing to see if it was as absurdly tight as he’d thought. There really was no point to him wearing this flimsy excuse for a shirt.

“You never asked your question,” Derek said.

“Right,” Stiles said. He had a lot of them, too numerous to delve into now. When Derek decided to move back, had he known Stiles was still around? Why had he returned? Was it for Laura, or was it his decision? And why had he ended up with a wet dream of a car, when he’d always been the practical one in their friendship?

For now, though, only one was pressing enough to ask. “Do you think it’s too late?”

“For what?” Derek asked.

“To try again.”

The first touch of Derek’s lips was hesitant, like it’d been all those years before. It was his answer—but a question, too, begun more than a decade ago.

This time, Stiles knew exactly how to respond.

“Okay,” he said after a while, setting a hand back on Derek’s chest but letting him chase his mouth for a few more lip-tingling moments. “You’ve gotten a lot better at that.”

“I should hope so,” Derek said, with a throaty chuckle that made Stiles feel warm all over.

“We should move out of the parking lot,” Stiles said reluctantly. “I’m not the only one with a balcony. And you should probably do something with your ridiculous car before anyone needs to back out of their spaces.”

“Not my car,” Derek said. He tangled his fingers with Stiles’s, dropping a very distracting kiss onto the tip of his nose.

“Not your—yes it is. You wash it every damn weekend.”

“It’s Laura’s,” Derek said. “I have a Camry. You probably haven’t seen it; Laura makes me park it out on the street so hers doesn’t get scratched.”

Stiles stared at him, processing that information. “Let me guess; she also makes you wash it for her?”

“It’s a trade-off,” Derek said. “She hates handling all the grocery shopping and apartment cleaning when I’m on shift, but she said she’d stop complaining if I spent an hour out here every Saturday. She claimed she was the one doing me a favor, but I haven’t been so sure about that.”

“She might’ve been right,” Stiles said, wondering if everyone in the building—everyone but Derek—had been watching this whole thing unfold. “Wait, what kind of shifts do you work? Are you at the hospital?”

Derek cleared his throat again, looking oddly embarrassed. “No, I uh. I’m at the station. I work with your dad now. He makes a pretty great Sheriff.”

“Deputy Derek Hale,” Stiles said. That part really shouldn’t have come as a surprise; Derek had always been the one hanging off stories from the station. While Stiles snooped around in his dad’s files, dreaming up exciting new criminal-catching methods, Derek had stayed by the then-deputy’s side, asking boring questions about procedure and policy. “For fuck’s sake. I can’t believe my dad didn’t tell me you were back.”

Derek’s cheekbones took on that pink tint again. “He said he, uh. Doesn’t like getting involved in your romantic life anymore. But that if we ever did figure things out, he wanted us to both come over for dinner.”

“Well,” Stiles said. “Then I guess we should get back to figuring things out.”

It took 207’s extended, irritable honking to finally move them out of the parking lot. Stiles was the one who ended up with a sunburn, as it turned out. But he didn’t mind that much, not when it came with Derek in his apartment, smoothing aloe vera onto the back of his neck, and then playfully kissing his nose again before smearing the gel along his lips’ path.

The next Saturday morning, the parking lot was quiet and still. Stiles was out on his balcony, a mug of coffee in one hand, the other resting lightly on Derek’s knee.

“Derek, look,” he hissed, nodding at the silver SUV that 401 was attempting to very quietly unlock. Rookie move; should’ve parked on the street if she didn’t want to be seen. “I bet you anything she’s sneaking off to the casino again before her husband wakes up.”

Derek didn't lift his eyes from the thick book he was reading—some boring examination of the history of European conflicts, last Stiles had checked. He hummed in the back of his throat, though, then rested his hand on top of Stiles’s to show he was listening. 

Once 401 was safely on her way, revving the engine triumphantly as soon as she'd made it halfway down the block, Stiles drained the rest of his coffee. “Alright, I'm gonna take a shower.”

“Okay,” Derek said. He moved his hand and flipped a page of his book, still frowning in concentration at the dense, tiny text.

“You should join me,” Stiles said. “In fact, I think we should make that a habit for a while. It's about time you started making some serious strides in water conservation.”

“Honestly, Stiles,” Derek sighed.

But he set the book down.

[boymeetswerewolf]

Sterek Week ‘17 // Meet-Cute

Derek and Stiles frequent the same bar. On more than one occasion they’ve sat next to each other, neither speaking to the other because they were usually with their boyfriends. After they both go through a break-up at the same time, they wind up back at the bar again, alone. This time, however, Stiles summons the courage to strike up a conversation, and the rest is history...

[kaistrex]

Not Until The Third Date

For the Sterek Week day 3 theme: Meet-cute.

In which Stiles has a fox familiar named Batman who likes to meddle. 1149w.

Derek knows he must be hallucinating as he stares, bleary-eyed, down at a little fox trying to steal his bag of chips in the middle of the snacks aisle of the grocery store.

His move cross-country to Beacon Hills has drained even his werewolf edge, and all he wants to do is crawl under the covers, pull them over his head and forget the world for a week or two. Instead, he still has to get some real food in the house and then he has a meeting with the Beacon Hills Emissary for lunch as a formality to welcome him to town.

Just a few more hours. Then he can sleep to his heart’s content. As soon as this meddlesome hallucination surrenders the chips and lets him go on his way.

The fox gives a little tug with it’s head, frowning up at him.

Derek frowns back. Tightening his grip when the fox doubles its efforts, he casts about for any other person, wondering if he’s really the only one seeing this. A woman pushes her shopping cart obliviously by, child in the seat kicking at her legs. Either this is an entirely normal occurrence for the residents of Beacon Hills or the stress of the move really has driven him to crack.

He looks back down at the fox, little growls sounding in its throat now as it braces its front legs to pull with all its might.

“Batman! What’s taking so—?”

Derek’s head snaps up to stare at the owner of the voice who’s just rounded the end of the aisle, a dark-haired, dark-eyed man pushing a shopping cart towards him.

The man rests his elbows on the handle of his cart, the quirk of a smile lending warmth to eyes not as dark as Derek had first thought. “You must be Derek Hale.”

Now everything makes sense. Derek releases the bag of chips as he straightens and holds out a hand for the man to shake who can only be the Beacon Hills Emissary. The fox — a familiar — gives a pleased yip around the packet as it trots over to the newcomer’s cart and leaps inside. It sets its front paws on the rim and stares at him, head cocked. It’s only now that Derek realises it doesn’t smell like a normal fox and he thinks he can be excused for not noticing considering the turbulence of the past few days. It’s scent actually shares similar notes with the man’s, and Derek knows it’s not just because of all the time they must spend together. He’s heard familiars are closely linked to their owners, in tune even with their emotions.

The man’s hand is warm and strong, and he tries not to stare at the long fingers wrapping around his own.

“Mr. Stilinski,” Derek greets, though he cringes as soon as the words are out of his mouth, made worse by the other man’s wince. He’d assumed the Emissary was going to be middle-aged and balding, and it had felt only natural to refer to him in such away, especially considering the pseudo-keysmash footing all of his emails. Faced with the man himself, he couldn’t have been more wrong. Though the mental picture would have been easier to deal with; this guy is gorgeous.

“Stiles,” Stiles corrects and Derek manages to recover enough to smile.

“I suppose Mr. Stilinski is your father?”

“He usually goes by Sheriff, actually,” Stiles answers wryly, and Derek tries not to blanch.

He’s barely been in town five minutes and not only is he already eyeing up the town’s most important citizen (whether or not the other citizens are aware of that fact) but he’s also the son of the Sheriff? After his triggerhappy ex, Derek’s had enough experience with guns to last him a lifetime.

“Though,” Stiles continues, thoughtfully. “If you let him eat some bacon, he’ll let you call him anything you want, his health be damned.”

Derek can’t help the laugh that bubbles up.

Stiles stares at him, heart audibly stuttering. Derek’s smiles fades, not sure how to read this situation, but movement in the corner of his eye attracts his gaze down to his basket where the fox is now perched, weightless. He nibbles affectionately at Derek’s fingers where they grip the handle.

“Batman, out!” Stiles orders. There’s a blotchy flush spreading across his cheeks, and it takes a second for Derek to put the pieces together before his own ears flush hot. It seems this is a familiar-emissary emotion bond in action.

Batman (Batman?!) obeys his owner, but probably not in the way Stiles was hoping. He scampers up Derek’s arm and perches on his shoulder, bushy tail curling gently around his throat as he rubs his muzzle against Derek’s stubble.

“Oh my God!” Stiles squeaks, throwing up his hands and looking like he’s wishing the ground would swallow him. “Cut it out!”

“There something you want to tell me?” Derek asks, fighting a smile as he cranes his head away from the tickle of Batman’s whiskers.

Stiles runs his tongue along his bottom lip in a display of nerves, though it’s affecting Derek as if it were a seduction tactic. “Not until the third date?”

“Turn our lunch into dinner and you can call it number one.” Triggerhappy exes be damned. There’s no way he’s passing this chance up.

Stiles gapes at him, the pretty blush darkening his cheeks further. It takes a few second before he manages to blurt out, “Deal.”

Batman jumps down from Derek’s shoulder and there’s a definite proud swagger as he pads back over to Stiles’ cart. Something tells Derek it won’t be the end of the creature’s meddling.

They exchange numbers, Stiles chattering all the while about a great hole in the wall that does amazing burgers and sweet potato fries that have even managed to eclipse his ‘town-renowned’ love for curly fries (“Seriously, Derek, curly fries. I don’t think you understand just how big of a deal that is!”). Derek looks forward to finding out what other facts about Stiles are ‘town-renowned’ and maybe a few more personal things too.

Stiles reaches into his own cart before he leaves and picks up the chips, placing them in Derek’s instead. Batman gives a plaintive cry.

“Oh hush. He had them first. You don’t even eat them.”

The fox grumbles but curls up on a loaf of bread and Stiles throws Derek a fond eyeroll.

They go their separate ways after a reluctant goodbye, Derek feeling much better about the morning than he had five minutes ago. Not only is he going out to dinner with a cute guy on his first night in town (Laura will have a field day if she ever finds out) but he gets to skip out on lunch and get some of that well-deserved sleep. All in all, it’s a pretty great start.

[nightlight9]

Sterek Week Day Three: Meet-Cute

Title: Kittens and Fluff

AO3

Stiles finds a box of kittens on his way to work. A storm seems to be brewing, so he does the only logical thing he can think of to help the small creatures: bring them to the office. It should be fine, he has a cubical all to himself. But then three of the cats go missing, and oh God, Derek Hale from marketing is going to have his head.

———

“What do you mean you lost the kittens?”

Stiles reaches out and punches his best friend in the arm before sticking his head over the cubicle wall to see if any of their coworkers heard Scott’s announcement. “Dude, use your indoor voice.” Convinced no one is paying them any mind, he slouches back into his seat and glances at the empty cardboard box under his desk dejectedly. “I didn’t mean to-. Look, I hadn’t had time to eat breakfast this morning, so I ran down to the break room for a snack, and when I got back they were gone.”

Scott scrubs a hand through his hair, and Stiles decides that it isn’t fair that he’s so worked up about it. After all, Scott’s not the one who misplaced two small kittens in their very large workplace. The Beacon, one of the biggest up and coming publishing corporations, doesn’t necessarily have a policy about animals on campus. But that doesn’t mean that the CEO’s will be pleased that Stiles brought a box of stray kittens into the building without asking permission first. And then lost said kittens.

“Why would you think it was okay to leave five cats alone unsupervised while you went to find food! You should have called me in to watch them!

Stiles sighs and holds up his fingers. “Okay, first, I didn’t lose all five of them. Danny took Boots, and Allison came and picked up Francis. Second, I was only gone for five minutes max, and that’s only because Greenberg stopped to talk to me. You know how hard it is to escape that guy! And third, they were asleep. I didn’t think they were going to make a daring escape while I was gone!”

Shaking his head, Scott bends down to look under Stiles’ desk for the fourth time in five minutes. “Yeah, I know. It’s just, what are we going to-.” Before he can finish his question, Stiles’ computer pings with an email alert. Freezing at the noise, they stare at each other until the computer pings again.

Stiles gulps, fingers twitches towards his keyboard. “Shit,” he mutters when he catches the sender’s name. “I’m so dead.”

Scott stands up to peer at the screen, clutching at Stiles’ shoulder as if that was enough to protect him from being fired.

If there is one thing that they both have learned during their nine months at the company, it is that no one messes with the Marketing manager, Derek Hale. They’ve both heard horror stories about how he’s made interns cry, and even though neither of them have met the CEO’s son, they know that they never want to do anything to make him mad. Stiles always thought that they were lucky they didn’t work in his department, thought they could continue to blissfully work under ‘Call me Coach’ Finstock without worrying about making Derek mad. And yet.

“What does it say,” Scott asks, breathing heavy. Stiles shudders a little before clicking the email icon. The message is short and clear: Mr. Stilinski, please come down to my office. The second email is just as short, and carries a heavy weight: As soon as possible please.

The both stare at in in horror, and then Scott shakes his head and agrees, “You’re so dead.”

Stiles blinks at the email, then forces a smile up at his friend. “What are the chances Derek just wants to congratulate me on my hard work?”

Scott snorts. “Yeah, the head of a different department is calling you to his office on the day you lose three kittens in the building to congratulate you on your work.”

Pushing at his shoulder, Stiles stands up and glares at his friend. “You don’t know, man.” Faking bravado, Stiles straightens his shoulders and nods. “Okay, here goes nothing.”

Scott pats his back then disappears to his own cubicle, leaving Stiles on his own. He walks slowly, opting to take the stairs up the two flights instead of the elevator, hoping the time will steady him. It doesn’t really help, and when he finally gets to Derek’s floor, all he can do is hope that no one will be able to tell how badly his legs are shaking.

Erica Reyes, the only member of Derek’s personal marketing team that Stiles actually knows, smirks when she sees him. There’s something in her eyes that makes him queasy, and he edges past her desk quickly, avoiding eye contact. She just laughs at his unease.

He’s almost relieved when he knocks on Derek’s door, until he hears Derek’s gruff, “Come in,” and the fear rears back with a vengeance.

Stiles expects almost anything but what he opens the door to see.

The infamous Derek is lounging on the small sofa in his office, two small kittens curled up and sleeping in his arms. The third, an orange one that Stiles named Nemo, is sitting on the back of the couch, playing with Derek’s hair.

Stiles can’t decide if he wants to coo because of how cute the sight is, or cry because Derek Hale is probably the sexiest man he has ever seen. He has his tie off and the top two buttons of his shirt undone, enough to expose curls of dark hair, he’s looking at the kittens as if they are the most precious thing in the world, and it’s killing Stiles. If Stiles’ mouth drops open, he can’t really be blamed for it.

Derek, unaware of Stiles’ inner turmoil, smiles over at him. “Mr. Stilinski, it’s nice to finally meet you. I would stand up to shake your hand, but-. Well, they just fell asleep and I don’t want to disturb them.”

“I-. You found the kittens.” It’s a stupid thing to blurt out, but his brain is a little fried at the moment and those are the only words he can get out.

Expression growing serious, Derek nods. “Yes, I was on my way to meet Finstock when I noticed them in your cubicle.”

“I’m sorry,” he blurts. Derek’s eyes widen at the outburst, and Stiles rushes on to explain. “I was on my way to work when I found them, and I couldn’t just leave them out there. But I was running late already, and this was the only place I could bring them!” As he goes on, Derek’s (magnificent) eyebrows climb higher and higher in astonishment. “I’m so sorry. I’m sure that this goes against some obscure company policy, but I promise that I can get rid of them! I can even go now, if you want me too.”

Derek blinks a few times, gathering his wits again, before speaking. “Mr. Stilinski, I’m not upset that you brought them into the office. They aren’t hurting anyone. I only brought them here because they were trying to escape from their box and I didn’t want them getting lost.”

Stiles stares at him. He can’t piece together how the man lounging before him is the same person from everyone’s horror stories. “You’re not going to fire me?”

He didn’t think it was possible for Derek to look more surprised. “What? Fire you? No! I don’t-. You’re not even in my department.”

Nemo, seemingly board with Derek’s hair, starts to make his way daringly across the back of the couch. Feeling more comfortable now that he knows that his job isn’t on the line, Stiles moves further into the office and catches the small cat before he can try to make the jump to the floor. Nemo climbs up his chest instead, purring in contentment.

“I thought they got loose,” Stiles explains, trying to ignore the way Derek watches him. “I was so worried that they would get lost.” He clears his throat, and meets Derek’s gaze. “So thank you, for bringing them here.”

The sentiment makes Derek duck his head, hiding a smile, and oh Gods, he’s a marshmallow. “It was no problem. I-.” He trails off, clears his throat. “Are you planning on keeping all of them?”

He gestures to Stiles to take a seat, which he appreciates. Nemo has been trying to squirm out of his arms, and he doesn’t want to drop him. As soon as he’s seated on the chair by the desk, Stiles sets the small kitten on the floor to explore and turns his attention back to Derek.

“As much as I would love to take them all home with me, Nemo is the only one I’m going to keep for myself. I’m planning on finding some friends or something to adopt those two though.” He gestures to the kittens sleeping against Derek. “Then if I can’t find anyone, I guess I’ll take them to a shelter.”

A blush appears on Derek’s cheeks. “Um. I would like to keep them, if you don’t already have some friends who want them.”

Stiles feels his mouth drop open again. “Wait, really?”

His blush deepens. “I-. Yes. I promise that I’ll be able to take care of them. I’ve wanted to get a cat for awhile, and well-. These two are so sweet, and they seem to like me quite a bit, and-.”

A smile pulls at Stiles’ lips as Derek continues to rattle on about why he would be a good pet owner. Everything that he’s ever heard about Derek Hale is most definitely false. This guy is nothing more than a very attractive marshmallow.

———-

“I can’t believe I ate that whole burrito,” Scott drones as they step out of the elevator. Since they finished lunch, he hasn’t stopped complaining about how full he is. Stiles stopped paying attention to it well before they even got back to their building.

It’s been just over a week since everything with the kittens went down, and Stiles can’t get Derek out of his head. He hasn’t seen him since then, but every time he lets his mind wander, kaleidoscope eyes appear to him. Like now, all he can think about is how relaxed Derek was lounging in his office. Stiles can imagine curling up with him there, tucking around his body like the kittens did. It’s honestly very distracting.

“Dude.” Scott punches his shoulder to get his attention. “You seriously zoned out on me. Again.” His nose wrinkles, and then he sighs with his whole body. “Please don’t tell me you were thinking about Derek again. I swear you’re worse than I was with Allison and-.”

They turn into Stiles’ cubical and stop short. Because sitting on his desk, playing with his pens and grinning at them is Laura Hale. Laura Hale, who will be CEO of The Beacon when her mother steps down. Laura Hale, who has a lot of power in the company already. Laura Hale, who just overheard Scott telling Stiles to stop daydreaming about her younger brother.

Oh Gods, he’s dead.

Scott looks back and forth between them, then takes a step back. “I’ll talk to later, Stiles,” he says, voice quivering only a little before he retreats.

Stiles blinks at Laura for a moment before babbling. “Oh, hey Laura. Laura Hale. Laura future CEO. How’s it, uh-. How’s it going?”

Her laugher is gleeful. “Oh, this is perfect. I assume you’re Stiles Stilinski, correct?” He nods, frantically bobbing his head up and down. Her grin is predatory. “Then you’re the one who responsible for giving my brother those cats?”

“I-. Yes, he took two of these kittens I found a week ago. But-.”

She raises one hand to cut him off. “Which means that you’re the one responsible for making him so happy.” His jaw drops. He can’t help it.

Laura rises to her feet, long limbs unfolding gracefully until she stands before him. “Derek is a hard one to crack,” she begins, crossing her arms and looking fond. “Since he’s started working here, he’s hardened himself into his role. He’s always taken things too seriously, and I was starting to worry that nothing would get him excited again. And then I went to his office for lunch one day, and found him grinning over at these two cats, laughing as they chase each other around.”

Some of the edge in her expression relaxes back into fond exasperation. “And he wouldn’t stop talking about you, about how good your work is, about how he thinks you’re a great employee.”

Stiles colors at the praise. “I-. I don’t even work in his department.” As soon as he says it, he feels like smacking himself in the face. Obviously she knows that he doesn’t work for Derek. It’s her job to know.

“Still, you made an impression. And I’m sure it’s not just because Derek thinks you’re hot.”

Error: there has been a malfunction. The file named brain has been disconnected from the server.

“W-what-.” Stiles can’t exactly understand.

Cackling at his expression, she reaches out to pat at his shoulder. “You know, it’s not against the company policy for employees to date.” He blinks at her, still trying to understand. “I’m just saying. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting to get to. Derek shouldn’t be too busy now though, and I know he hasn’t eaten yet.” She points at a bag on his desk. “That’s his lunch, if you would be so kind as to take it to him.”

He’s nodding before he can comprehend what’s happening. It makes Laura laugh again, before she pats his cheek. “It was nice to meet you, Stiles. Hopefully we’ll be seeing more of each other very soon.”

Stiles watches her walk away, still feeling off balance. And then he’s scrambling, grabbing the bag and moving to the elevator. He barely hears Scott yell out for him, but he’s too busy thinking about how he might actually have a chance with the man of his dreams Derek.

The elevator ride seems to take forever. When the door finally opens on the right floor, Erica is waiting on the other side.

She actually looks surprised for a moment, but then her eyes catch on the bag he’s carrying, and a sly grin pulls her lips up. “Stilinski,” she murmurs. “Welcome back. I was wondering how long it would take you to wander up here again.”

Not giving him a chance to respond, she climbs in the elevator herself and shoves him out. “Good luck, Stiles” is yelled his way as the elevator closes.

Heart pounding, Stiles makes the walk to Derek’s office, entering when he hears the familiar call, “Come in!“

Derek is standing with his back to the door, rustling through a filing cabinet and giving Stiles a great view of his ass. It’s distracting enough that Stiles doesn’t even realize he’s talking.

“I thought you got lost,” Derek grumbles without turning around. “When you offered to bring me lunch, Laura, I expected it a little sooner. Some of us have actual work to-oh.” He turns, eyes widening when he sees Stiles instead of his sister. “Stil-. Mr. Stilinski. How can I help you today?”

“I have your lunch,” Stiles squeaks, holding out the bag. “Your sister asked me to drop it off.”

A frown pulls at Derek’s lips even as a blush colors his cheeks. “She didn’t talk to you, did she?” Stiles blinks at the pleading edge in his voice. “She asked you to bring that up, and that was it? Right?”

He opens his mouth to respond, but then movement from the couch catches his attention. One of the kittens is jumping around the couch, playing with a blanket draped there. Beside the couch is a large cat tree, and the other kitten is resting there, looking content.

“You keep them in your office,” Stiles asks, distracted.

Derek’s blush deepens. “Figs doesn’t like being left alone,” he grumbles. “And I wasn’t going to leave his sister behind. Besides, I work late sometimes, and it wouldn’t be fair for them to be alone all the time.”

His heart might actually burst out of his chest. Derek is too much, so cute. It might kill him.

“I-. Laura might have mentioned that you’ve told her about me,” he says finally, drawing his attention back to the conversation at hand. It makes Derek pale. “And she might have mentioned that it wasn’t just because you think I’m hot.”

“Oh, Gods, I am so sorry. Laura is-. She likes to meddle with stuff she shouldn’t, even here at work and-.”

“It was a mortifying conversation,” Stiles continues, stepping farther into the office, “Because my best friend had been yelling at me for daydreaming about you.”

Little bunny teeth poke appear when Derek’s mouth falls open. It takes him a second before he asks, “Really?”

Stiles shrugs, setting the bag on his desk. “Yeah, really. I’m sure Laura will tell you all about it.”

At that, Derek laughs, head tipping back far enough that Stiles is assaulted with thoughts of marking his skin.

“So if I asked if you wanted to get dinner later,” Derek trails off.

It makes Stiles grin. “I would ask what time you get off.”

When Derek laughs again and reaches out to grab his hand, Stiles is thankful for kittens, and rainstorms, and meddling sisters. He really loves his job.

[thecitrinefox]

Well it’s no sexy Marie Curie but...

(sterekweek day 3, meet cute with a side of halloween and scenestealer I guess, since it’s inspired by a buffy episode. 2.7k, brief language. also imagine stiles’ outfit like hoechin’s from everybody wants some, basically)

Derek is pissed.

“Somebody has to go check on the Nemeton, Derek. Don’t worry Beacon Hills has been quiet lately anyways, Derek,” Derek snarks as he stomps to his car. “No self respecting supernatural creature would start shit on Halloween anyways, Derek. What bullshit.”

The thing is, Derek loves Halloween. Usually. He has a not so secret sweet tooth and an excuse to eat all the candy he likes. He can let his fangs drop and flash his eyes all night and all anyone does is ask where he got his special contact lenses. He can be truly himself and not get treated like a freak, and he loves it. The problem is that even though the Hales moved out of Beacon Hills years ago after Kate Argent had burned their house down, they’re still responsible for the territory. Which means checking in on the dreaded Nemeton every so often, to make sure it hasn’t awoken, and also see if any unauthorized supernatural nasties have moved in while they weren’t looking. This year, Derek drew the short straw, and this year his mom had insisted he do the Beacon Hills check-in on Halloween.

Things had been going okay for most of the day. Derek had run the town’s perimeter in the morning and smelled nothing out of the ordinary, even in the preserve. He’d visited the Nemeton, and there had been a few leaves sprouting out of it, which he’d thought was a bit odd, but he didn’t feel anything unusual from it when he’d pressed his hand to its trunk, so he’d just snapped a few pics with his phone and texted them to his mother and moved on. He’d spent the afternoon criss-crossing the town proper. He’d driven past the high school, walked around downtown. He ate lunch at the local diner that he was pleased to see was still there, and grinned at kids of varying ages he’d started to see out and about in costumes. He forced himself to go stop by the old Hale House, and it’d been sad to see the house he’d grown up in in ashes, but even that wasn’t enough to ruin his day.

When the sun has gone down and Halloween revelers start showing up around town he lets himself shift. Not fully, just fangs and eyes. He’d discovered if he does a full beta shift people have a tendency to just reach out and touch his face, wanting to feel the ‘prosthetics’, and considering the amount of people who squeeze his biceps or pat his chest without permission these days he doesn’t like giving them extra reason to touch. But it feels good to let his eyes glow and let his fangs out as he goes about his evening and have nobody even bat an eye. He hands some candy out to kids as he passes them, even scares a couple by letting his beta shift through, although their heartbeats tell him they’re more thrilled by the change than actually terrified, and he’s heading back to his car trying to decide if he wants to do one last sweep of the town or just drive back to the new Hale estate early when things change.

It’s nine pm on the dot when a breeze rolls through the town and Derek feels all of his hair stand on end. If he wasn’t partially shifted already he thinks he would have done so automatically and he stops in the middle of the sidewalk, looking around. He doesn’t see anything at first, just trick or treaters walking around, some older kids and adults in costumes clearly headed to or from parties, but then suddenly it seems like the crowds start getting a little chaotic.

At first Derek thinks maybe people are getting rowdier now that it’s later. There aren’t so many little kids out and about anymore and people have probably started drinking, but then he notices people are acting...odd. A guy dressed in a pirate costume talking like a pirate to him is regular Halloween behavior. A woman covered in what looks and smells like real cat fur with real cat ears running past him on all fours is weird, but it could be weirder, Derek guesses. But then he sees a couple people up ahead dressed as a Waterbender and a Firebender, and they seem to actually be manipulating water and fire in the air between their hands, no practical tricks as far as Derek can see, hear or smell, and well, it’s beginning to feel like something is truly up. But it’s when a girl dressed up as Supergirl literally flies by overhead that Derek begins to panic a little.

It’s a spell, it must be, he thinks, as he hurries back to his car, muttering to himself irritably and cursing his mom for picking him this year. People seem to universally be turning into their costumes, and the firefighters he passed were clearly harmless, he can’t resist a shudder when he sees an actual Minion run down the street. Derek gets into his car and carefully maneuvers down the street, trying to avoid hitting any confused pedestrians. He thinks about calling his Alpha, but his mom will want to come down, and if it’s something he can fix on his own, he thinks he should. Laura already teases him enough for constantly checking in with Talia about decisions he makes. He’ll start with the Nemeton, he decides, turning off main street and heading towards the Preserve.

He almost misses it when he’s just turned around a curve and a college aged guy in short shorts and a crop top darts out into the road, the reflectors on his blue and orange striped running shoes giving Derek just enough of a warning to slam on the brakes.

“Hey, I’m walking here,” the guy shouts, flipping Derek off.

“Well maybe you should walk somewhere that’s not right in front of a speeding car,” Derek shouts back at him out the window.

“Jackass,” the kid mutters under his breath, probably unaware Derek can hear him. The guy keeps walking across the street, then stops dead, turning back towards Derek’s car.

“Wait, you can see me?” the guy asks incredulously.

“Uh, yeah,” Derek scoffs.

“Damn, finally,” the guy says. “I wonder if it’s a werewolf thing.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Derek says, jerking back. He forces himself not to shift fully human. It’s supposed to be a costume, he reminds himself.

“Being able to see me,” the guy clarifies. He reaches out, and Derek can’t duck back fast enough before the guy’s hand is waving right through his face. It feels strange, although weirdly it feels slightly warm, not cold like he might’ve anticipated. “I’m a fucking ghost, and you’re the first person to be able to see me all night.”

“I can’t normally see ghosts,” Derek says.

“Well I’m not a real ghost,” the guy says, rolling his eyes. “I was wearing a ghost costume so…”

“You turned into what you were wearing, just like everyone else,” Derek finishes. He eyes the guy’s clothing somewhat dubiously. Up close there is a lot of pale skin on display, dotted with beauty marks, the guy’s arms and stomach practically glowing in the moonlight. “Sorry, what kind of ghost are you supposed to be?”

“How about you pull over into a parking spot before someone gets mad at you for clogging up the road,” the guy says, gesturing toward a spot just up the street. “Also I know he won’t be able to see me but I half feel like my dad is about to show up in his cruiser and bust me for solicitation dressed like this and leaning in your car window.”

“What,” Derek says dumbly.

“My dad’s the Sheriff,” the guy says. “Thankfully he was just wearing his uniform tonight. I stopped by the station to check, so it seems like he and all his deputies are all still just cops. Go on, go park, I’ll follow you.”

Derek doesn’t have any better idea, so he pulls up into one of the metered spots ahead, turning the Camaro off and getting out of it. The guy jogs up behind him, and very carefully leans against Derek’s car next to him, seeming very pleased with himself when he doesn’t just fall through it. He’s got soft brown hair, and an upturned nose and Derek doesn’t know what’s more obscene, the outfit he’s wearing or the way he licks his pouty lips nervously.

“It was kind of a dare,” the guy says, looking vaguely embarrassed, gesturing down towards his outfit. “I accidentally got suckered into a conversation with my friend Lydia about ‘sexy’ Halloween costumes and gender equality. Anyways long story short, I briefly blacked out and agreed to wear something as revealing as whatever Lydia was planning on wearing in the name of feminism. Lydia gave me this, like, seventies exercise outfit including booty shorts, a crop top and knee high socks, and I was like ‘hell yeah’, but then when I put it on I panicked, and cut some eye holes in sheet and put that over my costume, because being a ghost is way less terrifyingly revealing, and uh, ta da. Now I’m a slutty ghost from the seventies. Not that being slutty is a bad thing, as Lydia would probably say. God, she’s out there somewhere dressed as sexy Marie Curie, I wonder what that’s like. I’m Stiles by the way. Stilinski. I’d shake your hand but well...”

“Right,” Derek says, feeling overwhelmed.

“Anyways, you’re like, a real werewolf, right,” Stiles says. “It doesn’t just look like you turned into a werewolf costume’s idea of werewolf, those eyes are the real deal. Oh shit, you’re a Hale. Too gorgeous to exist, dark hair, sexy car, you’re here on one of your family’s semi-annual ‘I’m sure Beacon Hills is fine without us’ trips.”

“Who are you?” Derek asks.

“I’m Stiles Stilinski,” Stiles says, slowly and looking at Derek like he might be dumb. “I told you like a minute ago. The Sheriff’s son?”

“I know that much, yes,” Derek says. “But how do you know this stuff?”

“Dude, you think things in Beacon Hills have just been naturally quiet for the past few years? Beacon Hills? I mean, you did grow up here, right, you remember what that was like? You think having less peace-keeping werewolves about just magically made the town less nuts?” Stiles scoffs. “Look, things were maybe semi-normal for a year or two after the Hales booked it, after that hunter tried to fry you guys, but then word got around that Beacon Hills was up for grabs and things went sideways. You guys weren’t around and so the rest of us had to get with it real quick to keep Beacon Hills from getting completely overrun.”

“Who’s the ‘rest of us’ and why didn’t anybody contact my family if you knew what we were and things were happening here?” Derek asks.

“Um, I mean it took me a while to figure out you guys were werewolves, and honestly we weren’t exactly sure how your mom, the uh, Alpha right, would react to what was going on,” Stiles says, scratching at his chin nervously. There are beauty marks on the side of his face and down his long slender neck as well and Derek can’t help but stare. “I’m a spark, my friend Scott got bit by this total asshole Alpha, so he’s a werewolf. Lydia is a banshee...hey do you think she screamed when I ‘died’ tonight?”

“How did we not know about any of this?” Derek asks.

“Well we’ve had things pretty well under control for a while now,” Stiles says. “And my dad put an APB out on your whole family, so generally we lie low when any Hales roll into town. Like I said, we know it’s technically your territory so we were a little worried you guys might try to kick our merry band of misfit supernaturals out if you knew what we were up to. I think your uncle Peter knows, but he’s kind of an asshole, so I’m not surprised he didn’t tell your mom.”

“Jesus,” Derek mutters. He’s trying to wrap his brain around the revelations of the night, but honestly he can freak out about it later, they have a more immediate problem on hand. “So do you have any idea what’s going on tonight? Halloween is traditionally pretty quiet, supernatural-wise.”

“Oh, that ummmmmmmm,” Stiles says sheepishly. “So a couple of months ago I may have pissed off this witch? A little? I tend not to notice when people are hitting on me, and I may have been a little rude about her behavior because I thought she was trying to get some kind of magical favor out of me.”

“Stiles,” Derek huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“To be fair though, the last couple spells she threw at us weren’t exactly harmful,” Stiles says. “It’s more along the lines of pranks than anything, so I’m guessing while it’s kinda weird everyone has turned into their costumes, I don’t think anyone will get hurt as a result of it. It’ll probably wear off by midnight. Like we could try to find her and make her reverse it, but by the time we do it’ll probably all be over anyways.”

“Well I guess it’s true I haven’t seen anyone get hurt or heard any real screaming,” Derek admits. Stiles raises an eyebrow smugly and Derek just rolls his eyes in response. “Okay I’ll let it drop, but one scent of blood and we’re tracking down that witch. And tomorrow you’ll make nice with her so this doesn’t happen again.”

“Deal,” Stiles says. “So I suppose that means you’ll be leaving Beacon Hills again?”

“I was only supposed to be here for a day,” Derek says. “But at the very least I should stick around long enough to meet the rest of your pack, and make sure things get settled with that witch.”

“Yeah and we have a few hours to kill before the spell probably ends,” Stiles says with a grin. “I’d invite you to my favorite burger joint for some boozy milkshakes but god only knows what the waitstaff was dressed up as, better not risk it. And it’s not like I could drink it right now anyways.”

“We may not have a house here any more but we still have a pretty nice loft downtown,” Derek says. “It’s stocked with a decent bar, if you’re really after a drink and willing to wait for it.”

“Why Mr Hale,” Stiles says, stretching one arm behind his head as he leans back against Derek’s car. “Are you inviting me home with you?”

“If that’s something you’d be interested in,” Derek says. He lets his gaze wander up Stiles’ bare legs, pausing heatedly at the wide swathe of bare skin between his shorts and the crop top above it, dark hair leading from Stiles’ bellybutton down under his waistband. Movement catches Derek’s eye and he looks up in time to see Stiles slowly lick his lips, a blush crossing his face.

“I suppose spending some time at your place wouldn’t be so bad, if I have to wait a few more hours until I can...touch things again,” Stiles says finally. “Let’s go.”

It’s merely the logistics of Stiles being unable to open the door himself that has Derek darting over to open the passenger side door of his camaro for Stiles, but Stiles still smirks at him anyways. He slips past Derek, their faces only inches away, and it’s some kind of torture, Derek thinks to be this close and literally unable to bridge the distance and just touch Stiles, but he closes the car door behind Stiles and gets into the driver’s seat to drive them both over to the loft. A few hours, he thinks, trying to ignore how Stiles is luxuriously sprawled out in the seat beside him. Stiles is smirking. Of course he is.

When he hits a red light, Derek quickly pulls his phone out and shoots a quick text to his mother.

Need to follow up on a few things here in BH.

May be here a while.

[tabbytabbytabby]

Date My Daddy (3835 words) by tabbytabbytabby Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Teen Wolf (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski Characters: Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski, Laura Hale, Original Hale Character(s), Erica Reyes, Lydia Martin, Allison Argent Additional Tags: Getting Together, First Kiss, First Meetings, Meet-Cute, Single Parent Derek, Derek Has a Crush on Stiles, Mutual Pining, Mentioned Kate Argent, Minor Allison Argent/Lydia Martin, Barista Stiles Stilinski, Erica Reyes & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Mentioned Vernon Boyd, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alive Laura Hale, Alive Hale Family, Misunderstandings, Stiles thinks Derek and Laura are Married, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Writer Derek, Sterek Week 2017, sterekmeetcute Series: Part 2 of Sterek Week ‘17 Summary:

When his daughter is born Derek moves out of Beacon Hills to keep her away from Kate. After Kate's death Derek returns to Beacon Hills and meets Stiles. Derek is immediately smitten, which doesn't go unnoticed by his daughter Emma.