Work Text:
Stiles was halfway through a very intense round of the newly downloaded CoD app when a soft thud against his bedroom floor startled him into dropping his phone, hitting him square in the face on the way down, and damn, that was going to leave to a mark.
“Mother — ow, what the hell — oh my God, Derek!” he yelped, sitting up fast enough to nearly fall off the bed, heart leaping into his throat.
Derek Hale, in all his dark, broody, leather-clad glory, had just climbed through his window like it was just part of his daily routine.
Which — okay. It kind of was part of his daily routine now, which was deeply concerning. Stiles had already had words with him, but apparently Derek didn’t learn “sit” and “stay” in obedience school. In fact, Stiles was pretty sure that “kill” was the only command that was taught.
To be fair to Derek though, he was really good at that command.
“You can’t just, dude, you can’t just appear in people’s bedrooms like that! I’m buying you a bell. A loud one.”
“I knocked,” Derek said, completely unbothered and ignoring the not so subtle jab, stepping further into the room.
Stiles gestured wildly at the closed window. “On what, Derek? The air molecules outside the glass?!”
Derek’s eyes flicked to the window, then back to Stiles, one brow lifting in mild challenge. “You weren’t answering your phone.”
“I was busy!” Stiles pointed at his phone where it was now laying stranded on the bed next to him. “Important mission. Deep in enemy territory. Doing things that mattered.”
“Playing a war game?” Derek asked, dry.
“It’s called escapism, Hale. Some of us don’t actually enjoy chasing real monsters in our off-hours, you know.”
Derek crossed his arms — which was rude, because the movement pulled his already tight Henley even tighter across his chest — and surveyed the room. Stiles followed his gaze and suddenly became hyper-aware that he was sitting cross-legged on his bed in old sweatpants and a hoodie that had ridden up just enough to show a hint of pale skin at his stomach.
Derek noticed. He definitely noticed. His nostrils flared slightly and his jaw twitched as his eyes lingered a second too long.
Stiles tugged the hoodie down in one sharp, panicked motion. His brain immediately supplied about twelve separate inappropriate fantasies, and he mentally screamed at it to shut up before it got them both arrested by his dad.
“What are you even doing here?” he hissed, attempting to sound annoyed but not quite succeeding if his voice crack was anything to go by.
“There was something weird in the Preserve. Thought I saw movement. Decided to make sure you were safe.”
“Oh,” Stiles said. His brain tried to reboot. “You thought of me first?”
Derek looked at him. Just looked. Long enough for Stiles to feel his heartbeat stutter. There was something open in that gaze, something so unapologetically honest it made Stiles’ stomach twist.
“Of course.”
And look. Stiles would absolutely unpack that later — possibly with the help of his right hand and a cold shower (and the awkwardness of the last time Derek walked in on him doing that was a conversation for another time) — but right now…
“Stiles?” came the voice from downstairs, sharp and parental and very much the worst possible thing at this exact moment.
Stiles froze.
Derek froze.
They stared at each other.
There was a very long moment of mutual oh-crap telepathy.
Stiles motioned wildly at Derek to hide, but Derek just squinted at him like, Where, exactly? In your sock drawer?
Stiles mouthed, Under the bed? and Derek gave him the flattest look humanly possible.
He genuinely was the bane of Stiles’ existence. Why are you like this? Stiles mouthed at the older man, earning a quiet snort followed by an eye roll.
“What are you doing up there?”
“Erm…” Stiles’ brain short-circuited, hunting wildly for any plausible explanation, waving at Derek like that would help. “Masturbating?”
Derek’s eyebrows shot up. His mouth twitched, not quite a smirk, but definitely something.
There was a pause from downstairs. Stiles could almost hear his dad processing that one.
“And you said Derek’s name?” the Sheriff asked, slowly. Calmly. Too calmly. The kind of calm that came before a shotgun and an arrest were involved.
Stiles physically winced. Derek slowly turned to look at him, one eyebrow arched halfway to the ceiling.
Stiles’ face flushed crimson. “I — uh — yes?”
“Was that an answer or a question?”
Stiles threw a desperate glance at Derek, who looked mildly amused, and absolutely useless.
“Yep. Yep, said his name,” Stiles confirmed, wincing. “Totally normal. Happens all the time. You know, just thinking about, uh —”
Derek leaned in a little, hands planted on the bed, either side of Stiles, boxing him in, voice low and unhelpful. “What exactly were you thinking about, Stiles?”
Stiles shot him a look. “Shut up,” he whispered furiously before raising his voice to respond to his dad. “Just thinking about Derek! Classic… fantasy.”
Derek eyes physically darkened as he backed off. Like he was actively restraining himself.
Another pause. Stiles braced for the sound of footsteps storming up the stairs. Instead—
“Okay,” said the Sheriff, like he was filing the information away for later. “Stiles. Why don’t you invite Derek round for dinner tomorrow?”
Stiles blinked. “Wait, what?”
“I think I should probably get to know him a little better.”
Stiles’ heart leapt into his throat. “That’s really not — he doesn’t even like — he’s not a dinner guy, Dad. You know? Much prefers… dessert?”
Derek coughed.
“Stiles.”
“It’s not like he’s my…” He caught the look Derek was giving him. “I mean—”
“Speak to him,” the Sheriff said. “Tell him to come. Tomorrow. Seven.”
“Dad—”
“It wasn’t a suggestion.”
“Alright, okay! I’ll invite him over!” Stiles flailed toward surrender. “Dinner.Sure. Fantastic.”
“Good,” he said, lightly amused. “Tomorrow. Oh, and Stiles?”
“Yes, Dad?” Stiles sighed. Loudly.
“Wear something nice. Like those red jeans,” the Sheriff added. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Derek couldn’t stop staring at you in them last time.”
Derek’s eyes widened. Visibly. Stiles slowly turned to stare at the Alpha as his ears went redder than his eyes. Derek made a small noise, a kind of cough-choke hybrid.
“I — wha —” Stiles squeaked.
“In fact,” the Sheriff continued as if he was talking about the weather, “Deputy Parrish had to remind Derek that it was your birthday, and you’d only just become legal, and that it would probably still be morally wrong to take you home after your birthday party, no matter how much you were not so subtly hinting at it.”
Stiles briefly considered throwing himself out the window Derek had just climbed through. A fitting end, really. Full circle.
“I was drunk!” Stiles exploded.
“I wasn’t,” Derek said, too quietly, almost as if he couldn’t stop himself.
Stiles stared at him. “Wait. So you were going to—?”
Derek looked at the floor, frowning. “But I didn’t.”
Stiles’ brain tried to make words happen. Failed. Flashed blue screen. Spinning cursor. Tried again. Error message.
“Oh.”
That was all he could manage. His mouth was dry and his heart was thudding like it was trying to escape.
“Alright then. Thanks, Dad,” Stiles squeaked, voice going about three octaves higher than normal.
“Erm,” Stiles said, gesturing vaguely toward his bed even though his dad couldn’t actually see him. “Wanna leave me in peace now to... finish?”
There was a pause, then the sound of a coffee mug being set down very deliberately on the counter downstairs.
“Stiles,” his dad called, “let me know if you need anything else. Or if Derek needs a chair, or directions to the spare room. Or a condom.”
“OH MY GOD!” Stiles yelped, grabbing the nearest pillow and hurling it at the wall.
Derek actually choked.
Eventually, Stiles muttered, “You had to come through the window, didn’t you?”
Derek folded his arms, giving him an exasperated huff. “You could’ve just said you were on the phone.”
“Oh, sure. Logical thinking. That’s what we’re going with now?”
Derek sighed as he walked back over to the window ledge, obviously deeming the reason he originally showed up to not be important anymore.
“I gotta go,” he muttered.
“Yeah. Sure. Flee the scene. That’s fair.”
Derek hesitated at the window. “Dinner. Seven?”
Stiles nodded mutely.
“I’ll be there.”
He turned and started to climb out.
“Oh, and Derek?” Stiles called after him. Derek looked back. “I’ll be wearing the red jeans.”
Derek slipped. Just a little.
Stiles grinned. It was actually worrying just how much he savoured the sound of the dignified, stoic alpha gracelessly tumbling into the hedges below.
***
Bonus scene — The Birthday Party (told from Parrish’s POV bc why not):
Jordan Parrish had seen a lot of things since transferring to Beacon Hills.
He’d seen people shift into wolves, watched banshees scream reality apart, and once walked in on Stiles using glow sticks to, and he quotes, “ward off the demons” in the sheriff’s living room at 3 a.m. But this — this quiet, agonizing disaster of repressed emotion happening in front of him — is a new one.
It was Stiles’ birthday party. The kid had just turned legal, and apparently everyone in the supernatural population of the town had decided that warranted alcohol, dancing, and what Parrish could only describe as an overwhelming amount of eye fucking from one particular werewolf.
Derek Hale was standing in the corner, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes fixed on Stiles like he was both the problem and the solution to every moral dilemma Derek had ever faced.
And Stiles, who had been three drinks past coherent at least two hours ago, never mind now, was wandering around the party like a wind-up toy with poor depth perception.
Until he saw Derek.
Parrish noticed the exact moment it happened. Stiles’ face lit up like a Christmas tree. He made a beeline for Derek, nearly tripping over a beanbag and announcing his presence with a loud, “Derek! Dude!”
Derek didn’t move. His eyes tracked Stiles’ approach with the weariness of a man who had faced too much in his short life. Still, he stood his ground — Parrish would give him that.
“Why do you always look like you’re in pain?” Stiles asked, slurring a little as he leaned dangerously close. “Like someone told you smiling was illegal.”
Derek blinked stoically. “Because I’m talking to you.”
Parrish smothered a laugh into his beer.
“You’re so serious,” he’d slurred, poking a finger into Derek’s chest like it was a completely reasonable thing to do. “You ever, like... laugh? Or smile? Or —or take shots? Or kiss people?”
Derek had gone very still. His fingers flexed at his sides like he was trying to ground himself. Parrish watched his jaw tick — once, twice. The man looked like he was physically restraining himself.
Stiles, utterly oblivious, kept talking.
“I bet you’re a good kisser,” he said, nodding solemnly. “All... intense and growly and frustratingly hot. But also, like... soft?”
Derek’s jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists at his sides. Parrish straightened slightly.
Stiles leaned in like he was going to whisper a secret and just... completely missed. He ended up talking into Derek’s collarbone. “You ever think about kissing me?”
There was a long beat. Derek didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Someone on the couch snorted. Parrish glanced at Lydia, who was watching the interaction unfold in front of her. Parrish took a slow step forward, ready to intervene.
Derek’s eyes darkened. So much so that Parrish actually saw the shift in his eyes, the kind of hunger he was desperately trying to hide.
“Stiles,” he said.
Just one word. Rough. Wrecked. Unsteady.
Stiles blinked, smiling up at him like an idiot. “Yeah?”
Parrish reached them then, a calm hand landing gently on Stiles’ shoulder. “Alright, birthday boy. Let’s maybe not get mauled tonight.”
Stiles blinked up at him, confused. “Huh?”
“Time for cake,” Parrish said brightly, already guiding him away, turning a pointed look back to the werewolf. “And maybe a water. Especially since you’re not legally old enough to drink, and it might be a violation of some people’s morals if you say, oh I don’t know, went back to someone else’s house tonight.”
Behind them, Derek exhaled — long and low and sharp around the edges.
Parrish didn’t say anything further. But as he glanced back over his shoulder and caught Derek still watching Stiles walk away, his eyes transfixed on the red jeans that Stiles donned, the kind of expression that didn’t belong on a casual observer’s face, he made a mental note:
This was going to be a problem.
And honestly.
He couldn’t wait to see how it played out.
***
By the time Parrish was helping clean up, the house was quiet again. The Sheriff was wiping down the kitchen counters, and Parrish was stacking plastic cups into a tower that would inevitably fall over the second Stiles made his way into the room.
“You good?” the Sheriff asked.
Parrish hesitated.
Now seemed as good a time as any.
He glanced toward the hallway, then back to Stilinski. “So... about Derek.”
The Sheriff didn’t look up. “What about him?”
Parrish rubbed the back of his neck. “Tonight he… well, Stiles was drunk. And Derek didn’t do anything. I want to be clear about that. But the way he looked at him...”
Stilinski paused. Still didn’t meet Parrish’s gaze.
There was a beat.
The Sheriff set the dish towel down with a sigh.
“I know,” he said simply.
Parrish blinked. “You... know?”
“I’ve seen the way Derek looks at him. Like he’s both the problem and the solution to his entire life,” the Sheriff muttered. “He’s been doing it for months.”
Parrish nodded slowly. “Stiles has no idea.”
“Of course he doesn’t. My son is many things. Self aware isn’t one of them.”
Another sigh. The kind that came from knowing full well the chaos that was barreling down the tracks at full speed. From what Parrish knew, the Sheriff had already lived this with his late wife.
“I suppose I should be glad Derek didn’t give in,” the Sheriff said. “Though, honestly? I’m not sure how much longer either of them’s going to last.”
Parrish raised an eyebrow. “And you’re... okay with that?”
Stilinski didn’t answer right away. He just leaned against the counter, tired eyes softening a little.
“I trust Derek,” he said eventually. “And God help me, I know he’d rather chew his own arm off than hurt Stiles.”
Parrish smiled. “That’s kind of romantic.”
“Yeah, well. So is a shotgun wedding. Let’s just hope we don’t get either.”
“You know that’s not…biologically possible, right?” Parrish said slowly.
“My son is part of a pack of werewolves, Deputy. I had to house a fucking faerie two weeks ago.” The Sheriff sighed. “I’m pretty sure anything is possible at this point.”
They stood in silence for a moment.
“Also,” the Sheriff added dryly, “if he ever does give in, I’m still legally obligated to give him the shovel talk. So that should be fun.”
Parrish chuckled. “Should I put it in your calendar?”
“I’ll let you know the date soon, I’m sure,” the Sheriff said.