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Stiles is tripping over himself for the third time that afternoon—he’d fallen asleep after getting home from class and he’s always a little extra clumsy when coming into consciousness—when there’s a rough, quick tapping of fingers against his bedroom window. Stiles rolls his eyes and doesn’t bother turning around. At least the guy’s started knocking before he barges in.
“The harpies aren’t strictly harmless,” Stiles says when he hears footfalls in his room. He knows the noise is for his benefit, his awareness. No reason a werewolf should draw unnecessary attention to themselves. “I mean, they’re kind of wilted, yeah, but there’s not really great feeding grounds here. Since right now they’re just killing off animals, I’d say we don’t really have a lot to worry about.”
Stiles grabs a book of mythical creatures from his desk and holds it out behind himself as he pushes other papers around and tries to find his Adderall.
“By the way,” he adds while he’s unscrewing a bottle of water, “thanks for knocking. Maybe next time you could try using the front door.”
He imagines his guest is shrugging. “It’s faster this way.”
“And I’m all about convenience. So, we gonna seal the deal or what?” He turns around, having knocked back his pills, and cocks his hip against his desk. The picture the Alpha makes, splayed across his bed with the book open, is tantalizing, and Stiles smirks to himself.
Ethan looks over the book, putting it down on his chest, and grins. “I assume you don’t mean the kind of sealing I’m into.”
Stiles shrugs. “Maybe another time. Twenty bucks, I’ll photocopy the pages for you.”
His room is quiet as Ethan stands, closing the book and handing it back to Stiles. “What am I going to do when you go back to that godforsaken town for the summer, Stiles?”
“I know; it’ll be a real hardship, having to do your own research for what’s eating up a bunch of little bunny rabbits in the few hundred acres of forest around Los Angeles.” He opens the book back up again and calls over his shoulder as he moves out of his dinky bedroom, “Also, next time you climb the fire escape in order to get into my apartment, I’m pushing you out the window.”
When he returns to his bedroom, Ethan is sitting at his computer. Stiles shoves him away, hands him the pages.
“Go on your merry way, soldier. And tell your brother to stop flirting with my roommate. She has a boyfriend.”
But Ethan doesn’t move. Instead, he leans back in Stiles’ desk chair. “How many finals do you have left?”
“Two. I’m leaving on Sunday morning.”
“Flying?”
“Driving. It’s cheaper.”
Ethan smirks, shrugs. “Do me a favor, Stiles. You see any Alphas up north, tell ‘em to keep their hands off you.”
Stiles arches an eyebrow. “Now you’re the jealous type?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.” He winks as he folds up the pages and sticks them in his back pocket. “Have a nice summer, Stiles.”
It hadn’t really happened on purpose. Stiles supposes it’s the classes on mythology he’s taking and his advertisement in the local newspaper about selling spells and charms and potions (within reason) to anyone desperate enough to pay his prices. He has rules, though. He doesn’t get involved with anything against human or supernatural laws, and he doesn’t play with fate. He may have been known to craft a few love potions, but never without consulting a talking board first. Love is serious shit.
He’s grateful, at least, that he’s powerful enough to survive all of his classes and make a living being the whipping boy for anything out there that needs his help. Alphas are kind of his specialty, considering his best friend is one, but he doesn’t let it go to his head. There are so many packs in southern California, he’s just glad he’s in business.
Also, he’s not dead yet. That’s a plus.
The drive up to Beacon Hills is one of six hours and twenty-three minutes (because he stopped for half an hour for gas and food) and when he pulls into the driveway of his dad’s place, he leans back in his seat and closes his eyes because—finally. He’s home.
Scott’s beat him there, coming from only two hours away in Davis, but their reunion is still glorious. He, Stiles, and the Sheriff go out for dinner that evening, and Stiles can safely say he’s never felt happier to be home.
“How’s business, kid?” his dad asks him across the table, picking at his fries. Stiles glares disapprovingly.
“Booming,” Stiles responds dryly, “like your cholesterol. You know, you’d think that there would be more witches and shit around, especially in L.A.” He shrugs as he reaches for his drink, leaning back in the booth. “But apparently it’s just me and a few other girls at the school who really make money off of it. There are smaller covens, but they don’t take advantage of the market.”
“Any trouble from the Alphas?” Scott asks him.
“Nah, we’ve managed to reach an understanding. They don’t hurt me and I don’t curse them into oblivion. There’s one who just doesn’t seem to know how to take no for an answer, though.” He holds up a hand before his dad can say anything. “He doesn’t harass me, he’s just a serial flirter. I can handle it. Also, the supernatural division of the police force down there emailed me about that internship I applied for. I have to schedule an interview.”
His dad smiles warmly at him and Scott claps him on the back. “You’ll get it, bro. No question.”
Stiles wishes things were that easy sometimes.
There’s a heady mixture of relief and sadness that comes with being back in Beacon Hills. It’s the place where he first grew into his magic, where he watched his friends be sorted into groups of human, supernatural ability, and creature. Werewolves, really, are the only socially accepted creature nowadays. The Vampire Massacres in Maine the year before Stiles was born had set the movement in motion to rid the country of anything similar. Any vampires still living are either in confinement or in hiding, and since werewolves are the only humanoid creature really left, they began as royalty. Now, Stiles likes to say, they’re as common as gum on the sidewalk.
He was one of the first male witches (he prefers the term warlock, but a lot of people are strict about the usage and political correctness) to ever come out of Beacon Hills, and the only one to ever graduate Beacon Hills High with honors in his field. He could’ve gone anywhere with that, he knows, but he chose UCLA because he could. And he likes it there, anyway.
The only problem, Stiles thinks, with coming home, is having to deal with how it keeps changing. Because Beacon Hills is so close to the town where supernatural beings really first became known (that is, Sunnydale) all of those years ago, they get some tourists. They also get a lot of shops sprouting up, selling memorabilia; they have huge ceremonies at the high school and presentations by wolves, witches, and scientists alike, all striving to impress the new generation.
It would make Stiles feel a little sick if it weren’t for the fact that he makes money off of these types of people. Poetic justice if there ever were such a thing.
The newest change that summer comes in the shape of a black Camaro outside of the police station. It seems he’s not the only one who’s come home.
Stiles doesn’t pay attention to it at first, ignorant as he bounds up the steps with his father’s lunch neatly packaged in his hands. (It’s a salad, and Stiles has one for himself too, since the Sheriff doesn’t like to dine like a rabbit unless he’s making others do it too.) It’s only when he strides into his dad’s office without knocking that he knows something is up.
It’s not uncommon for someone with supernatural abilities to have a normal job. There are only so many ways for people to abuse their powers, to start their own businesses and broadcast the things that make them special, and Stiles figures that if any type of thing would make a good Deputy, it would be a werewolf. Still, it shocks him to see one in uniform, sitting across from his father.
The Sheriff clears his throat. “Stiles, this is Derek Hale, our new Deputy.”
Stiles reaches out his hand. “From New York. Yeah, my dad told me about you. Uh, sorry. For interrupting.”
Derek shakes his hand firmly, politely, and nods. “Not a problem. We were finished anyway.” When he turns back to the Sheriff to say something Stiles assumes to be a closing statement, it gives Stiles an opportunity to gawk, because they don’t make guys like that in L.A. Which, really, is ridiculous. Because it’s L.A.
He’s all muscles, everything tight and perky and glorious, and he’s rocking what looks like a half inch of dark, rough stubble. He’s beautiful, Stiles thinks, and it’s a testament to how long it’s been since he’s gotten laid that he’s actually made a little breathless.
Derek nods at him again on his way out the door.
“Every female in the goddamn building drools at him all day long,” the Sheriff says grumpily. “It’s a wonder anyone gets any work done.”
Stiles sucks his eyeballs back into his skull and takes the vacated seat on the opposite side of the desk. “Werewolf genes—those little buggers are powerful.” He starts taking out the salads and sets his phone down too, reading through an email from an Alpha from Minnesota who found his website. He smirks and tabs it to examine later. “So, what’s his story?”
“His family used to live here. Old family, most of them died in a hunter’s attack when you were pretty young. You wouldn’t remember it—he and his sister moved to New York and stayed there. She was his Alpha for a while, but she…” He trails off, picking at the lettuce presented to him. “The guy’s got a lot of ghosts.”
“So he’s an Alpha? Does he have a pack?”
“Yeah, three kids about your age.” The Sheriff looks up as if to say, And that’s the end of this conversation, before holding out a hand. “Dressing?”
Stiles smirks. “Right away, Daddy-o.”
The Sheriff rolls his eyes.
Stiles doesn’t try to seek Derek out. It just kind of…happens. It’s interesting, having an Alpha in Beacon Hills. They have a few Omegas, since the town is safe enough and small enough that no one worries about a few strays like they might in bigger cities, plenty of magic-inclined folks, but no Alphas. Until Derek.
His pack, Stiles quickly learns, is made up of three people from various parts of the country. Erica Reyes was the first of Derek’s betas, a girl he met in a hospital in the mid-west. Everyone in town suspects that they’re together (because Erica is drop-dead gorgeous with legs that go for miles and sinful lips), but Stiles has seen her making eyes at another one of Derek’s betas, Vernon Boyd. He’s strong and silent, Stiles thinks. Other than that, he doesn’t know much about him. Then there’s Isaac Lahey. Witty, charming, and adorable to boot—Stiles bets he and Erica make one hell of a team when they’re put together.
He’s grabbing a quick lunch at a diner in town when he formally meets them all. They walk in like some motorcycle gang, and Stiles wants to laugh at the idea. They’re not exactly threatening. All of them, it turns out, are just a few years older than Stiles, graduated from college, and they all have menial, boring jobs in town. Erica works at the comic book store, flirting with nerds and cracking superhero puns whenever the opportunity arises. Isaac is a file clerk for the Sheriff’s department—he carpools with Derek. Boyd drives the Zamboni at the ice rink.
They all march up to the counter and order without even looking at the menu, engaged in quiet, casual conversation. Stiles is sitting at a booth behind them, sucking on his milkshake as he stares.
Ten points from Slytherin for lack of subtly, Stilinski.
Erica glances at him over her shoulder not once, not twice, but a grand total of three different times before she nudges Boyd. Before Stiles knows what’s happening, they’re joining him at his booth, staring him down like a pack of hyenas.
“Never seen a wolf before, Stiles?” Erica purrs.
For a split second, Stiles thinks he’s in love. He shakes it off. “My best friend is an Alpha, actually. But he lives in Davis.”
She nods. “McCall—of course.”
“Derek had to clear his stay with McCall,” Boyd says, as if that isn’t something super fucking interesting that Stiles never knew. “Since he’s the closet Alpha.”
Stiles makes a mental note to choke his friend for not telling him.
“So, what’s so interesting about us that you just had to stare?” Erica inquires. Stiles thinks that’s her foot crawling up his calf, but it disappears a moment later just as Erica squirms her body closer to Boyd’s.
“New kids on the block,” Stiles offers with a shrug. “Stories fly. Just curious, I guess.”
Isaac makes an interested noise. “We’ve heard stories about you too. You run a little business in L.A., sell information to people. And magic.”
“Doing what I can to help the populous.”
“By visiting the library and then charging them out the ass for it?”
Stiles shrugs. “Some people are lazy. And I don’t just visit libraries.”
Erica nods dutifully, but her lips at curled. “Of course not. The most powerful witch to come out of Beacon Hills in a century. The most powerful warlock to come out Beacon Hills…ever. Home for the summer?”
“Leaving in two weeks. Just visiting the man who calls himself my father and the guy who used to be my best friend before I go back down to Los Angeles. Why?” He lifts his milkshake. “You wanna go back with me?”
Boyd glares at him. Stiles gives him a shit-eating grin.
“Our Alpha might be interested in your services,” Isaac says. “Restoration of a magical artifact.”
Stiles nods. “Simple enough, depending on the item. Standard fee is 20 bucks an hour for time spent; 35 down for an average piece, 50 for any artifact larger than my person or older than my great grandma, extra if it’s something too big to fit in my apartment. Or, in this case, my room at my dad’s house. Sound fair?”
Apparently it does. Derek knocks his front door the next afternoon, carrying a box. It’s cardboard, boring, but when he shoves past Stiles and walks into the house, Stiles can feel the waves the energy from it.
“I should let you know, I charge extra for any bodily harm received by unruly cursed objects.”
Derek arches an eyebrow. “Noted.”
It’s a grimoire. The book is obviously still very attached to its previous owner, whoever developed and recorded the manual according to their needs, but Stiles knows it’s not that difficult to unbind the connection, especially with physical distance between them.
“It belonged to a friend of mine,” Derek explains. “He was a powerful warlock—he passed away last year. I need to open the book, get information from it, but it won’t let me in.”
Stiles frowns, stroking down the spine of the book. “The connection between a grimoire and the owner doesn’t usually extend beyond death unless powerful charms have been cast. Did he have any reason to protect it?”
“That’s not really any of your business,” Derek says shortly. “Can you open it?”
“Sure. I’ll have it back to you tomorrow.”
Derek doesn’t look convinced. He doesn’t say goodbye.
The grimoire is more difficult than Stiles had predicted, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t open by the time Derek returns the next evening. He’s in uniform, and when Stiles lets him in, he may or may not check him out. For science.
“The charm to keep the book closed came from lingering magic, but since the previous owner was deceased, it was simple to remove. Mostly. It maybe kind of attacked me a few times, but I’m good.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I kind of ran into an issue with actually reading the text.”
Derek frowns. “How do you mean?”
“It’s all written in some kind of code. Not English, and not a foreign language that I can recognize. And my translation spells did nothing to it. It’s probably another way meant to protect the secrets in the book, but it’s not reversible by any magic except the caster’s. It’s not unsolvable, though; it’s a code just any other. There’s a pattern there somewhere, but since you didn’t hire me to find out what it is…” He shrugs. “Good luck to you.”
“How much extra to decode it?”
Stiles arches an eyebrow. “Okay, well, uh… Stuff like that is different from restoration or recovery. To actually do research and spend time on the book… I’d say fifteen an hour plus gas expenses if I need to visit the library or the university.”
“Think you can write me a guide to decode the whole book in the time you have left here?”
Stiles shrugs, nods. “Yeah, probably. It looks to me like a basic alphabet algorithm. I can maybe work something out based off of the pictures inside and the grammar structure…” He nods again. “Yeah, I’ll see what I can do. Hey, you owe me 95 for unlocking it, by the way. It was a beast.”
Derek reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. He drops five twenties on the table. “Keep the change—find me when you decode it.”
Stiles is left staring at the closed door a moment later. “Nice to see you too, Mr. Alpha.”
The whole situation, Stiles finds out, is complicated. Scott’s gathered a kind of reputation amongst packs within the vicinity. He’s a kind, just Alpha and, although he lacks a legitimate pack, he’s still young enough for that to change. It was apparently a big deal to have an older Alpha just walk right in and acknowledge Scott’s ownership of Beacon Hills and its territory.
Scott is a little bit more modest about the whole thing.
“It wasn’t a big deal,” he says around a bite of his cheeseburger. “He visited me while I was at school and asked what kind of claim I felt I had towards Beacon Hills and if I would give him permission to establish his pack there.” He takes another bite and reaches for his soda. “I already decided that I’m gonna go to grad school further south and even though I spend some time at home still, I’m gonna be at school for the next two years before I move. It’s his hometown too, he has just as much claim to it as I do.”
Stiles sighs, leaning his face into the palm of his hand. “But I just don’t get why you didn’t tell me. I mean, you’re an Alpha, yes, but—but—give me some drama and excitement in my life, Scott. I’m bored.”
Scott grins. “Okay, next time someone comes and talks to me about my wolfliness, I will be sure to pick up the phone and make sure you know every detail.”
“Good. That’s all I’m asking.”
He drops the book off, along with the code that will be able to translate it, at Derek’s loft a week and two days later when he’s on his way down to Davis to hang out with Scott for a while before he turns to L.A. Derek answers the door wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt and actually invites Stiles in.
“Aw, thanks, man,” Stiles says with a little wave, “but I’m on my way to see Scott. I just wanted to drop it off before I left.”
Derek looks confused. “I thought you weren’t leaving until next week. Your father said…” He trails off, gestures for Stiles to continue as if his confusion isn’t important.
“Well, yeah, but I changed my mind. I have an opportunity for an internship and it would just be better if I were down there, you know?” He hands Derek the slip of paper with the symbols explained and the grammar deciphered. “So, that should tell you everything you need to know. If you have any more questions, you can get my number from my dad. Always happy to help out the neighborhood Alphas. By the way, you owe me 280 for that key.”
Derek writes him a check.
“See you next summer!”
He doesn’t really think about Derek when he’s at school. He does his work, he makes money, he gets his grades, and he survives the monotony of his life while he’s being forced to live it.
There’s a romantic tryst in October that bleeds into November and December and he spends the holidays with her and her family, but it ends in late January and, as lovely as it had been, it’s mostly for the best. She’s a wolf, and her family isn’t so crazy about outsiders. She’s nice, though, and they stay friends as best they can.
Ethan visits him again in February, asks him about good luck charms and whether or not they can actually be created. Stiles spends that month concocting the perfect type of Felix Felicis-esque potion anyone could ever ask for, and it becomes a hit. He doesn’t sell it to everyone who asks and he puts a fail-safe in the spell so that it can’t be used for really, really terrible things.
Wouldn’t want anything souring his reputation.
Stiles, having gotten the internship at the police station (of course), has less and less time for those types of things, however. It doesn’t suck as much as he imagined it would, especially since he gets a new client who is very, very appreciative of his work.
Alpha Mahealani is not only a young, fresh-out-of-school Alpha with a two-member pack and only a few acres of land to his name, but he is also the inhabitant of the most unlucky plots of land anyone could ever claim in L.A. County. They stretch past the Hollywood sign into the land above the Griffith Observatory, and while it’s a great view and a beautiful piece of land, it’s home to some of the most unruly creatures to ever crawl up from Hell.
He visits Stiles a lot in his attempts to gain his bearings.
Danny’s nice, sweet, but he’s sassy, too, and Stiles likes that about him. He doesn’t put up with Stiles’ shit like some of the others do, simply rolling their eyes at him and deciding he’s a dumb kid. Danny treats him like a sparring partner. It’s probably that treatment that makes him so interesting to Stiles.
“Do you wanna get a drink some time?” Stiles asks him in early April. “I know a great place—or dinner?”
Danny says yes.
Stiles has never really liked Alphas as romantic partners that much. They’re too controlling, too worried that they’ll be seen as weak, unwilling to give any hint of submissiveness or uncertainty, but Danny isn’t like that. He’s strong, yes, and brave. But he’s not just an Alpha. He’s a person, too.
The sex is phenomenal. Stiles honestly can’t remember the last time the sex with anyone was that good. He has a good time with Danny, honestly, but there’s no potential for a relationship there, so they hook up a few more times before summer and then that’s it. Danny thanks him for his help and Stiles kisses him goodbye.
Ethan finds it amusing.
“Mahealani?” he laughs, sniffing over at Stiles’ pillows. “Wow, honestly, I can’t say I blame you. He’s hot. I’d fuck him too—but I thought you had a rule about fucking people who pay you for the shit you do for them.”
Stiles does. But since it’s his rule he’s allowed to make exceptions. He says as much to Ethan.
“So how come you’ve never bent the rules for me?” he asks, pouting. “Not worth it?”
“Because you’d consider it payment,” Stiles says with a smirk. “And as incredible as I’m sure you’d be in the sack, I happen to like cold, hard cash for the work I do.”
Ethan shrugs. “Fair enough. Also, nice sarcasm with the ‘incredible in the sack’ bit. You’re getting so good at that, I almost couldn’t hear the heartbeat skip.” He winks at Stiles on his way out the window.
Not for the first time, Stiles hopes he trips and falls the six stories, landing on his head.
Spring break comes and goes and is wonderful. He spends it with Scott in San Diego, drinking and having the time of his life, and it’s a nice change for once, to be able to relax. It doesn’t last long, though, because the second he gets back to school, he has an email. From Derek.
There are issues up north, apparently. Freak accidents, girls going missing and coming back with scars and their hair chopped off, obviously terrified out of their minds, maybe even cursed. No one’s been able to figure out what’s going on, so Derek has sent the symptoms and any clues he’s found Stiles’ way.
Stiles works it pro bono, mostly because his dad had sent him basically the exact same email a day earlier. He’s able to figure out what the spell is and even trace the source to a corrupt coven of four women just a half hour south of Sacramento. Derek makes sure they’re taken care of.
But it doesn’t end there. He finishes finals and is on his way home when he gets a text.
Hey, it’s Derek. I have some relics that keep vibrating and freaking out without warning. Your dad says you’re coming up, so would you mind taking a look at them for me?
Stiles is happy to have something to do to take his mind off of his school year. He’ll finally be a senior when he goes back in the fall and, even though it’s been ten months since he’s actually physically hugged his father, he’s looking forward to it—as long as he gets his break beforehand. That’s the most important thing right now.
When he meets up with Derek, Stiles thinks he might go just a little bit breathless. He’d forgotten, whilst away, that Derek is kind of ridiculously gorgeous.
Derek arches an eyebrow at him.
“Shut up,” Stiles spits, shoving at his shoulder. “Don’t wear that darn uniform so much. It’s disorienting.”
Derek smiles. Stiles rolls his eyes.
“I’ll take a look at these and get back to you.”
“See you around, Stiles.”
The pieces are interesting, to say the least. They seem like they might be old pieces designed by witches to harness power, like familiars except stone. Not an unheard of technique, but not very popular. In the end, he isn’t sure whether to be relieved or worried that that doesn’t turn out to be the case. Stiles is able to diagnose their malady fairly quickly, and he meets Derek at the diner during his lunch break to hand them back over.
“You’ve got ghosts,” he says, sliding up to the counter and waving at Ricky as he works the grill. “I wrote out the whole thing for you—they’re sentimental pieces owned by this family from San Francisco. They were killed about a century ago and they were rich as fuck so all of their stuff got sold by the relatives in the wills. From what you’ve told me, it seems they react strongly within the presence of weapons—I don’t suppose you happened to be clawing around with these things.”
Derek shrugs. “I’m a police officer. I have weapons in my home.”
“Well, if you let them hang around much longer, they’re gonna manifest into corporeal beings. Which, really, wouldn’t be very good for you.” He slides the box they’re in over to Derek and mimes sucking a milkshake through a straw at Mandy, his favorite waitress with a killer smile. She laughs and nods at him, strolling over to make one for him. “I don’t suppose you know how to get rid of ghosts.”
“Burn their bones,” Derek tells him, “but in this case I’m guessing we’re going with burning the pieces.”
“Correctamundo. Hope you weren’t super attached to those things.”
“Not particularly.” He stands up, takes the box. “Thanks for your help. What do I owe you?”
“Eh, let’s say forty flat.”
Derek gives him a fifty dollar bill. “I don’t take loyal customer discounts,” he says, and then he’s gone, strolling out the door without a goodbye.
Stiles grins to himself. He kind of missed Derek. Just a little bit.
Derek actually turns out to be his most loyal customer in Beacon Hills. It’s amusing that, for the time he’s up there, he works one or two jobs a week, and half of them come solely from Derek. Like he doesn’t have a pack to consult or another person to ask. And heck, maybe he doesn’t. Either way, Stiles is kind of flattered and definitely intrigued. Because the more time he spends with Derek, the more he’s amused by his mannerisms.
Like the way his eyebrows twitch when he wants to smile or smirk but doesn’t think it would be appropriate. Or how he exaggerates how exasperated he is by looking up towards the ceiling and glaring hard, but Stiles knows that he’s playing. And then there’s the way Derek stands, the way he positions himself in a room when he finds out Stiles is there unexpectedly. He stands with his hands in his pockets, his thumbs sticking out, and his shoulders are always just a little bit too straight. If Stiles didn’t know any better, he’d think Derek was trying to impress him.
They eat together sometimes, mostly when meeting to talk about Stiles’ work, and that brings to light a whole new set of quirks. Derek, like most werewolves, eats meat, but he happens to prefer his meat on pizza whenever possible. “Don’t look at me like that,” he grumbles to Stiles, “it’s a guilty pleasure. I only have it once in a while.” And it’s true. He keeps fit and Stiles is amazed that he has enough self-control to avoid pizza. Stiles knows he would never manage.
Derek is grilling Stiles on his magic over burgers one night when the thought strikes. And so he turns the tables around.
“Okay, enough about me,” he says, and brushes his hands off, “I have a question for you. Is it an Alpha thing to be, like, super possessive and dominant all the time? Because I—I know these two Alphas in L.A. And one of them is all stereotypical and grabby, won’t take no for an answer and all that junk. And the other is…not.”
Derek is quiet for a moment. “Well, like all stereotypes, the ones connected to Alphas come from some sort of truth. But just because Alphas tend to be dominating doesn’t mean it’s impossible for certain ones to be the opposite.” He runs his tongue along the inside of his mouth and Stiles watches it for a split second. “Your dad told me you were getting some hassle from a customer of yours. Anything you want some help with?”
“He’s not mean enough to actually do anything; he’s just kind of annoying. I’d stop putting up with him if it were really an issue. But thanks.”
“And the other Alpha. Your…?”
Stiles cocks his head. “Customer.”
It’s not a lie, at least.
He sits up straight and smirks, shaking his head. “I deal with a lot of Alphas, man. A lot. None of them have yet to actually fuck me over. Don’t worry about it—I can take care of myself. That being said, you being around for me to ask questions of would be pretty cool, too. Sometimes Scott isn’t really around when I need him.”
Derek’s eyebrow twitches. Stiles preens. “Sure. You have my number.”
Stiles has always been pretty good at reading people. So, when Derek pays for their meal and offers to drive Stiles home, those things on top of basically everything else he’s been seeing for the past two months mean that someone’s in deep shit. Because either Derek is in love with him, which would be fucking ridiculous, or his dad is forcing Derek to be nice to Stiles in order to hide the fact that he’s been sneaking junk food again. That bastard. He always thinks that playing the Nice Deputy card will keep him out trouble.
Stiles makes a mental note to deprive him of fried foods entirely for the next two weeks of his stay and then maybe bribe Darla at the front desk to keep an eye on him until he comes home for winter break.
He says goodbye to everyone in town with a sort of finality. It feels like it’ll be his last summer ever, but it won’t, not really. Still, there’s something childish in him that wants one final hurrah. So he and Scott go out that night and drink, toasting their final year of college.
Sure enough, there’s something different about that year. Maybe it’s the workload, maybe it’s the people, but either way, Stiles can feel the shift in the air. He works and he goes to class and goes to the precinct and he repeats it all, filling up nearly every second of his life, and really, he should’ve paid more attention in his high school health classes when they talked about exhaustion and overworking.
He sleeps a lot, as much as he can, and he has no time to do anything else except work and sleep, work and sleep. So when, four months later, winter break rolls around, he’s nothing short of ecstatic.
He even decides to treat himself. He’ll fly up to Beacon Hills instead of driving this time—give himself a break and leave the Jeep to fend for herself for a while. It’s probably the best decision he’s ever made.
Derek picks him up at the airport.
“Your dad’s working,” he explains. “He couldn’t get away but he figured you wouldn’t mind.”
Stiles shakes his head through a yawn. “Not as long as you don’t mind if I sleep on the way there.”
It’s an hour and ten minute drive from the airport to Beacon Hills, and Stiles conks out as soon as they hit the freeway. When he wakes up, it’s to Derek unbuckling his seatbelt and grabbing his suitcase to carry inside the house.
“I got your email, by the way,” Stiles explains as he stretches. “About the wards. It’s a good idea to have them done, but you probably don’t want me to do them, especially not now. I’m kind of bushed, dude, if you hadn’t noticed. I’m sure there’s someone in town that would do them for you.”
Derek shrugs. “Not anyone I trust.”
Stiles would be kind of touched if he weren’t already drifting back out of consciousness. “Thanks for the pickup—see you later.”
Derek leaves.
“Her name is Allison,” Scott brags, eyes wide and teeth glowing from his smile. “She’s a history major at Davis and she’s going to Stanford for grad school—I’m in love with her.”
Stiles grins into his coffee. “Really? Because you’ve known her for three weeks.”
“Just wait and see, mister skeptical,” Scott says as he reaches over and shoves Stiles’ shoulder. “We’re gonna get married, I’m saying. Speaking of marriage, how’s your job?”
“Hardy har har.” Stiles shrugs. “It’s not bad, you know. Living the dream. Making enough money for pay for food and college and shit. I always make more when I come up here, though. Derek has me doing stuff for him. I think it’s probably my dad’s idea—you’re an Alpha and you don’t come knocking down my door for every little detail.”
Scott nods slowly. “That’s true, but I’m also not in Derek’s position. He’s been establishing himself in a populated town with a history of supernatural disasters. He needs all the help he can get to make sure everybody trusts him enough to keep him around. My area is a lot more chill. There are half a dozen Alphas surrounding me, all of them older and wiser. They like me so they help me out. Maybe Derek doesn’t have someone like that. Instead, he has you.”
“Yeah, maybe. Either way, he wants me to do some ward enchantments on his place.” He sighs heavily and stares down into his mug of black coffee. “After this job, though, I think I’m gonna need to tell him that I need a break. No more jobs until after the new year.”
“Sounds like a plan, man.”
Derek is at work when Stiles gets to his apartment to start the ward enchantments. He finds a key under the doormat—really fucking subtle—and lets himself in so he can get to work. The spells are relatively easy, especially since Derek had just wanted the simple job, nothing over-elaborate and complicated, and so he’s done in a little over an hour and he’s leaving just as Erica is walking in.
“Stiles,” she coos, “it’s been a while.”
“Nice to see you too, Erica.”
“Derek told me you might be coming by to ward the place. Get everything all set up?”
He hands her the piece of paper with the details written, how the enchantment is designed to allow Derek and his betas access to the apartment only and how Derek can go about allowing guests into the apartment through a simple phrase of his choosing, like a regular home-security system.
“I’m dropping this off for him when I bring my dad lunch,” Stiles explains. “It’s pretty simple, no big flashing lights or anything, but the resistance powered will physically force unwelcomed guests out of the building. And not the nice way.”
Erica grins. “Exciting. So, Stiles, I have to ask, are you gonna be coming back to Beacon Hills when you graduate?”
He shrugs. “Probably not permanently. I mean, I’m going to grad school, so there’s that. But, uh, we’ll see. It’s definitely not out of the question.”
“Good. Because the pack could use a resident witch.” She winks on her way into Derek’s loft, leaving Stiles blinking after her, dumbfounded.
He spends that afternoon fucking around after he drops the instructions to Derek’s new security system on his vacant desk. He naps and watches television, just relaxing, and it’s the best he’s felt in a long time, having time to himself. He knows that he has essays due when he gets back and that he still has to go grocery shopping for Christmas dinner, but it’s that kind of pressure that just makes his relaxation time that much sweeter.
He spends the next three days that same way and, on the fourth, he goes out with Scott and a few of their old high school friends. They have dinner, get a few drinks. His dad even lets him take his off-duty car. He feels like he’s in high school again—except this time he’s legally drinking alcohol.
Stiles is pulling up to his house when he sees the Camaro across the street. Derek is sitting in the front seat, looking down at something that illuminates his face. Stiles would guess it’s his phone.
By the time he’s parked in the garage and extricated himself from his father’s car, Derek has found his own way out of his vehicle and is leaning against the driver’s side door, arms crossed over his chest.
It’s not a defensive look, not really. In fact, it’s kind of relaxed, but bored. But Stiles can tell that Derek’s shoulders are tense nevertheless.
“Hey,” he says as he crosses the street, hands in his pockets. “What brings to you over to my neck of woods? Not my dad’s failed attempts at cooking, I hope. If you’re here to lodge a complaint for anything he made you eat while I was at school, it’s definitely not my fault and I will happily look the other way while you maim him.”
Right on cue, Derek’s eyebrow twitches. “I wanted to say thank you,” Derek tells him, “for the spell.”
Stiles shrugs. “Sure thing. Small potatoes compared to the last protection spell I had to deal with in L.A.” He sighs heavily, rolling his eyes. “Border spells were never really my forte, you know; I’m still just a student and they kind of kick my butt, but an Alpha near Anaheim paid me to superblock his whole place. Wiped me out. A simple one, though, with no complications? Easy.”
Derek licks his lips. “So, when are you going back?”
“So eager to get rid of me, huh?” Stiles laughs. “I’m staying through the new year. No doubt Dad will invite you and some other cops over for post-Christmas meals and the like, so you haven’t seen the last of me.”
Derek smiles politely and Stiles is about to say a final goodbye and head back inside, but there’s something in Derek’s expression that stops him.
“Is there something else you needed?”
“I’m off duty tomorrow,” Derek says quickly, and if Stiles had spent less time with werewolves (and, for that matter, less time with Derek), he might not have been able to see through the forced-causality of his stance and his face. But that isn’t the case. So he notices it when Derek’s shoulders rise and fall, pays close attention to his eyelids and how they twitch. “I was thinking—wondering—if you wanted to come over or—”
“I don’t fuck clients,” Stiles tells Derek, and it’s true. He has a strict no-fraternization policy (that is sometimes made not-so-strict, like the case with Danny). It saves him from messy tangles with possessive wolves and supernatural slips ups. Also when he puts out, people tend to think that means they can have discounts. Which, just, no.
Derek, for his part, looks offended. And not even like he’s faking it like Ethan does sometimes—no, he looks legitimately hurt. It’s gone in an instant, however, and he straightens his shoulders. “I wasn’t aware that you thought of me as a client.”
Stiles cocks his head. “You pay me for goods and services rendered. I’m pretty sure that means you’re a client.”
“Does that mean I can’t also be your friend?”
And Stiles is at a loss there, unsure of what to say, so he simply stuffs his hands in his pockets and doesn’t look away. Even if Derek is an Alpha, he won’t back down from this, not when it’s not his fault that Derek doesn’t get the way things work.
Derek looks at him a moment longer and then nods. “Got it. Message received.” He looks over Stiles’ shoulder to the light of the Sheriff’s porch. “Your dad is looking out the window. You might want to go reassure him that I’m not trying to harass you.” He reaches back to unlock his car and open the door. “See you around, Stiles.”
Stiles may or may not stand the middle of the road and watch him drive away, but it doesn’t mean anything. And later, when he can’t sleep and he ends up punching his pillow, envisioning it to be Derek’s stupid, ridiculous face, that’s meaningless too. So, so meaningless.
Stiles isn’t drunk when he knocks on Derek’s door exactly 23 hours, fifteen minutes, and four seconds later. He’s holding a bottle of scotch and he may have taken a few swigs, but he’s so sober that he thinks he might be sick with nerves. He’s in the middle of another sip when the door opens.
“You’re not just a client,” is the first thing out of his mouth. His lips are still wet with alcohol, and he licks it away. His stomach twists when Derek’s eyes flash down to his mouth. “I’m sorry I was a dick—I panicked. But you—you’re not just a client.”
Derek looks him up and down. “You’re not drunk.”
“Of course I’m not drunk, you idiot. But I’m kind of on my way there so can I have a glass of water?”
Derek steps back into his loft, leaving the door open. Stiles takes that as a good sign.
His loft gives off the same vibe as it had the last time came and visited as a guest, sleek and sexy and laughable, considering his occupation and his reputation. But Stiles holds in a delighted smirk and follows him to the kitchen, accepting a chilled Powerade from the fridge and setting down the bottle.
“Liquid courage?” Derek asks.
Stiles shrugs. “Maybe I just like the taste.”
“You of all people know you have no reason to be afraid of me.”
Stiles gulps down half of the Powerade in lieu of a response.
“Stiles, why are you here?”
“Because I was a dick and I needed to apologize.” He runs his fingertips down the dewey side of the bottle, drawing a slick pattern. “For the record, you’re like one of the only Alphas I deal with that I actually have real conversations with and the companionship is nice. I didn’t want to fuck that up. Also.” He chugs a few more sips and wipes his mouth when he’s done. “My dad kind of told me to stop being a wimp.”
Derek smirks. “Really?”
“Yeah. He said something about ‘not knowing what you have until it’s gone’ and then a bunch of other junk—I wasn’t really paying attention but then he gave me scotch, so.” He swallows tightly. “Look, I really don’t want to be all fluffy and crap here, I just kind of want to kiss you. But if I’ve been wrong about this from the beginning and it turns out I’m just making a bigger ass out of myself right now, I’ll leave and you never have to put up with me again, I swear.” He looks over at Derek with an expression of hesitance and fear, but it’s unfounded, he discovers a moment later, when Derek is cupping his face in both of his hands and kissing him senseless.
When they break apart after maybe fifteen seconds of very slow, careful kissing, Derek says, “It fucking took you long enough.”
Since Derek’s loft is essentially one huge room with a couple dividers separating the kitchen, main room, bathroom, and bedroom, it’s disturbingly easy for them to find their way to the bed, collapsing atop it without ever having to separate their mouths. It’s cold in his apartment, the high ceiling and wide spaces not conducive to successful heating, and so when they’re both naked, Stiles is almost shivering against him. But Derek is one giant space heater himself, so he can’t say he minds when Derek just holds him tighter.
“I really want to fuck you,” Derek tells him, and if Stiles had a dollar for every time somebody told him that.
He laughs to himself at the thought and nods. “Fine, but if this is some sort of unyielding Alpha complex thing, just know I’m gonna get you back for it one day.”
“Looking forward to it.”
Stiles likes foreplay. It’s kind of his favorite part, the bit where he gets to kiss and suck and taste at everything, at every bit of his partner, and so he takes great pride in his ability to reduce Derek to a mess of gasps and groans. And he does. That may or may not involve the use of a little bit of magic, placing warm hands on Derek’s lower stomach and watching him gaze up at the ceiling with an open mouth as his dick twitches and stretches up as if waving for attention.
“How the fuck did you do that?” Derek asks him from his place on his back, staring up at Stiles as their twist their hands together and grind slowly.
“Maybe I’ll tell you one day. Now, I believe you said something about fucking me. Or are you too distracted from your almost-orgasm?”
Derek flips him over. “I’ll show you distracted.”
Stiles has never really been a huge fan of rimming. It requires trust and cleanliness and a fairly large lack of inhibitions, and so Stiles has only done it a few times and received it even less. But being spread out and hoisted onto his knees while Derek fucks into him with his tongue is so good that Stiles thinks he’ll never have a fulfilled sex life without rimming—ever again.
Derek is obviously trying to get a rise out of him, repaying him for his earlier snark, and so Stiles bites his tongue and rides it out, trying to make the sensations last while he can. He thinks he could come like this, Derek’s hands on his hips, holding him steady. They’re great anchors. But he doesn’t get the chance.
Derek’s fingers inside of him are even better, especially when accompanied by his mouth on Stiles’ neck, their bodies arching together. It’s good, it’s thrilling, and it makes Stiles ache with happiness because it’s never been like this, not with Danny, not with anyone. Because no matter the intensity of the sex, it’s always better when whoever is with him actually cares about him.
Stiles head falls back when Derek pushes inside of him. His breath catches in his throat, his heart drumming out a beat that makes his whole body tingle. He feels like he could come just from this, just from Derek’s body over his, Derek inside of him, Derek breathing against his neck and pressing his lips into his collarbone. Stiles can barely lifts his arms, but he does it anyway, wraps them around Derek’s shoulders and lets Derek manhandle his legs into winding around his hips. It’s been a long time since anyone fucked him, since he has something this intimate and this mind-numbingly hot, so he goes with instinct, trying to fall back into a rhythm he’d left behind.
“Next time,” he says through ragged breaths as Derek fucks into him, “I’m gonna fuck you. And you and your dumb Alpha sensibilities can just shut up and take it.”
Derek chuckles, which does all sorts of interesting things to Stiles’ body, and they wind up grasping even harder at each other, no noise between them except breathing and the slick sounds of Derek inside of him, of Derek sucking hickeys onto his neck. Stiles moans a few times, reacting when Derek tugs on his hair or grinds deep inside of him, and he can’t remember the last time he actually enjoyed sex enough to warrant the grin that’s now situated on his face.
“Fuck you so much, Derek Hale,” Stiles tells him, palming at his ass. “Fuck your perfect body and your perfect face and your perfect dick. Fuck your sass and your charm and the way you look at me—I swear to God, you’re the reason I haven’t gotten laid since before summer, Derek, because I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Derek kisses him, swallows his words and answers him back all without saying a thing, nonverbally communicating to Stiles that he’s not leaving, that this is something he wants, that this is what’s happening and what will, hopefully, continue to happen for a lot longer.
Derek presses him against the mattress, grabs at his hands and pins them above his head, tells him, “Stay.”
Stiles’ mouth goes dry.
It’s wonderful the way Derek touches him, kisses him, the way he moves his hips and grinds up against Stiles’ prostate, how he whispers to him little things that makes him go breathless, little pieces of hilariously cliché dirty talk that should make Stiles laugh but instead make him moan and sigh.
It’s when Stiles is aching to come, when he feels like he’s been twisted and moved and teased for too long, that Derek says it. “Stiles,” he chokes out, calm and deliberate in a broken sort of way. “Stiles, just wait.” He buries his face in Stiles’ neck as he continues to move, as he manipulates Stiles’ hips where he wants them and proceeds to push slowly and torturously into Stiles at an angle that makes his swollen prostate send fireworks throughout his body.
Stiles gasps for breath as another flood of pre-come coats his own stomach. “Fucking hell, Derek.”
“Come for me. C’mon, Stiles—fucking come.”
And he does, digging his fingers into Derek’s back and arching against him as Derek fucks him through it, kisses his open mouth and bites his lips, brings him back from numbness and laughs into his neck when he follows suit.
They lie together on the bed, curled around one another, for what feels like an hour before Derek finally exhales and pulls out, tying off the condom in two seconds and then disappearing into the bathroom in three more. Stiles blinks up at the high ceiling, unsure of what to do, but that question is answered for him when Derek returns with a wet washcloth.
Stiles smirks. Derek straddles him. “I’m getting the full treatment, huh?”
“Shut up,” Derek mutters, wiping his come off his chest. “Are you—will you stay?”
“Duh. I’m expecting breakfast in the morning.” Stiles sits up slightly and pulls Derek in for a kiss. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of tough to get rid of.”
Derek grins. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve noticed.”
“Hey, by the way,” Stiles says through a yawn, “I meant what I said about some of the guys from the station coming over for leftovers after Christmas, but…” He yanks Derek down next to him so he can cuddle in properly. “You could come for actual Christmas. If you wanted to.”
Derek grunts in response, but it sounds like a pleased sort of grunt, so Stiles simply smiles and nuzzles into him again.
“Goodnight, Derek.”
Derek huffs against the back of his neck and moves his arm around Stiles’ front to hold him closer. “Goodnight.”
Derek is at his desk when Stiles walks in two days later with his dad’s lunch and, immediately, Stiles can see how his shoulders tense. His eyebrow gives an involuntary wiggle, his left hand shooting up to touch it, and Stiles grins at him.
“Do you like my shirt?” Stiles asks as he plucks at the fabric. “Borrowed it from a friend.”
“Stiles—I’m working.”
“Don’t be such a sourwolf; it’s lunch time. Wanna eat with me and my dad?”
Derek swallows tightly. “You still haven’t told him, have you?”
“Well I’m gonna have to soon because you’re coming over for dinner tomorrow night. Aren’t you?” When Derek doesn’t say anything, Stiles pushes his tongue against his cheek and says, “Look, I get it, he’s your boss. But he also already suspects some stuff. He knows I haven’t been home the last three nights and I keep telling him that I’ve been out with friends, but he—Derek, he’s not an idiot. And if he hasn’t shanked you already, chances are that he won’t ever. Probably.” Stiles winks on his way down the hall. “All the same, you look really hot today.”
Derek rolls his eyes.
The Sheriff is scrolling through something on his computer when Stiles walks in—without knocking, of course—and he looks up at his son with amusement. “You brought me lunch?”
“I told you I would.” Stiles takes his seat across the desk and starts unpacking their sandwiches and carrot sticks. “Unless you already bribed one of the other guys to pick you up a cheeseburger.”
“I would never. So.” He grabs one of the carrots and crunches it between his teeth. “How’s Scott?”
“Pretty good. Mooning over the new girl, of course.”
“I’m shocked,” the Sheriff says dryly. “And your other friends?”
“Oh, you know.” Stiles can feel the question coming, swelling in his father’s throat. “Not bad. I was, uh, actually thinking I wanted to invite someone over for Christmas dinner. With Scott and Melissa and everyone.”
The Sheriff nods slowly as he chews. “Oh, yeah?”
Stiles would kick him if the desk didn’t go all the way to the floor. “Oh, shut up, I know that you know. You don’t have to be so fucking pleased with yourself.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Stiles rolls his eyes so hard he feels like they’re gonna fall out of his head. “Derek and I are together now. You know, Derek, your Deputy. And wow, I just realize I’ve missed out on a million opportunities to call him Deputy Derek—I’m so dumb.”
His father’s mouth drops open mockingly. “Really? You and Derek, why, I’m stunned.”
Stiles throws a carrot stick at him. “Shut up. He’s worried you’re gonna kill him.”
“I won’t kill him. Maim or injure, potentially. We’ll have to wait and see.”
“Dad. It’s… It’s real with him; I want you to know that.”
The Sheriff nods. “Yeah, kid, I know that. I’ve been around the block a few times and I hardly need eyes to see that you two have been mooning over each other since you first met. It’s been a long-time coming and since Derek’s no doubt listening in while he should be working, I’m just gonna take this opportunity to say it’s about damn time and he’s a dumbass for being too wimpy to just tell me.” He snorts as he picks up his drink.
“…so he can come to dinner.”
“Yeah, Stiles. He can come to dinner. And tell him to bring that pack of his too. The more the merrier.”
Stiles stands, leans across the desk, and kisses his father’s forehead. “You’re the best, Dad.”
He passes Derek’s desk on his way out and hisses, “I told you so,” before winking and waving goodbye.
Christmas has always been a fairly big deal in the Stilinski household. They make food, they exchange gifts, they bond, and so even though Stiles spends Christmas Eve over at Derek’s place, he goes home before midnight.
“I know, I’m sorry,” he says as he scrambles to grab his shoes. “It’s just—Dad and I have a tradition. When my mom was alive we’d all get up at midnight and toast in Christmas and they’d have champagne and I’d have sparkling cider and so I—” He lands on his butt as he loses his balance, but thankfully it’s at least on the bed. “I just have to be there, you know? But I’ll see you in the morning and we’ll have brunch and then the pack can come over and it’ll be great.” He finished tying his shoelace and turns to look at Derek, still spread out over the bed, the sheet up to his hip bones. “You okay?”
Derek nods. “Of course.”
“Good.” He crawls up the bed and kisses Derek quickly. “See you later, stud. Merry Christmas.”
He gets home four minutes before the clock strikes twelve and his dad is already in the kitchen, pouring the drinks. “Wasn’t sure you were gonna make it,” he says with a smirk.
“Hey, a Stilinski always keeps his promises. I told you I’d be here.”
“You did.” His dad hands him a glass of champagne. “So, how’s Derek?”
“Same as yesterday, Dad,” Stiles laughs. “Still fine, still handsome, still my boyfriend. Now, c’mon, we don’t have that much time.”
They sit down in front of the fireplace, which is still warm even though the flames are almost out, and each of them say something about the year, about what they’re thankful for, and most important, about Stiles’ mom.
“She would’ve been really proud of the man you’ve become, Stiles,” his dad tells him.
Stiles closes his eyes. “I hope so.”
It isn’t until Derek shows up at his door in slacks, a button-up, and a tie that Stiles realizes the importance of this day. It’s just before eleven and Derek not only looks ridiculously handsome, but he’s also carrying a bag full of wrapped presents and he’s looking at Stiles like they haven’t seen each other in months.
“Hey,” Derek says, leaning in to kiss him. “Merry Christmas.”
“Right back atcha.”
“Derek,” his father says from behind him.
Derek swallows tightly and straightens his shoulders. “Hello, sir.”
The Sheriff rolls his eyes. “C’mon, no need for that here.” He sticks out his hand and Derek’s shakes it. “Stiles and I are just making brunch. The McCalls will be here shortly if you’d like to sit.”
“I can handle finishing up, Dad,” Stiles says and nudges Derek’s shoulder with his own. “Go. Have fun. Talk about cop stuff.”
It takes moments longer for Melissa and Scott to show up, but when Stiles checks in on them, Derek looks relaxed. Stiles knew he had no reason to be worried.
It hits him suddenly, as he leans in the doorway and watches his boyfriend and his father and his best friend drink beer together while Melissa hurries around to set the table, that this is his life for this moment. That for this week and the next he gets to have Derek and… And that’s awesome because it’s what he wants—but he can’t help thinking about what kind of changes that’s brought along.
When he goes back to school, Derek will still be in Beacon Hills. And maybe that’s a situation for another day but it’s still something to think about. Because no matter what things have happened between them, they’re still Derek and Stiles. And Stiles is still going to have to go back down to UCLA and spar with Ethan and sell magical items and tricks—Derek is still going to have to stay in Beacon Hills and work at the station and have his pack.
“You look like you’re thinking too hard,” Melissa accuses him as she lays out platters of eggs and bacon. “Something wrong?”
He shrugs. “No,” he says, and it’s true, because he can tell just by looking at how Derek peeks up and smiles at him that no matter how they’re separated and no matter what happens, Stiles knows that they’re not still just Derek and Stiles. They’re DerekandStiles, and that’s pretty fucking awesome. “Everything’s great.”