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"Get in the car, Stiles" Derek says for the last time. He's making his signature I won't ask again face and Stiles knows exactly what comes next.
"Fiiiiiinne, there's no need for you to get out and drag me into your sexy death machine." Stiles lowers himself into the car. Managing to arrange his limbs sensibly for once and not twist or slam into anything on the way in. The passenger door is still half open when Derek hits the gas and they're off to god knows where.
'Will you at least tell me where you're kidnapping me to?" Stiles asks, struggling with the seat belt.
The only answer Stiles gets is a sigh. But it's a wierd sigh. Not one of restraint, which Stiles knows intimately at this point, seeing as he is probably one of the major reasons they occur. It's definitely not one of surrender either, which is very rare, but unmistakable for said rarity.
No, this sigh is almost... pleading even? Like whatever they're doing is... sensitive. Important. Hmm.
Stiles resolutely places a hand over his mouth to stop himself from prodding any further and possibly fucking things up before he knows what said things are.
If Derek wanted to hurt him he's had ample opportunity. Why he'd suddenly decide to add a bloodied and mangled Stiles into the life he's been rebuilding over the past few years, Stiles cannot guess, but it's highly unlikely, so he knows he's probably not in any danger.
And sure, maybe Derek's been saving the aforementioned mangling specially for today, but you don't look this morose if you're finally getting to savor a thing you've been looking forward to and that's exactly how Derek looks. Morose.
As they're stopped by a red traffic light on the outskirts of Beacon Hills, Stiles keeps having to press down on his lips to stop what feels like hundreds of questions from being blurted out and it's obvious that if they're going on a longish trip, the only way he'll succeed at staying quiet is to be asleep.
"I'm going to take a nap. Wake me when we get there..." Stiles says as he adds a little slack to his seat belt.
Dereks brows scrunch together, but the tension in his shoulders eases, so Stiles knows he's not annoyed, just confused, but that's okay because Stiles is always confused were Derek is concerned. At least now they're sort of even.
Derek watches questioningly as he wiggles in the soft leather of the car seat, readjusting until he finds a position that isn't too uncomfortable.
"I'm just a little sleep deprived, and if I don't get some rest asap, I'll be too tired to sleep tonight." It's not a lie, just incomplete truth, so there's nothing for Derek to call him out on.
"Too tired... to sleep?" Derek asks, looking even more confused.
"Yes, yes, i know it seems irrational but it's true." Stiles smacks his lips, already feeling the first waves of sleep pulling him under.
"No drooling", Derek says. He sounds only a little put out so Stiles just sticks his tongue out at him.
''Later, alligator." Stiles closes his eyes and starts letting himself drift off, when he feels Derek leaning over him.
"What in th-"
His question is cutoff by Derek's iron bar of an arm weighing down on his chest. Stiles eyes pop open to see Derek reaching over him to recline the seat. He is tilted backwards as the seat is lowered. The sudden change in angle means Derek is practically drapped over him and Stiles flails lightly, hands instinctively grabbing unto Dereks arm. He has the unreasonable urge to just not let go, and fall asleep wrapped around his arm like a sloth.
More like slut. Because that was a very slutty thought. Because Stiles apparently now thinks slutty thoughts. About Derek Hale.
Crap.
It's a very bad time to be having scatterbrained horny thoughts when he can feel the ambient heat from Dereks upper body, while they're confined in a car with the windows up.
There is no way he doesn't smell like the slutty sloth he's having a mostly internalised crisis about being.
Shockingly, that's not even the priority to his treacherous brain. No, the most important thing at the moment, apparently, is how intensely Derek is looking at him. Stiles is used to Dereks casual awareness of him, like he's merely a known element and benign part of the scenery. He's used to feeling lightly observed and then passed over. He has rarely been the object of Dereks full focus like this and it's like a physical force, simultaneously paralysing and probing and Stiles feels his heart start pounding in response.
Dereks nostrils flare slightly and then his typically detached expression changes and he looks... almost pleased?
Naa, it's probably just the weird angle the reclined seat has caused. Probably just how close his face and those kaleidoscopes he calls eyes are. Stiles mentally catches himself wondering if Dereks lashes have always been that long. If his habitually downturned lips have always been that full?
Dereks eyes flick lower for an instant, and Stiles eyes widen in shock. He feels the very distinct headiness of hope rise within him and immediately tamps it down because what the fuck is happening right now? For once in his chatterbox life Stiles is quiet because he cannot actually think of anything to say.
Then the traffic light changes, and Derek must have unsurprisingly great peripheral vision or maybe werewolves just know the sound of the color green, because he notices immediately and lifts off Stiles, and the disorienting moment ends.
Derek is fully upright in the drivers seat, and back to focusing on the road, before Stiles can remember how to form words.
Stiles closes his eyes after taking a mental picture of Dereks side profile. He wants to remember whatever that was and add it to his growing List of Inscrutable Moments with Derek Hale.
He has trained himself to not fall down the rabbithole of The List until he's home alone, though. He'd rather not expose his every thought via scent and instead, waits to wonder and hope for the impossible in the privacy and relative sanctity of his bedroom.
Stiles lets himself fall asleep to the purring of the engine and the completely harmless memory of holding an unexpectedly warm, iridescent gaze.
After what seems like no time at all, Derek wakes him with a gentle nudge.
"Hmm...?"
Stiles rubs his eyes and sits up fully. They're pulling into the parking lot of a strip mall that he knows is in the next town over, and he's still blinking himself fully awake when Derek speaks in a halting, low voice.
"I need you to help me..."
"Sure, Big Guy. I figured as much. The Stiles is ready to be of service."
"Is he, now? I guess that wasn't the smell of paranoia I was picking up on earlier."
Stiles prefers when he hears amusement rather than reluctance in Dereks voice, for some reason he refuses to dig into at this time, and he gamely plays along.
"Ha ha, you can imply you'll puncture the human meat bag all you want after you tell me what we're doing here. You need me to help youuu... what?"
"Pick out clothes", Derek says after a long beat, and then he is out of the car and marching forward.
Stiles follows unthinkingly, unable to fully process. His running mouth grinds to a halt for the umpteenth time that day. A personal record, if he's being honest.
Derek is pointedly not looking at him. Instead, his eyes are pinned to the storefront directly opposite the car. The one they're walking towards. An Express Mens store. A fashion store for men. That sells men's clothes.
"Omg we're going shopping?" Stiles yells. "Non supernatural erranding to a boutique?"
"Shut up, stiles."
"Yeah, okay, sure but why me‽" Stiles asks perplexed, rushing forward to keep pace with Derek but then having to walk backwards to actually see his face. Falling on his ass is inevitable at some point, but Derek isn't slowing down so Stiles keeps backing up as they cross the lot.
"I like my clothes, don't get me wrong, but there are so many people better suited to the task? Any of the very fashionable girls? Fucking jackson???"
"I don't care what they think about my fashion choices."
"Right, ofcourse" Stiles agrees, nodding as he takes it all in. Then he pauses misstep, almost tumbling to the concrete before Derek steadies him with a fast hand on his elbow.
"Oh, so are you saying you care what I... oh? OH!"
Their eyes lock and Stiles sees his moment of realisation reflected back at him grudgingly. Derek looks like he's in pain from just thinking about the most likely answer to that question, and Stiles should know. He's seen Derek suffer enough times to have that look seared permanently into his brain.
"Forget it. We're leaving. This was a bad idea." Derek spins around and stomps back towards the car.
The familiar sounds of the locks on the Camaro snap Stiles into action and he careens around and past Derek, at a speed that he usually only gets to whenever adrenaline pumps as he runs for his life.
He slides-flails-collapses to a halt between Dereks looming storm of a face and the drivers door.
"No, wait !" Stiles shouts, breathing hard with exertion. Raising both arms to block the way. As if he would be harder to get past than a damp paper towel, if Derek didn't choose to stop walking of his own volition.
"I actually really like the Henleys. They're very flattering on your..." he gestures haphazardly up and down at Dereks rigid stance. "...everything."
"Maybe just try a few other colours? Like paler blues and... and... pastels!
"Pastels." Derek states. Practically spitting out the word.
"Why not? I bet they flatter your eyes. I bet they make those pretty peepers pop", he finishes, feeling bold enough to even waggle his brows.
Dereks head pulls back in surprise and then he sighs.
It's one of resignation this time, and Stiles practically levitates with glee.
"Let's go, let's go! I promise to go easy" he insists. Pointing at the storefront with one hand and steering Derek back towards it with a brave hand on his shoulder.
He resolutely refuses to think about why any of this is a reason to be gleeful as they head back towards the store. There will be time to analyse later. In bed. In thorough detail.
Derek folds the last shirt from his clean laundry pile and tucks it into the drawer with all the new ones Stiles had insisted he get. Stiles had been right. The pale blues and greens and even one dark pink do wonders for his eyes. He still mostly bought dark colors, can't be too prepared for blood splatters in his experience, but a few brighter ones could be nice?
Just having them alone already made him feel... closer to normal than he's ever felt as an adult, considering his life is a constant ticking time bomb.
They would be perfect if he ever finds the right way and time to ask Sti-
"Derek!" Stiles screams from somewhere outside the loft.
Derek rushes to the window, claws already sliding out to disembowel whomever was stupid enough to touch his- stylist. Stiles was his temporary, pack adjacent stylist. Nothing more.
It was even kind of in his name. Stiles, the stylist. Perfectly reasonable.
He sees Stiles in the middle of almost falling out of that rickety eyesore he called a jeep. Waving an unidentifiable flag at him (not a flag... a shirt...?) and looking very far from terrified or in danger, with a giant, goofy smile on his face.
That was his well known very, very bad idea smile and Derek wants absolutely nothing to do with it.
He shakes his head and goes to the door anyways. He can hear Stiles rushing up and the only reason he opens it is because he isn't ready to deal with the inevitably loud banging when Stiles gets to it.
"This one! You can wear it for my birthday!" is all he gets as an explanation before the shirt is thrown at him. Stiles miscalculates, ofcourse, and it land on Dereks head.
How has he remained on a sports team this long???
Derek drags it off his head with a low growl. Careful to retract his claws before he pokes holes in the suspiciously soft fabric.
"Where did you get this?" He asks, instead of the 'you actually got ME something????' that his very interested wolf, who is paying rapt attention to the proceedings, would rather he say.
"I bought it", Stiles immediately says, looking and smelling very pleased with himself. It's annoying.
"You bought what smells and feels like a thousand dollar shirt? With what money? Did you steal from the Sheriff? If I get arrested again-"
"What? No! Ofcourse not. I used your card...and I'm not surprised you know what Merino smells like" Stiles says, pulling out the black metal card and wiggling it in Dereks face until he snatches it from his fingers.
"You didn't take it back after we were done the other day and I figured I'd get you something extra special." He explains, gesturing at the shirt.
Derek looks at the fabric properly.
"Stiles, it's a cardigan."
"Yes, Captain Obvious. Fancy, right?"
"It has stripes."
"Uh huh", Stiles replies, waggling his brows, irritating smirk smeared across his face.
"It's mostly blue and orange!" Derek knows he's yelling, but it's so hard to stop. Stiles is exasperating. It's unbearable.
"Exactly, it's perfect right?"
Derek sighs, takes in a slow, deep breath like he's trying to find patience. Holding up the offending article of clothing and pulling at the shoulders, he tries again. His voice, deceptively calm.
"This is not-"
"It'll fit."
"STILES !"
"That's my name."
"I know what you're doing and I'm not wearing it." He decides. Balling up the wool to throw back at Stiles. Enough is enough. He reaches to steer Stiles back out the door they're still standing by.
"Do you care what i think or not?" Stiles asks. He likes to talk about Dereks eyebrows but his are just as expressive in Dereks opinion. Especially when he squints in dissatisfaction.
"How are you already weaponising that?"
"Have you met me? And my mind? Just try it on, already. Please?"
Stiles is very good at cajoling, and if that fails, annoying people into giving in and doing what he wants, but this is his worst idea so far because Derek knows how it goes.
If he takes off his shirt, Stiles will immediately look and smell like barely restrained arousal and tonight is not a night when Derek has or wants self control.
He's emotionally compromised, and what both him and his wolf want, is a reason to cut loose and take.
"No. Return it." Derek throws it back at him. He will not be bullied by-
"Please... Miguel?"
Derek can't stop the scoff that comes out of his mouth at the audacity and he regrets it immediately from the widening grin that is back on Stiles face, but it's hard for him to stay annoyed when he remembers that the first time Stiles called him that to mislead Danny, was the first time he'd wondered if Stiles was a little into men. He's always had a theory that Stiles had been using Danny as a buffer to test the waters.
Then Derek has a great idea. "I'll wear this to your stupid birthday if you swear to never call me that again."
He's not being a pushover. He's being strategic. Yes. Strategic. And he lets his fangs show in a slow wide smile.
Stiles looks dumbstruck for a moment, staring at Dereks mouth. He watches in satisfaction as Stiles struggles to stop staring and make eyecontact but that doesn't last, because "What do you have against Miguels? They're great guys", is the next thing out of him.
"It's not the name i have a problem with. Have you forgotten that he's supposed to be your cousin?" Derek throws the cardigan over one shoulder and crosses his arms. Feigning the patience he's rapidly running out of.
Stiles splutters indignantly, "wait... so... you hate the idea of hypothetically being related to me? Why? I'm awesome!"
He's yelling by the end of his mini tirade and Derek winces even though he's secretly pleased at turning the tables on Stiles.
"Yes. Stiles. I don't want to be your cousin."
"Well, why not?" he demands, smelling... hurt. "What is so wrong with me, that-"
Derek moves before he can think about it. One second he's realising what Stiles changing scent means and his wolf is demanding he fix it now, and the next, he's pressing every inch of Stiles back into the door. Caging him with both hands by his head.
Then he waits. His wolf rising to the surface in abject delight at the latest developments. He watches as Stiles feels a bulge press into his rapidly growing one and sees the moment when everything finally clicks.
"Oh... because... OH!"
Derek lets his brows rise in the universal gesture for 'do you get it now?' and Stilles nods frantically. Only stopping his bobblehead routine to slide his hands into Dereks hair and pull their faces together.
Their lips meet. Derek drops one hand to his slender hip pulling him even closer as they crush against each other, the other cradles the back of Stiles head so he can control the angle and depth. Stiles leans into him. Grasping and writhing and chasing friction.
Derek gives his wolf a little space to peek out and scrapes his claws lightly down Stiles back, in a long, determined line from scalp and down to the middle of his back and up again. Stiles shudders and Derek backs off and smiles. Pointedly letting his fangs show and slowly flicking his tongue over one.
Stiles eyes snap to his mouth instantly and as another wave of lust pours off him, he closes his eyes and practically mewls. Like the sight is too much for him. His knees buckle and Dereks body pressing him into the door is the only thing holding him up.
Derek knows a prime opportunity when he creates one. He rarely gets the chance to beat Stiles at his game without resorting to physical werewolf tactics, so he switches it up and pays the little shit back with his own coin; twisting new found knowledge into an instrument of mild manipulation, for chaotically good reasons.
"Great." He says, surveying his handwork with undisguised pride. Stiles racing heart and trembling lips and glazed over eyes. Flawless and beautiful. "Now swear. Or I'm never kissing you again."
"I solemnly swear to never call you Miguel again." Rushes out of Stiles mouth. He even wiggles out enough space between them to get his palms pressed together. A perfect picture of innocence.
But Derek is a werewolf.
"You're lying!" he states, staring at the teenager he'd been so convinced he'd won over with his clever wiles, in incredulous disbelief.
"And you're still wearing the shirt." Stiles says, giving up the pretence and going back to smirking in that lopsided way he does when he gets his way. "Now, where have you secreted your card? I have a party to plan."
He starts patting Derek down and there's only one thing left to do.
Derek reaches into his back pocket and hands the card back to him, silent and resigned. This is what he gets for liking a veritable god of mischief. The worst part, Derek admits to himself and his unsurprised wolf, is he doesn't care and is completely and hopelessly besotted by him.
Stiles tucks the card somewhere, whispers "happy early birthday to me" and grabs a fistful of Dereks shirt to pull him back into the kiss.