Chapter Text
With Derek in his life, Stiles has had a lot more opportunities to practice his cooking. After moving out of his childhood home, he’d begun to worry that he’d revert back to the Cup Noodle and Chicken McNugget days of yesteryear. Fortunately he was wrong.
In the search for fresh ingredients and bulk packages of bottled water, he spends a lot more time than he used to in the grocery store. He’s developed a friendly relationship with most of the employees except Carla, who still gives him shit for lighting her bushes on fire one 4th of July. He’s working on it. One day she’ll realize how charming he is (and that once she does, he’ll stop schmoozing at her in the checkout.)
As a regular customer in his adulthood, and as the Sheriff’s kid for years before that, he knows most of the locals, if only in passing. So when a new face shows up and starts shadowing him around the store, he notices.
The guy is dressed in dark colors and acts casually, reading labels and checking price displays, but there are only so many aisles one can weave in and out of without arousing suspicion. (Also who the hell puts anchovy paste and Lucky Charms in the same basket? Ugh.)
But when his tail notices his attention he smiles , broad and confident. He holds up the cantaloupe he’s been pretending to examine and sniffs it menacingly.
Stiles has never gone through self-checkout quite so quickly. Jokingly, Bernice offers him a job. She’s probably offended at how quickly and clumsily he brushes her off. He’ll make it up to her later. Right now he’s more preoccupied with getting behind a locked door.
What the hell was that about?
---
When Derek comes back from his latest business trip, he looks totally dead on his feet. He’s dusty and stiff, and when he lets himself in and sees Stiles, it’s like tiny muscle faeries are struggling to pull the corners of his mouth up.
Just the sight of Derek makes Stiles feel a hundred times better. He rises from the couch and wraps his arms gently around Derek’s neck. He waits for Derek to lean down and kiss him. “You didn’t have to come here first, babe. You could’ve taken a nap. I’d understand.”
“Wanted to see you. It was bad is all.”
Stiles hisses. “I can imagine.” He’s not exactly sure how Derek’s job works, but he’s seen some pretty nasty accident photos throughout the course of his life. He doesn’t want to know what it is that wiped Derek out like this.
“More kissing?” Derek mumbles against his lips.
“Mm. If you insist.”
“I do.” Derek pecks the corner of his mouth. “Needed to see you.” On to the opposite corner. “Had to touch you.” From there on out, conversation is done. There is no extracting Derek’s tongue from Stiles’ tonsils, and Stiles has no problem at all with this turn of events.
That is, until he runs his palms down the broad, muscular back and stop at his waistline. He knows that feeling. Derek is wearing a gun holster. What the fuck does he need with a gun?
He pulls back just slightly. There has to be a reasonable explanation, after all.
He hears Derek mutter, “Fuck.”
Stiles steps back a few paces, looking Derek up and down, taking him in like he’s reevaluating the complete package. There is clearly something he’s missed here.
“Is that...is that a gun? Holy shit, it is. What the fuck?! You said you were an insurance adjuster! What kind of insurance do you adjust, Derek?! ”
“I…”
“Is this what the tail was about?”
“What tail, Stiles? Has someone been following you? Did they hurt you?!”
“What, your rival insurance adjusters?!”
“Stiles, I’m being serious!”
"Fuck, sure! Why not?!" Stiles throws his hands up. "Some douchebag followed me around Safeway a few nights ago. Did you know you can examine cantaloupe threateningly? Because you can. It has officially been done. And it was really gross."
“I need you to come with me.”
“You know, I’m not sure if I should.” Stiles crosses his arms over his chest.Derek looks more worn out than he’s ever seen him. It shouldn’t be as effective as it is.
“Fine.”
---
Derek’s place is a lot more spartan than Stiles imagined it would be. He’s only been able to imagine, of course, because Derek was super weird about Stiles seeing his apartment. Stiles chalked it up to bad history or slobbish tendencies, but now he thinks he has some inkling.
For a gun-toting, secret-keeping asshat, his place looks surprisingly normal. He’s pretty sure every single piece of furniture comes from the hallowed halls of the local Ikea except for the bookshelves. Those are surprisingly ornate and stuffed with books of all sizes, colors, and bindings.
Derek holds up a hand as if motioning for his attention and walks over to one end of the case, moving a heavy bound volume aside and entering a series of numbers into a keypad. With a hydraulic-sounding whoosh , the bookcases open up to reveal a wall of heavy weaponry.
“Is that a rocket launcher?! What the hell kind of insurance are you into then, Derek? Do they insure warlords? Is that a thing ?!”
"Stiles," Derek growls. "I'm not actually in insurance, Jesus. It's just a cover."
"Aw, gee, Derek. I couldn't tell."
Derek shifts in place, and Stiles realizes with a sinking feeling that he has stumbled ass over ankles into a 'now I have to kill you' situation. Derek looks like he's swallowed a truckload of salt. "This is awkward."
This is not awkward. Awkward was a clown giving out condom balloon animals at a nine-year-old’s birthday party. (It was a summer job and a mistake he would never repeat again. ) This was beyond awkward. This was gravely distressing at best.
"No shit," he mumbles. "Still kinda hot, though.” He wants to kick himself. Really, he does. But he’s been gone on Derek since the jerk had trotted after him, waving and smiling in the crowded subway station.
Come to think of it, Derek never did tell him how he got the wallet back. Stiles really doesn’t want to think about it.
"’Kinda hot?’” Derek asks. Like Stiles has suddenly confessed a sexual attraction to scorpions. “You find out I have an exhaustive arsenal and you think it’s ‘kinda hot’?”
"Well, not the killing people thing. I'm guessing that's what the guns are for. And the grenade launcher. Holy shit. But yeah. No. You with thigh holsters. Against all better judgement, I'm feeling pretty horny."
"Are you joking?"
“No. That’s the scary part.”
“The scary part is that you’re not running away . I’m worried about you. This should scare the hell out of you, Stiles.”
“I figured that.” Stiles glances at the armory, runs his gaze over barrels and triggers and the business ends of all manner of boom sticks before finally landing back on Derek. “It doesn’t really mesh, though. Does it?”
“Mesh with what, Stiles? I hunt people down for a living.”
“You also cuddle like a frightened Rhesus monkey and recite poetry until I fall asleep and give me foot rubs for no reason. Not exactly threatening.”
“ How is this not getting through to you? ”
“It’s getting through, Derek. Believe me. I am so unbelievably pissed off right now, but I can’t figure out how to be scared of you.”
“You should be.”
“I can’t be, you gigantic asshole. And I’m trying really fucking hard but mostly I just can’t believe how fucking stupid I was for believing that you were an insurance adjuster. And that you lied to me. And that some dickbag has been following me because I’m fucking you.”
Derek looks like he’s taken a punch to the gut.
“But I still can’t be scared of you because you’re Derek , and Derek is pretty much the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
The corners of his mouth twist up. “That’s fucked up.”
“Gee, you think? I can’t stop thinking about you reciting Pablo Neruda in thigh holsters.And nothing else. You could kill me after that, and I’d die happy. With a raging boner, but happy.”
"Stiles, I– I'm not going to kill you."
"Oh, good. Because honestly my only line of defense is climbing on you like a spider monkey and running as fast as my scrawny legs can carry me in a general thataway."
"Your legs aren't scrawny, Stiles. And you're probably the best thing that's ever happened to me, too."
Stiles blinks for a few moments, then points to himself. "Me?"
"Yes, you. Which is why I need to keep you safe. Look, if any of these… people come near you, I want you to be prepared."
"Prepared to shoot them?" Stiles squeaks. "Just like that?"
"They won't have any problems doing worse to you."
Stiles swallows roughly. "Okay. Yeah. I'll take the Glock."
"Like your dad's service weapon. Sentimental."
"Serviceable," Stiles corrects. "You honestly think the Sheriff's kid doesn't know how to shoot?"
And that? That does it for Derek. He’ll have to tell Laura about this later. For now, he has to find his thigh holsters.
---
Stiles and Derek, miraculously, remain an item. At first, it’s sort of like dating an action hero. Technically he is dating an action hero, if the sappiest one ever. Things remain pretty normal, with the added bonus of dates at the firing range and seemingly endless anecdotes from the business of violence.
Stiles isn’t sure if he’s anxious to meet the man’s sisters, or if he’s just praying for them to stay away forever. He’s pretty sure Cora is in South America somewhere, toppling drug cartels and terrorizing corrupt government officials. Derek won’t confirm or deny anything (partially for security, and partially because his little sister scares him shitless), but Stiles gets that vibe from the stories he’s heard.
And he has heard stories. Stories about the three months Cora spent pretending to be a gay French exchange student (at the end of which she’d reenacted most of a scene from Dead Poets Society ), about Laura’s whirlwind engagement to a bond jumper in Wyoming, and about the more comical installments of Derek’s disastrous love life.
At this point, his sisters are beloved (if not morally gray) story book heroes. He thinks he prefers to enjoy the idea of them from afar, but the choice isn’t exactly his to make.
Stiles meets Laura at 4:34 PM on a Friday, walking into Derek’s place with an armful of groceries. He feels a brief pressure against the pulse point at the base of his neck, and he’s down like a sack of rocks. When he comes to, it’s to the sight of straight white teeth, dark hair, and a whole lot of cleavage.
“Rude.” He says. “I’m gonna guess Laura.”
“Bingo.” She says. “The question now is where you got that bit of information. I could just assume that you’re here for my brother, but he doesn’t give out his spare key. Which leaves us with a pretty troubling outlook, don’t you think?”
“Aw, geez. How many hitmen do you know who bring groceries? ”
“You’d be surprised.” She taps him on the nose. “It’s a pretty popular cover. I’ve seen eggplants used as silencers. Milk cartons, too. So tell me, what’s your poison?”
Stiles narrows his eyes at her. In this moment, he realizes that his common sense has to be pretty damn dented, because it’s not normal to wake up chained up in a chair by a trained killer and think Did she at least put the ice cream in the freezer? “Cheeseburgers,” He growls. “Cheeseburgers and marathon sex. With your brother. Because I’m his boyfriend. I’ve been feeding him things other than protein shakes and Chewy bars. You’re welcome.”
Laura snorts. “Cute.”
“Damn straight.” He shifts in the chair and seriously regrets not taking a more active stance on getting Derek some decent, comfortable furniture. “Hand cuffs? Really?”
“Really what?”
“It’s just -- Derek uses zip ties. I guess I figured it was an op-wide thing.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, Derek is built like a brick shithouse. Zip ties are breakable, but one look at Derek and nobody wants to try. Me? The high quality shit saves me time and effort. And manicures. Granted, I had to go back to my car for those. Der keeps bondage cuffs, but there is no fucking way I’m touching those.”
“Just as well.” Stiles shrugs. “I know how to get out of ‘em.”
“No shit?”
“Double-jointed fingers and thumbs.”
“Rock on .” She holds up a fist to bump before realizing that it’s not exactly an option. He shifts his shoulder forward and she taps it with her knuckles. “All right, fine. Supposing you are the Stiles -- ”
“Guilty.”
“Then how do you know about the zip ties?”
“The whole ‘not an insurance adjuster’ thing came out a while ago. He said he was going to tell you.”
“Ugh, that little pansy never tells me anything that’ll get him in trouble. He broke my doll when we were kids and tried to convince me that she’d gone to rehab for an eating disorder.”
“What the fuck?”
She flings her arms up in a ‘got me’ motion before settling back on her perch. “Which leaves me in another awkward position.”
“Look, I know it’s probably alien to you, but what about just leaving it alone. We did the whole deep dark secret thing, and I haven’t told anyone. I don’t intend to tell anyone. I just came over to make a nice dinner for me and my boyfriend and not be knocked out and tied to things.”
Laura’s quiet for a few minutes, just taking him in. “You don’t...mind?”
“How am I supposed to convince you that -- ?”
Just then, his phone rings, and Stiles feels like his life is spiraling out of his control more than ever. Because his boyfriend’s older sister, another ‘morally upright’ contract killer has him tied to a chair, debating whether or not he’s a loose end.
And his phone is blaring Oh No You Didn’t from fucking Mercenaries 2. It had been funny at the time. Now it’s bad ironic. Laura grabs the phone and stares at the screen, but makes no move to answer it.
Sucka tried to play me, but you never paid me. Never.
Oh no you didn’t!
Payback is a comin’, you will be running forever.
Oh no you didn’t!
‘Til I get my vengeance, I will never end this mayhem.
Oh no you didn’t!
I’m a mercenary. You ain’t got a prayer, you owe meeee!
For a brief and suffocating moment, there is dead silence as the call goes to voicemail. “Holy shit,” She whispers. “Holy shit.” She starts wheezing holy shit , dissolving quickly into hysterical laughter and inevitable tears. Holy shit. Her entire body shakes with the force of her laughter and she buries her face against his knee.
“Are you okay?”
“I believe you,” She gasps. “Holy shit. ” She tries to lift her head and fails horribly. And then Derek kicks in the front door.
He does a quick sweep, landing on them almost immediately, and scowls when he spots Laura mid-giggle fit in his lap. Stiles sighs, finally easing his arms out from behind the chair and waving to show he’s all right. The loose cuff dangles incriminatingly from his wrist.
Laura stops laughing abruptly and sits up, staring at the binding. “You little bitch. Double-jointed?”
“Sheriff's kid. Years of practice.”
“You’ll have to show me, won’t you?”
“ Laura , ” Derek growls, “We fucking talked about this.”
“Oh-ho no, little brother. I didn’t hear anything about Captain Kangaroo getting Lois Lane’d in.”
“Because I knew you’d pull something like this!”
“Okay, time out!” Stiles huffs. “You can have the pissing contest later. Right now, I need to get started on dinner. Derek, go wash your hands. Laura, you’re telling me what the fuck this ‘Captain Kangaroo’ thing is about. Move. ”
And they listen.
Maybe Stiles is prepared for this shit after all.
---
By the time Derek and Laura finish giving him the rundown of all the people that now have a vested interest in murdering him, life tastes a lot more like stomach acid. It isn’t even fear for his own safety. The look on Derek’s face when he recounted what happened to his first girlfriend was enough to make Stiles’ insides ache.
He spends the entire night curled around his boyfriend, singing Sinatra and petting his hair. Derek doesn’t cry, but he doesn’t move his face from Stiles’ shoulder, either.
They keep their shoes on, just in case.
---
In the end, Stiles realizes that he’s probably a little too prepared for this shit.
He’s trying to load Derek’s birthday present into the back of the Jeep, but it isn’t exactly easy. He should ask Derek about his weight lifting regimen because Stiles has no doubt his boyfriend could lift this monster no problem. He huffs, getting ready to turn around and shove backwards until it’s safely stuffed up and into the boot, but then he stops short.
The itching feeling between his shoulder blades remains, despite his squirming in place. He can feel someone watching him. “You just gonna stand there, or…?”
“Oh, but it’s so much fun to watch you struggle.”
Stiles gives one final, determined push and slots the chair into a reasonably balanced position. It’s not exactly ‘inside’ the boot, but it won’t fall out while he turns to face the music.
The man from the supermarket stands before him, stylishly dressed and smiling like a serpent. “Mr. Stilinski. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Do I want to know who from?” Stiles hedges, leaning against the rear bumper with his hands just behind him, only slightly supporting him. The pressure is there.
“Would it make you feel better? Knowing? I’m always so curious. What must it be like inside your head, knowing you don’t have very long at all?”
It feels like being dropped in cold water, sudden and unsettling, but after the initial shock of what exactly is going on, he stands on steady ground. His feet move into a familiar stance, his heart beats steady, and his breathing is slow and even. He leans up off the boot, laughing lightly. “I don’t know.” He says. One arm swings up and forward, and he braces with the other hand. “You tell me.”
The shot rings out and then he starts to panic.
There is a person-shaped heap on the asphalt next to his car. A person-shaped heap that he punched a hole in . With a gun. Oh holy shit, this is so not the same as shooting at a paper target. He looks down at the man bleeding on the ground and hits the speed dial for Derek.
“Stiles?”
“Hey, babe. Hi. Hello there. Whoa ho.”
“Stiles, are you all right?”
“Uh…” Stiles nudges the man’s arm with the toe of his converse. “I’m pretty sure that’s a no. Holy shit. Okay so I kind of shot a guy. Not kind of. I shot a guy. Like murdered. I think I might have murdered him hardcore. No take backs. For real. Derek, I’m going to grown-up jail.”
“You what ?”
“ Shot a guy. Like I just said. Like ‘Bang, bang my baby shot me down.’ I’m pretty sure he was gonna kill me, but I beat him to it. He monologued, so I improvised and now he’s leaking. Fuck fuck fuck okay.”
“Stiles, I need you to calm down and tell me where you are.”
Stiles rattles off the intersection, then realizes distantly that he’ll have to finish stuffing Derek’s surprise into the back before he gets there. Can he fit a body in there, too? His trunk’s pretty spacious, but the chair is big, and he doesn’t want to get blood all over it because...oh wow, he’s warped. “Baby, I murdered a dude and I don’t have any room in the boot. Or a tarp. I need a tarp, right? Holy shit I murdered a dude and now I'm freaking the fuck out because I don't have a murder blankie to wrap him in.”
“Stiles. Stiles! What I’m about to tell you I’m saying as a professional. You need to calm the fuck down. Don’t try to move him.”
“Yeah, okay. Yeah. Deep breaths no screaming.”
“I’ll be there in five. I love you.”
“Okay, yeah. Derek?”
“Yes, Stiles?”
“It’s different when it’s real.” He whispers.
“I know.”
---
The good news is that the guy isn’t dead. Derek applies basic first aid to make sure he doesn’t bleed out the rest of the way, coaching Stiles through basic breathing exercises the entire time. “Can you run me through what happened?”
Stiles does as efficiently as possible, leaving out the details of the surprise and consequently earning himself a look somewhere between suspicion and affection. “And then I called you. The end.”
“Fine.” Derek says. “Just let me get a look at him.” He places a firm hand on the man’s shoulder and turns him to examine his face. And nearly drops him right back onto the pavement.
Stiles ‘eeps’ as Derek nearly falls over looking back at him. “Do you know who this is?”
“I don’t wanna say ‘Big Bird’… ?”
Derek’s eyes narrow in the flat, unamused look that typically follows this sort of humor. “My uncle. You shot my uncle.”
"Oh holy shit. Oh my gosh, Derek. I didn't mean--"
"Stiles, it's okay . I've been trying to kill him for years. He’s a sociopathic asshole ." Derek stands up in a single smooth motion, taking Stiles’ face in his hands. “You just took down a very bad man. I’m proud of you.”
Stiles leans up to kiss him, his breath evening out again in contact. He wraps himself up in Derek, in the strong presence of him, and forgets everything else. It lasts for a few moments until Derek’s uncle, still on the ground at their feet, lets out a soft, miserable groan. “Uh… so how are we gonna… ?”
"Shh." Derek grins against his lips. "I brought a murder blankie."
---
Months later, things have settled into a pleasant routine.
The unease of not knowing exactly where Peter has ended up has mostly dissipated. Derek assures him that the injury Stiles has dealt him has left him unable to return to the business of chaos and helped deter the authorities from putting him out of everyone else’s misery.
People like Peter are an eternal dilemma, Derek says. They’ve done and learned too much to be left alive, but they also happen to have done and learned too much to be killed. Stiles likens the entire thing to a cat with buttered toast strapped to its back.
Derek tries too hard not to laugh.
In the wake of stress and worry, they settle in again. They celebrate Derek’s birthday by breaking in his comfy new bloodstain-free chair, and soon after that Derek’s Ikea problem is solved when Stiles’ things migrate into his apartment.
Things are good.
Derek is settled on the couch, reading Night Watch while Stiles sprawls belly down, his legs across his boyfriend’s lap as he sorts through college applications. His gap year is almost over, and despite his best efforts, he hasn’t managed to save all that much. “That’s it. I have failed at life.”
"I don't think so." Derek rumbles in that deep, reassuring tone that makes him want to curl up and take a nap. And then, because he is actual perfection, he starts massaging Stiles' calves with firm presses of his thumbs.
Stiles almost forgets the dim smudge on the horizon that is his future."I could probably get a scholarship, but there's no way I can pay off the student loans I'll need. I'll be in debt forever. I'll have to be your kept boytoy. I will never accomplish anything in life, Derek. I will suck forever. "
"Well, you're definitely good at sucking, so there's nothing wrong with that." Derek grins, and doesn't even flinch when Stiles pinches his thigh. "But the rest isn't really true."
"Delusional McDreamy say what?" He locks eyes with Derek over his shoulder.
"You took down Peter, remember?"
"It's not something I'm likely to forget. I can't exactly put it in my college apps, though."
"Stiles." Derek pulls him up so he's straddling his hips. "I wasn't kidding when I said he was a bad man."
"Yeah, yeah. You told me like fifty times. Doesn't mean I don't still feel kinda crappy."
"You might if you let me finish."
"Okay, okay. Fine. What?"
"My uncle had a price on his head for more than five million dollars." Derek says. "I think you can probably afford college."
"Five."
"Five."
"Million."
"Yes."
"American dollars?"
"Did you want it in francs?"
"What the fuck did he do ?!"
"It would be easier to list things he didn’t do. He really had a thing for toppling small governments. It was problematic."
"Let it never be said that Stiles Stilinski is not a problem-solver."
"Never."
"Oh my gosh."
---
In light of his sudden financial stability and their seeming domestic bliss, Stiles is walking on air when he invites his father up for Thanksgiving Dinner. It will be the first time he and Derek meet, and while Stiles is somewhat nervous, he also has every confidence that his father will see exactly how wonderful Derek is.
Because Derek is all kinds of wonderful.
Except he kind of sucks a little bit in the kitchen. Stiles spends the morning balancing it out, which makes for an irritated six foot tall slab of boyfriend, but he’ll get over it. “I’m sorry .” Stiles whines. “He’s just finally dating Melissa. We’ve been betting on it forever, and I just want this dinner to be nice.”
“It’s going to be nice, Stiles. Just calm down. You’re going to give yourself a nosebleed, and I do not need iron in my cranberry sauce.”
Stiles is all set to start with the wheedling and the guilt, but then a strong, steady knock comes at the front door, and he’s bolting out of the kitchen, still in his Bottom Chef apron. Which explains the bizarre look his father levels him with when he opens the door.
It might also have something to do with the dying whale noise Stiles makes when he spots his father’s date. That’s not Melissa McCall. He probably should have asked when his father mentioned oh-so-timidly that he’d be bringing a guest.
This would be the universe coming back to bite him in the ass.
“You must be Stiles.” Peter Hale grins into the yawning awkwardness. “It’s so nice to meet you.”