Chapter Text
So, there was one inherent drawback to someone like him going for a run in the woods, Stiles concluded. Contrary to what inspirational training montages and motivational posters implied, trail running was not all graceful leaps and powerful bounds. No, it was angry tree roots, deceptively loose rocks, and soul-sucking mud pits. And ... and ... and it required a shitload of bloody coordination to navigate, of which he had depressingly little to spare! Stiles swore angrily as his left foot slid off a gnarly root, and he barely avoided rolling that ankle - for the fourth time. Holy fuck, what was past-Stiles even thinking when he assumed present-Stiles could get a decent workout in by going for a run out here in the Preserve? He'd be lucky to get home without breaking his neck.
He glanced down at his watch, just as his trail sneakers squelched on the edge of a muddy puddle of water. Remnants of that bad rainstorm two whole days ago. Who knew it would take so long to dry?
And speaking of unexplained phenomenon - what was this BS? Two miles? Like, what the fuck? He felt like he'd been at this for hours, and he'd only gone two miles? That's it. This staying in shape thing was depressingly overrated. So, what if it was spring break and he had a week off to establish some healthy habits. He would bet his students were sleeping in, gorging themselves on junk food, and vegging out on the couch the whole time.
'Yeah, but you're not sixteen anymore,' a small voice inside his head reasoned. No, not even close. He was nearing thirty, a teacher, to boot, who had to set a good example, and guys his age couldn't have leftover pizza for breakfast, play video games all day, and order in greasy Chinese food for dinner. No, guys his age did morning workouts and tackled adulting things like grocery shopping and laundry with their free time.
... Which kind of sucked, but a small part of him could concede it wasn't so bad.
He rounded a bend in the trail, and decided to slow his pace. It wasn't as if he was running for his life or anything, so taking a moment to catch his breath and soak in his surroundings seemed like a good plan. Stop and smell the roses, as they said. He eased into a walk, and pulled a bottle from his running vest to take a drink. The brisk morning air tickled his skin, the rapidly cooling sweat causing goose bumps to form, and a small smile played at his lips as he breathed in the scent of fresh pine and damp earth. Yeah, this wasn't so bad.
After a decent break, he slipped his bottle back into its pocket and prepared to start back up again. Only ... he didn't. Because the little hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. And a little shiver was making its way down his spine. He couldn't ever recall that happening before. Weird.
He looked around, noting the dense foliage and beams of early morning sun dotting the forest floor. An occasional breeze rustled the overhanging tree, but there wasn't anything out of the ordinary here. So why did it feel like something was ... off?
He took a step. And then, another, still vigilant. Despite the normalcy of his surroundings, there was a heaviness in the air, a pervasiveness that ... that made him feel like his privacy was being threatened, like there was someone watching him. Stiles swallowed, not liking the direction his thoughts were going. He started to run again. This time, he was hyperaware of where he was headed, what he was stepping on, and what was around him. The Preserve wasn't known to have any predatory animals, but if there was something out there, he hoped it was more scared of him than he was of it, and that he could outrun it.
The two miles back to the parking lot passed by in a blur. Unlike his run out, adrenalin kept his stamina steady for the return trip. Several times, he could've sworn something moved in the corner of his eye, a flicker of movement, dark, fleeting, ephemeral. But nothing came of it, and he convinced himself it was just the slow-creeping panic making him see things. When the familiar blue of his jeep came into view, he breathed out a relieved breath and felt some of the tension leave his body. There were a few more cars in the lot than when he'd arrived earlier that morning, and their presence gave him some peace of mind. More cars meant more people, and in all likelihood, he'd probably sensed other hikers or runners in the Preserve. His overactive imagination could be such a bitch sometimes.
"You are your own worst enemy, Stiles," he muttered to himself. Deciding to forgo his usual stretching session today in light of - things, he quickly slipped into his jeep and headed home. The drive back was uneventful, the quiet gravel road giving way to the paved streets of a Beacon Hills slowly waking up for the day. Still, despite his attempts to rationalize his unease, Stiles couldn't shake that odd feeling. Something just didn't ... fit, like a shirt he'd somehow put on backwards in the dark.
The feeling followed him back to his side of town, into his small apartment, and into the shower. Once there, he focused on the tiny pinpricks of pressure instead as he stood under the warm spray, and allowed himself a few extra moments to enjoy the heat of the water before stepping out and towelling dry. By the time he stood in front of the misted mirror, he felt a bit more like himself. He swiped at the glassy surface in front of him, and stared at the sharpened edges of the face in the cleared streak. A familiar pair of brown eyes, flushed skin with scattered moles, and spikes of tousled wet hair stared back.
Yes, that was him. And he was safe and sound in his cozy, little apartment that he paid for with his meager teacher's salary. Everything was fine. Everything was as it should be.
(***)
Chicken. He'd forgotten about the chicken. He'd reminded himself over a hundred times in the last four days to take that goddamned chicken out of the goddamned freezer to defrost that goddamned morning, and what did he do? He'd forgotten. Again.
Stiles mentally kicked himself for the oversight as he slipped out of his car. The nondescript black Ford Explorer was a far cry from his baby blue - and beloved - clunker of a jeep, but it was work-issued, and if it ever got sliced up, shot at, or crashed into, at least he could throw the repairs over to the Claims department instead of draining his own bank account. He'd been doing a lot of that recently: the mentally kicking himself that is, not the requisitioning car repairs. He'd had so many of these missteps in the last year that it was a wonder why Derek still put up with him ... and stuck around. He would be lying if the thought of coming home to an empty condo one day hadn't crossed his mind. After all, a relationship could only take so many 'I'll be late' or 'I can't make it home tonight, all-nighter' excuses before it went on life support. Tonight was supposed to help make up for some of that. He'd planned on cooking a fabulous dinner and spending some quality time with his hot ass, wolfy boyfriend. And of course, he'd forgotten to defrost the chicken. Because why wouldn't he? He was Stiles Stilinski after all, on the outside, a promising, young FBI analyst poised on the verge of a great career, but on the inside, an astonishing part of that once awkward, hapless teenager still clamored for attention.
He closed the car door with a muted thud and let out a slow, tired breath. He would deal with dinner later. Right now, he had other things to worry about. Like this kidnapping of a seven-year-old girl. Normally, he wouldn't be out in the field like this, especially given that his skills were more suited for the behind-the-scenes analysis side of the job, but this case ... this case - and its rather unconventional details - seemed more aligned to his eclectic background.
"Supernatural, Stiles. Just say supernatural," he whispered to himself. His brain really did have a weird way of working. The case had all the markings of a supernatural, or supernatural adjacent, unsub that Stiles didn't think his very human colleagues were ready for just yet. The other analysts couldn't explain the odd aconitum residue on the bullets submitted into evidence, or the random collection of herbs both scattered and stored around the crime scene. Amanda Rees had been kidnapped, and the best working theory was that her missing parents had had something to do with it, given what neighbors had seen and heard from the house, and what forensics had discovered in the house. And while the Chicago police and now, his own FBI colleagues couldn't fully explain it, he could. He could with almost absolute certainty.
Which brought him to this moment. Now. Here. Alone, in the middle of a deserted lot of a very old, abandoned warehouse. Yup, that clueless sixteen-year-old with no sense of self-preservation was still going strong somewhere inside him!
Langdon was a neighborhood in DC that he wasn't too familiar with. Then again, having only moved here a little over a year ago, he wasn't familiar with many of the areas within the district. One thing was apparent though: the DC area had history, the socio-political kind, more so than what he was used to in Beacon Hills. The ebb and flow of wars and revolutions had etched their marks on the city, and while people and buildings had come and gone with those tides of change, he could still see the echoes of their stories in the design of the industrial warehouses around him, and in the slow gentrification of the residential neighborhood in which he now stood, just north of the nearby railway tracks. Never let it be said that humans weren't capable of change. Now, whether that change was for the better or worse ... well, wasn't that a question for the ages?
Trust his brain to get all philosophical at the most inconvenient times. With a tired breath, he slipped his service weapon out of its holster, and forced himself to focus on his surroundings. He wasn't keen on the Glock in his hand. It was a far cry from the old bat he'd left behind in Beacon Hills, for sure. And as he'd said, he preferred the war room analysis part of the job, but he'd uprooted his entire life to move out here to advance his career, so he'd come too far to shy away from the protocols the FBI had drilled into all its members.
Resolved, he slowly made his way toward the old warehouse he'd pinpointed as a possible waypoint for the kidnappers. The file had come in that the kidnappers had crossed state lines, which had put it in the jurisdiction of the FBI. From there, he would like to say he'd used his unmatched deductive skills to locate this potential hideaway, but in reality, he'd dug up a small spell he'd learned during Scott's fight with a rogue witch back when he was in college. He wasn't positive the spell had worked - he was a dabbler in this type of magic to say the least, an amateur at best - but it was a decent enough lead when the incantation had pointed to this spot as one with the highest concentration of wolfsbane and mountain ash in the city. Unfortunately, he would be laughed out of the Bureau if he'd told his supervisor that he'd basically tapped into some mystical forces to find their kidnappers, which meant he was officially out here for an extended 'lunch'.
He did a quick perimeter check, his eyes taking in the boarded-up windows, the graffitied brick walls, and the overgrown weeds peeking out between cracked cement. He wasn't a complete idiot. He'd done a quick online search of the property before he'd come at least. This had been an old storage facility before the occupying company's lease had run out almost nine years ago. Since then, it'd been the source of multiple drug raids and an illegal EDM party, after which the city had boarded it up and slated it in on the docket for demolition. Unfortunately, as with all municipal promises, the project was stuck somewhere in the bureaucratic purgatory of city hall.
"Couldn't be a five-star hotel or maybe a luxury penthouse, could it?" he muttered as he made his way to the south entrance. With this being an old storage facility, there was no doubt a shitload of nooks and crannies to search. He wasn't sure what he'd find - or if he'd find anything at all - but he sure had a long afternoon ahead of him. He just hoped he'd make it back home in time for dinner. He owed Derek that much.
The midday sun reflected off the tarnished door handle as he approached. He gave the thing a tug, and wasn't surprised when it opened easily. With abandoned buildings like these, it wasn't farfetched to find members of the homeless seeking shelter here. He would probably just as likely find a transient soul hiding in the corners as he would the kidnappers or the kidnappee.
"Hello?" His voice sounded oddly loud in the dark, hollow space as he entered. He listened carefully for any responding movement as his eyes adjusted to the lack of light. Nothing. Nothing but the shallow huff of his breath and the dull thud of his heart in his ears.
He squinted. From where he stood, there was just enough sunlight filtering in through the doors that he could make out a decent sized entryway - likely the foyer for check-in when this building was still in operation. Beyond that, however, was almost absolute darkness.
He pulled out his phone and tapped the screen, hoping to turn on its built-it flashlight. The '5% Battery Remaining' warning flashed across the top, mocking him, before the interface went dark.
He cursed as he slipped the useless thing back in his pocket. Yes, he'd performed a spell that gave him a promising lead. And yes, he'd done a property search as part of his due diligence, but did he have the common sense to bring a flashlight or even charge his phone?
Nope.
He took it all back. He was an idiot, after all.
Well, he'd come too far to go back now. Glancing around, he found a glass bottle just steps away and quickly grabbed the thing to prop open the door. He would take whatever light he could get. That done, he eased forward, his weapon at the ready, just as he'd been trained. Years of traipsing through the Beacon Hills Preserve and fighting a menagerie of supernatural baddies had skewed his sense of danger and self-preservation. Right now, his pulse had barely picked up and his adrenalin was still flatlined.
It wasn't until he ventured beyond the first room and into almost complete darkness that he felt a flutter of anxiety. Without sight, he started to rely heavily on his other senses - sound, smell, touch - and managed to clear the first two rooms with slow, methodical precision. By the time he was inching his way down the corridor to the third storage unit, he felt a prickle of apprehension along the back of his neck. His grip tightened on his gun. His muscles tensed.
There was someone else here. He didn't need to see it. He could feel it.
He continued slowly on his path, ever alert. And then, the air shifted. Movement! And it was fast. Supernaturally so. Shit!
He pivoted around the best he could in the dark, his Glock ready. Only ... something - or someone - grabbed his wrist mid-swing, and diverted it down. Assertively. And almost ... gently?
"Stiles!"
He'd recognized that harsh whisper anywhere.
(***)
One perk of working out at the uncivilized hour of ass-o'clock in the morning was that he felt like he'd accomplished something worthwhile before the day had even started. Now, if he was a responsible, diligent person, he would be spending the free time preparing lesson plans and get the logistics figured out for when school started back up next week. But was he responsible and diligent? Sure, when the mood struck. And right now, the mood hadn't struck. Besides, all that work stuff was what next Sunday night was for! Today was the first day of spring break, and Stiles was going to enjoy as much of it as he could. Starting with... a splurge at the local coffee shop by way of an overpriced caffeinated drink with more sugar and cream than actual coffee. Because that was how he rolled.
"And don't put Mr. S on the cup, Alex. You're a real boy now, and I'm off the clock," he warned the barista after he'd given his order. Alex was a former student, and in contrast to the neatly pressed polo shirt and sensible glasses he wore, Stiles remembered the kid having a bit of a mischievous streak. Oh, the irony - or karma, as his dad would say - of that!
"Sure thing, Mr. S," Alex threw back with a genial smile as he ducked behind the counter.
Stiles slid over to the order pick-up side with a quick word of thanks. It was times like these, when he met up with former students outside of work, that he felt old. And it wasn't as if he was old! At least, not in his head anyways.
He waited with a couple of other customers for his drink. The nice thing about having a quiet staycation like this was that he wasn't in any rush to be anywhere. He'd planned on picking up lunch for his father, and dropping it off at the station - because he hadn't seen his dad in ages, and he was the best son ever! - but he had plenty of time for that.
The kids behind the counter were pretty fast, though Alex had to slip back and take orders again when a new customer came in. At first, Stiles didn't pay it any mind, but as with all things that required him to stay still like this, his attention wandered ... and wandered liberally. Which was how he caught sight of the absolutely perfect model of a man placing his order at the till.
Stiles had never believed in love at first sight. Lust maybe, but not love. But standing there, and soaking in the sight of those broad shoulders, strong jawline, and dark stubble, all displayed in glorious profile, he was reconsidering his beliefs, especially because he could've sworn he felt a little flutter in his chest. Seriously, his heart had fluttered like it was some pre-teen girl mooning over some over-the-top boy band. What the fuck?
Somewhere in the dark recesses of his brain, he was calculating the probability of having some type of interaction with the man. The guy was the epitome of physical perfection, yes, but he was wearing a pair of black joggers and a loose gray hoodie, so he did mortal things - like go to the gym. Chances were he'd just finished working out. Stiles worked out. See, they were practically made for each other!
" -human mind and spirit!"
He was distracted enough that he barely caught the end of what the barista had said. Then, he turned back to the employee in question - Alex's co-worker behind the counter - and raised a puzzled brow. Had he heard that right?
"Oh, captain, my captain. The lighter of fires, great awakener, and artist of the human mind and spirit."
"That's you, Mr. S!" Alex chimed from behind the till, self-satisfied grin plastered on his face.
Stiles made a disbelieving noise. He was equal parts amused, chagrined, and proud. Not only had Alex referenced the well-known Whitman quote, but he'd managed to sneak in Frost, Steinbeck, and Yeats. The kid had been paying attention in class after all! The English teacher in him preened.
He quickly grabbed his drink before barista number two could recite the whole moniker again, and made a quick dash for the exit. The other patrons had probably had their laugh for the day. Only, he was so focused on getting out of there that when he turned, hot beverage in hand, he bumped right into the solid body of the next customer - the very drop-dead gorgeous customer - who'd just put in his order.
Lucky for him, the impact only jostled the lid off his cup, not knock it to the ground. Unluckily, it was enough to splatter some of the liquid on his hand and onto the gray fabric worn by the absolute perfect specimen he'd bumped into.
He hissed instinctively at the scalding sensation, but it subsided quickly. He was more concerned about the array of brown speckles on the other man's hoodie.
"Holy shit, I'm so sorry!" he exclaimed as he frantically tried to wipe the mess he'd made with his free hand. And yup, the pec under the cloth felt just as hard as it looked ... because why wouldn't it be? People like this guy were made to freeze people like him so he could stop and stare in awe.
To make things worse, the guy didn't shove him away or tell him to get lost. Why couldn't he be mean and horrible? Maybe threaten to rip his throat out or something. At least that way, he would have a flaw and join the rest of them mere mortals.
No, instead, he just patiently let Stiles do his thing ... which was acting like an idiot. A flailing, awkward idiot. He'd perfected that as an art years ago, for the record.
"I can get that cleaned for you," Stiles continued to sputter. "And I can pay for drycleaning if it doesn't come off. I mean, teachers' salaries kinda suck, and drycleaning costs an arm and a leg nowadays, but it's the least I can do. You'll be smelling coffee all day if we don't get that out. And don't get me wrong. I love coffee, but catching a whiff of it every time I moved would drive me crazy."
"It's fine. I've got a change of clothes in the car."
Stiles stopped mid-swipe at the man's voice. It sounded nice, comforting almost. Damn it! One did not just become all randomly attracted to complete strangers like this in the middle of a coffee shop. This was ridiculous! Realizing he must be coming across as a complete weirdo, he backed up a step and smiled sheepishly. "I'm still sorry though," he said. Mr. Stupidly Good-Looking made a sound of acceptance, and moved toward the pick-up counter without a second thought.
Away from him. Good choice.
There was probably a lot of laughter going on behind that golden-ratioed face. Not 'probably', more 'definitely'. Stiles didn't know. He was too flustered and embarrassed to look closely and find out.
Cutting his losses, he booked it out of the shop, half-spilled coffee in hand. He should probably just focus on picking up lunch for his dad and forgetting that encounter ever happened. He was good at that - the trying not to die of embarrassment thing. He was pretty sure he'd ruined any chances he'd had with that stranger anyway... because so went the woeful story that was his lacklustre life!
(***)
"Derek?" Stiles blinked, his body instinctively relaxing as it recognized the man beside him. "What are you doing here?"
"I could ask the same." Derek's voice came out in a loud whisper, as if he was trying - and failing - to hide his surprise while being quiet at the same time. "Aren't you supposed to be at work?"
"I am!" Stiles lowered his tone to match. He raised the weapon in his hand a bit as if to say 'See?' and was grateful he didn't accidentally smack his boyfriend with it. He was literally just a human stumbling around in the dark. Derek, on the other hand, could see and hear a lot more with his annoyingly accurate wolfy senses, and was probably aware of every insect and mouse lurking in the corners. "I'm on a kidnapping case. Had all the markings of some supernatural activity, so I tracked it here."
"Alone?"
Stiles didn't need to see the other man's face to know the disapproving scowl that was forming on it - thick eyebrows drawn with a slight downturn of the lips. Yup, there was judgement there, but Stiles worked hard for that judgement, so he would take it! Besides, he knew what was behind it, and he loved the wolf all the more for it. "Well, I couldn't broadcast the fact that this case had magic and werewolves written all over it, could I? Besides, I'm not alone now, am I?"
Derek grunted quietly in agreement. Softie.
Stiles smiled at the familiarity and ease of their interaction. It hadn't always been the case, but with time and maturity, they just somehow ... worked. "You never answered my question. What are you doing here?"
"I was swinging by the grocery store to stock up for tonight when - "
"Wait, I thought I was cooking!"
"... When I caught a strange scent." The fact that Derek had continued on without acknowledging Stiles' interjection told him how much faith the wolf had actually getting a cooked meal tonight. Stiles should've been a bit insulted, even as a token gesture, but really, who was he kidding? He probably would've been late getting home to even start dinner. He let it slide.
"Scent? Is it hunters?" Stiles prompted.
Derek paused for a second, as if trying to articulate what he'd smelled. "Not really. I caught a whiff of wolfsbane, but there was something else. Something more overwhelming. Metallic and a bit of ... ozone. Like when you dabbled in those spells those few times."
"Magic."
Derek made a sound of agreement. "I ended up following it here. We haven't encountered anything supernatural since we moved to the city, so I thought it worth looking into."
Stiles bit his lower lip, the wheels in his head slowly working their way into overdrive. He had been somewhat working on the premise he may have been tracking errant hunters. He'd planned on finding them, and perhaps calling Chris to take care of the rest. But magic... that changed things.
First thing's first though. There was still a frightened little girl out there, and that was his priority. "We have a kidnap victim to find," he said resolutely. "Her name is Amanda, and she's probably frightened out of her mind. Can you help me track her down?"
Stiles assumed Derek nodded, given that he couldn't see for shit in this darkness. "I was on my way to the third floor when I heard you come in," the older man explained. "There's something up there."
"Something? Or someone?" Stiles wasn't sure he wanted to know. Present company aside, he had thought his life would be a bit more ... normal by now. He was rather partial to things like logic, math, science - you know, things he could explain from all those years they made kids spend in school. And for the most part, it was. Until a certain best friend decided to get bitten by a werewolf.
"I can't tell for sure. I'm not smelling or hearing anything distinct up there. I can just sense it."
A swish of fabric told Stiles that Derek had moved away. He quickly followed suit, only to bump into the solid mass that was his boyfriend. He heard a 'tsk' from the other man, and could imagine the token exasperated look he was getting. "Hey, not my fault my inferior human eyes can't see in the dark," he defended.
Without comment, Derek took a hold of the hand that wasn't gripping the gun, and placed it on his shoulder - his very solid, wolfy shoulder. Stiles gave his boyfriend a squeeze in thanks, silently savoring the feel and the reassuring warmth of the other man. They'd been through a lot, the two of them, to get to this point. Once upon a time, he would've feared for his life had he touched Derek like this, but now ... now, a casual touch, an unconscious hand-hold, a quick kiss was more than acceptable - encouraged even.
He felt Derek's fingers brush over his in confirmation. "Okay?"
Stiles nodded. "Yeah, let's go."
They made their way to the stairs, their progress much faster now that Stiles could rely on Derek's senses to lead the way. He had full confidence in the other man's actions, and didn't even think twice about following blindly - quite literally, in this case. Derek paused only briefly to make sure he climbed the steps without tripping - because his coordination was still questionable even when he could see clearly - but they made it to the third floor without incident.
They'd walked about a third of the way down the main corridor before Derek stopped. Stiles had just opened his mouth to ask what was wrong when he felt it too. His grip tightened on Derek's shoulder as a wave of nausea washed over him. He closed his eyes and swallowed, secretly counting his lucky stars he hadn't had lunch yet. When the sensation passed, he asked, "What was that?"
"I don't know. Magic?" Derek paused, and Stiles knew he was taking a moment to focus his senses on what might lay ahead. "Can't be hunters. They hate anything to do with the stuff."
Stiles re-affirmed the grip on his gun. The wolfsbane and mountain ash in the reports were textbook hunters though. What did it mean that they'd even associate with a magic user? And how did a scared, kidnapped little girl factor into this? "Guess we'll find out," he replied. "Any sign of Amanda?"
The muscles under Stiles' hand tightened. "I think so. This way."
They continued on down the corridor until Derek turned and led them into what Stiles assumed was a storage unit. Derek stopped short just then.
"What? What is it?" He couldn't hear anything or fucking see anything. It really sucked being so human sometimes!
"Hunters."
Instantly, Stiles pulled his hand off Derek's shoulder and had his weapon raised - albeit aimlessly, but raised nonetheless! "Where?"
"They're unconscious." Derek's tone was steady, matter-of-fact. "Four of them. Two to our left by the wall, and one on each of the far corners."
"Any sign of the little girl?" As curious and as puzzling as this situation was, the hunters weren't the primary focus of their search.
Derek waited a couple of seconds before answering. "No, nothing. Sorry, Stiles, she's not here. I don't smell or hear anything. Actually, there's nothing here at all anymore. Even that scent of magic from earlier is gone."
Stiles eased up his posture and let out a disappointed breath. He had so many questions right now, foremost of which was what the hell had happened to the hunters. Yet, at the same time, he was still technically on the clock. And now, he'd hit a dead end. He hated when he was wrong. His poor, fragile ego! He wanted to shout out his frustration. "So, what should we do?" he asked instead and gestured half-heartedly toward where he assumed the hunters were laying.
Derek made a contemplative noise. "You head back to work. I'll give Chris a call and see if we can get this cleaned up. We can dig into this a bit more when you get home tonight."
A corner of Stiles' mouth lifted up into a sly, half-smile. "Why, Mr. Hale, are you sweet-talking me with the promise of an investigation into a group of bigoted, homicidal hunters and a mysteriously dangerous magical entity?"
He didn't need his sight to know that Derek was rolling his eyes just then. He grinned, fully amused. "Yes, you are! You sure know how to show a boy a good time." Rather clumsily, he reached out and pulled the man in for a quick kiss. He was pretty sure he was off course with his action, but Derek likely corrected it. His boyfriend's lips were warm, and soft, and reassuring, and Stiles loved every bit of it.
When he pulled away, he could hear a tired sigh escape the other man. "C'mon, I'll show you out so you can get back to the office," Derek finally said, ever the thoughtful boyfriend.
Stiles nodded, and allowed Derek to re-position his hand again on his shoulder. They made quick work of the trip back down to the main entrance, where Stiles had to avert his gaze from the sudden onslaught of sunlight.
"Ow, that stings," he muttered as he squinted his eyes against the brightness.
Derek chuckled at his discomfort. "Quit complaining and get back to work. I'll clean up here."
Stiles fought the childish urge to stick out his tongue. "Fine, but only cuz it's you who's asking." Now that he could see again, he gave his boyfriend an appreciative once-over and a saucy wink.
Derek, obviously being the better man, ignored his antics. "Go."
"I'm going!" Stiles took a few steps before he stopped, suddenly remembering his dilemma from earlier. "Oh, hey, can you defrost the chicken when you get home?"
Without waiting for a response - because he knew Derek and he knew Derek's secretly considerate nature - he made his way back to the car, a jaunty smile on his face. He was going to get to cook the chicken after all.
(***)
The station seemed unusually quiet when Stiles pulled into the parking lot. Normally, the space was half-full of squad cars, but today, he could almost make a beeline for the entrance without having to skirt around a maze of bumpers and fenders. He let out a contemplative noise as he grabbed the take-out bag and walked purposefully to the doors.
So ... the coffee shop that morning had been a bit embarrassing. He'd sat in his jeep for a good twenty minutes afterwards, reminding himself that a human body couldn't really die from mortification. (It couldn't, by the way.) Once he was certain his life would go on, he took his sweet time checking out the new salad place that had opened along Main Street. Everything had looked pretty good on their menu - and almost suspiciously in-line with his new 'get in shape' initiative - that he'd ended up ordering two meals. A lunch of soup and chicken wraps with his dad was maybe what he needed to erase that morning from his memory.
He entered the station with a jauntiness of an adult who'd basically spent his entire childhood in it. The officer at the intake desk was relatively new, having started just last year, he recalled, but he greeted her with a friendly smile. "Hi, Wendy. My dad in?"
"Hey, Stiles." The younger woman returned his smile. "Sorry, he's out on a call, along with over half of the on-duty officers right now."
Stiles stopped short. This was Beacon Hills. Nothing ever happened in Beacon Hills. He used to joke that it was so boring here that if someone jaywalked, it would be the top story in the six o'clock news. "Why? What's going on?"
"Sounds like a fight broke out at the U-8 Beacon Hills Elementary School Soccer Invitational. Something about the PTA group from the visiting team insulting the cupcakes of our home team's PTA members since there was supposed to be some sort of bake sale afterwards. It devolved from there, and we had to send out several cars. Last I heard over the radio, there was the threat of flying cinnamon buns."
Stiles blinked. Then, blinked again. That Wendy could say all that with a straight face, especially because he knew she'd moved here right out of the academy from a big city like Sacramento, where they actually had, like, real crime, was a feat. "Wait. You're saying that half the force is at a soccer game of eight-year-olds, trying to prevent a food fight between the parents?"
Wendy nodded solemnly.
Yup, they had a clear winner for top story in the local newscast tonight.
He wasn't sure how to react to that, so he changed the topic. "Oooo-kay, is it alright if I wait for my dad in his office then?"
Wendy waved him in. "I'm not sure how long he'll be but you're welcomed to wait."
He thanked her and made his way back to his dad's office. Or he was, until he looked down briefly to make sure the soup in his take-out bag hadn't tipped over ... and promptly bumped into an immovable object! He stumbled back a step, but still made sure to keep a firm grip on the food. Priorities!
And holy crap, he was two for two in the inability-to-walk-properly department today! Put a man on spring break, and he somehow forgets the instruction manual on how to human.
Stiles looked up, ready to apologize, and froze.
"You."
Whether it was surprise or accusation in the tone, Stiles couldn't tell. His brain didn't seem to be registering much. He just stared. He just stared at the man he'd walked into ... again. The same model of perfection who had made his stupid heart flutter and reduced his usually sharp mind into a puddle of goo, he was here, standing in front of him, all nicely coiffed, looking like a magazine cover model, and .... and in a deputy's uniform?
"You okay?"
Wait, was the man talking to him? Like, him him and not someone standing behind him? He must be. There was no one else here. In that case, he should probably say something then, shouldn't he?"
"You've got really nice eyes."
What? All that internal monologuing and he commented on the man's eyes? Granted, they were really nice eyes, all changeable in color and framed by thick, dark lashes, but still!
The other man seemed taken aback by the words, and for a brief moment, Stiles swore he saw a flicker of uncertainty cross that handsome face. "Thanks ... I think," he said after a pause.
And then, it got awkward. Because Stiles wanted to say things - many, many things - but he didn't know where to start. He must've looked like he wanted to speak because this stranger - a new deputy - was courteous enough to wait. And thus, awkward.
Fortunately, after several long seconds, the man took pity on him and broke the silence. "I was going to say 'the better to see you with' to the eyes comment, but that would've been too forward, wouldn't it?"
The sudden candor seemed to kickstart Stiles' brain again. He glanced down at his takeout bag, the one he'd brought for his dad, and let out a genuine laugh. "No, that would've been pretty funny actually." Look, he'd made a apropos fairytale connection, and he'd found his words again! Angels rejoice!
The other man's posture shifted somewhat when he realized Stiles could speak in proper, coherent sentences. It became more relaxed, open. "Then it was a lost opportunity."
The small uptick in the corner of Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome's mouth caused Stiles to mentally do a double take. Woah, woah, woah... hold up. Was the man - flirting with him? How...? What ...? Had he been reading the signals all wrong this whole time? And damn, there was that flutter again in his chest.
The best he could do was return the small smile. "Uh, yeah, I suppose it was." He had to think fast here. He couldn't lose this opportunity. Carpe diem, as they say. His fingers tightened around the bag he was carrying. "So, I had wanted to share lunch with my dad today, but sounds like he's out on a call."
The new deputy nodded. "Last I checked, there were threats of projectile Swiss meringue buttercream. It could get messy, and it didn't sound like it's going well. They might be a while."
Stiles could've been mistaken. He hoped he wasn't. But he thought he saw a spark of anticipation in those hazel-hued eyes. He took that as a sign to forge ahead, and gave a silent apology to his dad. He was sure his old man would want his dear and beloved son to be happy, right? And this way happiness lay, it seemed. "In that case then, if you don't mind wraps and soup, want to join me for lunch? I'm sure my dad would understand."
Whatever standards of perfection Stiles had use to compare the other man to earlier didn't do him justice now, especially as his expression lit up. It wasn't a drastic change, more subtle, but his eyes brightened, with crinkles forming in the corners, and his lips lifted enough to reveal the most adorable pair of bunny teeth. All of Stiles' insides warmed at the sight.
"I do have my lunch break coming up, and as you've said, I'm sure the Sheriff wouldn't mind," he answered casually, and gestured toward the office. "Shall we?"
Stiles didn't need to be asked twice. "Let's go." He shuffled around and continued on his original path.
The other man followed, offering his hand. "By the way, my name is Derek ..."