Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/3110123.

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Explicit
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M/M
Teen Wolf (TV)
Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale, Scott McCall, Allison Argent, Isaac
Lahey, Erica Reyes, Lydia Martin, Sheriff Stilinski, Laura Hale
Alternate Universe, Werewolf Reveal, Stiles Wears Glasses, Break
Up, Previous Relationship, everyone is human except for derek,
Original Secondary Characters, derek lies a lot
Published: 2015-01-04 Completed: 2015-01-07 Chapters: 2/2 Words:
55151

Nothing Safe is Worth the Drive

by standinginanicedress
Summary

An AU in which Stiles is a crass, rude, glasses-wearing wedding planner living on Scott

and Allison's newlywed couch, and Derek is his rich, prudish, well dressed ex-boyfriend
living in LA.
AKA the one where Stiles gets swindled into planning Derek's wedding to someone else
after not seeing him for nearly two years and everything winds up going to shit

Notes

The main thing with this fic is that I put the boys in a really shitty situation and neither of
them handle it well at all - they both do some REALLY terrible things (like, unforgivable in
my opinion) and I think you might hate them for a lot of this fic. Also, there's a discrepancy
in that Beacon Hill's approximate canon location would not be ANYWHERE near LA, so I
had to kind of stretch that a bit I hope you can forgive me haha.
It was really important to me to not have the ~wife~ character be some huge bitch, like that
classic trope; but I did want you to DISLIKE her, or at least not like her more than Stiles (I

almost, ALMOST went with Kate Argent but thought better of it tbh)
(also PS title and chapters titles are from...Treacherous by Taylor Swift bc...it fits and thus
ends the longest author's note of all time)

and I will get you alone.

It all began when he agreed to plan Scott and Allison's wedding.

Or, really, more specifically, it began when he finished college with a useless degree in English,
even though he didn't even fucking like it, just so he could have something to hang up on his
wall. He had kind of been planning to work at the coffee shop for his entire life, but after high
school his father had laid down the law forced him to go to college. So he went. And he read a
lot, wrote a lot of papers, and came out the other side at 22 years old like...um?
What the fuck do I do now?
One thing he was absolutely, positively determined to do was to not live at home anymore. He
was an adult, dammit! It was impossible to feel like his own person when his father still made
him misshapen pancakes every morning, still patted him on the back and called him bud in front
of all his other adult friends.
He didn't make nearly enough at the coffee shop to afford his own place, not to mention the
student loan bills he had to pay off, so he and Scott moved in together. It was all good fun for a
while; all bro stuff, like video game marathons, and days spent eating nothing but pizza, and
pissing with the door wide open. Typical guy stuff.
Until Scott proposed to Allison. Then it became newlyweds stuff, like making each other heart
shaped pancakes in the morning but none for Stiles, patting him on the back and telling him he'd
find work soon, sleeping on the god damn couch in the living room, living on ramen noodles and
macaroni and cheese like an invalid like a college freshman lives. Not a man with a fucking
degree! For Christ's sake.
So Allison proposed, hey, Stiles, you could plan our wedding! Because Stiles has always had a
bizarre attention to detail; could spot a single flower out of place in the pot a mile away, became
disturbed by the sheer thought of a crooked picture frame on the wall. That, as well as the fact
that he'd planned nearly every single large get together and event for their friend group for as
long as any of them could remember, and, well...why not hire a friend to do a job for cheap?
Who knows, honey, he might be good at it.
And good at it, he was. The wedding went off without a hitch, without a single mismatched
tablecloth, with any and all family drama handled seamlessly by Stiles' calming presence, with
all the catering and floral arrangements and invitations taken care of so easily it practically fell
into place on the big day. It's funny Stiles had never given much thought to doing something like
event planning, because where he's from, in probably the poorest part of California, people
didn't just spend money on some random guy to plan things for them.

So, yes, he was good at it. Too good. Way too good, for a small little hamlet like Beacon Hills;
filled to the brim with clueless people who had never heard of such an absurd thing. A person to
do something anyone else could easily do? How foolish they were, though, to think that planning
an entire event was simple. Seems that way, doesn't it? Oh, flowers and appetizers, and, like,
table settings. Who cares? Just throw out some lawn chairs and Dora the Explorer tablecloths.
No one will know the difference.
They all learned the hard way. And Stiles put an ad in the paper, charging a measly ten dollars an
hour (whereas most planners, like in big cities, go for fifty ) to either help the dream become a
reality, or do all the hard work himself. To most people, the idea was still pretty foreign so he
only did three jobs in the first four months, and still lived off ramen and macaroni and cheese,
still lived on Allison and Scott's couch, still could barely afford the rent and gas it took to just be
a normal human being. Forget moving out, forget getting his own place he was just trying to
survive.
That big break is coming, buddy, Scott would say, while Allison hmm 'd from behind her
newspaper every morning, you just have to wait. Good things come to those who wait. Right,
honey?
Another hmmm from the lady of the house, and Stiles would stare into his cheerios with a frown.
If he lived in LA, oho, the big break would've come already. As it was, he couldn't even afford
the gas to get there; let alone move there, in his own place. He couldn't even afford a cardboard
box with a please help sign on the outside in LA. Out here, in Nowhereville, he felt like big
breaks just didn't exist. There was just what you had, and you lived and worked with what you
had, and made ends meet, and got drunk on the weekends, and that was that. It was hicksville.
Redneck town. Country music video material, at best with nothing but mom and pop stores that
charged up the ass because they could.
Stiles was never going to get anywhere. He was going to make enough money to get by, maybe
be able to afford a shack of an apartment somewhere in the slums district if he really saved up
his money, and that would be that. He had accepted it. Moved on.
Until.
Allison came home one day, after Stiles had spent almost a year of planning backyard BBQ
weddings and stupid events for the town; she was bright eyed and grinning, dumping the
groceries onto the kitchen table with an unceremonious plop, rearing her Cheshire cat smile onto
Stiles menacingly. I got a very interesting call while I was at the store.
Really? Scott, perpetual puppy, grinned back at her as he peeled potatoes in front of the sink;
Stiles just mumbled something about you don't say under his breath while seasoning the meat at
the counter.
Remember how I used to live in LA? A way, way, long time ago, when I was still in Elementary
school.

Yeeahh, Scott trilled over the sound of more peeling.

I used to have this best friend Tiffany Milano. She was a trust fund kid; born and raised in a
huge mansion in the country. She had an indoor pool, with a waterslide."
I think I remember you mentioning her! Because Scott probably remembers every single little
thing that every single person has ever said to him in his life most of all the shit Allison tells
him. It's what's always made him both an awesome person, and a shitty person; because he can
remember the good and the bad, at the drop of a hat, and can hold grudges like nobody's
business.
Anyway, she's getting married! And do you know what she asked me?
What!
She asked me about a kid in Beacon Hills that she heard plans weddings, and asked me if I
recognized the name Stiles."
Stiles stopped seasoning the meat. He flat out dropped the pepper down onto the ground with a
clatter, whipped around, nearly sending his glasses flying across the kitchen, to find Allison and
Scott both leering at him with parental pride. What did you say? Stiles demanded, fixing his
glasses.
I said yes! Yes I do know Stiles! I can give you his number right now!
Which is what lead to Stiles getting a phone call at three the following day, with Scott and
Allison hovering over him listening to every word.
Tiffany, the cheery voice on the other end of the phone had said, Tiffany Milano! Well,
Milano for now! Then Tiffany Ha- Rocket! Get down from there! Sorry, sorry. Just the dog.
Anyway, how much do you usually charge? Forty an hour?
Stiles practically threw up on the coffee table before answering with a resounding yeah, forty an
hour, that sounds about right, while internally doing the math. Forty a day, working a typical
five hours a day, that's two hundred fucking dollars a day. Working at the usual pace of about
four days a week, that's eight hundred dollars a week.
Working for the three months until the date she has planned, that's nearly ten. Thousand.
Fucking. Dollars.
There's the click of a pen in the background, and then Tiffany was saying, like it's nothing, and
a finder's fee of two hundred. Right?
Um - Stiles has never charged a finder's fee before. No one could afford the finder's fee
around here. He was about to pass out. Yeah. Two hundred. Sounds yeah, that sounds...
Okay. Twoo...huunndreed...dollars....and how do you spell Stilinski?

Which is what lead to Stiles sitting in a posh, all white meeting room in a building in downtown
LA, nervously fidgeting with the collar on the nice dress shirt that his father had bought for him,
trying to pretend for ten seconds like he actually belonged there. All things said and done, yeah,
he could plan a wedding better than anyone else but that was in Beacon Hills. People don't
expect much around there; so you show up with a chocolate fountain and a couple tea lights and
perfectly lined up dcor and people think you're the second coming of Christ.
This was the big leagues. This was people who have grown up around thousand dollar ice
sculptures. People who could afford to get the real and actual Taylor Swift to show up at their
wedding to perform. People who knew how to use a color wheel.
He was freaking out. Absolutely about to faint, talking to Tiffany who turned out to be an
outrageously pretty, outrageously tall, outrageously well dressed black girl in six inch stiletto
heels; sweeping into the room like she just got out of a photoshoot, holding her soft-skinned hand
out for Stiles to shake.
Tiffany commented on his glasses, with a lilting, you don't look like a wedding planner in
those!, laughing her way through it. She was nice. She was friendly. She was rich. Stiles could
practically smell the money on her.
This was, without a doubt, the big break. The only break he would ever need. He planned this
one fucking wedding, for this one rich LA girl, with her trust fund and her indoor pool and her
waterslide, and he would be golden for the rest of his life. Because LA girls talk to other LA
girls, and LA girls would be at this wedding, and LA girls love having someone else do all the
work for them.
And LA girls walk around with pens at the ready at all times, prepared to write thousand dollar
checks.
So, Stiles calmed down. He calmed right the hell down, cleared his throat, and said, A
theme?
To which, Tiffany instantly replied, Russian Winter.
Instantly Stiles could see it. The aisle, white carpet, lined with fake trees covered in fake snow
and light red string lights; glittering in the dim lightning of the reception hall, while on the ceiling
above, huge white chandeliers would hang with candles flickering instead of bulbs. This was
going to be easy. An easy ten grand. Holy fuck.
Budget? He asked, pretending like he was so cool and calm and put together casually sitting
with his pen poised over his notebook, trying not to let a single emotion pass across his face.
Totally professional. He's totally planned weddings like this before. This is not new. Nothing
new here.
I'm not looking to spend more than 7.

Stupidly, so stupidly, he said, hundred?

Tiffany blinked at him, and then a slow smile crept across her face. Hundred thousand.
Seven. Hundred. Thousand. Dollar. Wedding. Again, Stiles was not freaking out. No, sirree
bob. He wrote 700,000 very slowly and precisely, thinking he has never in his life ever written a
number that huge down on a piece of paper. Has never even seen that number with a dollar sign
next to it.
His eyes were dollar signs like Mr. Krabs. All he was thinking about at that exact moment was
cashing his ten thousand dollar check and jumping into a gigantic pool of money, swimming
around in it, while drinking champagne and wearing Ray Ban sunglasses and Gucci swim trunks.
Does Gucci make swim trunks? In the background, Tiffany told him there are going to be about
eight hundred guests. He started imagining doing a cannon ball into his money pool.
But he had to ask the one question you're really not supposed to ask, as an event planner the
are you sure about this... question. You want me to plan a 700 grand wedding in three
months?
Tiffany smiled at him, all pearly white teeth, and said, unless you think you can't do it.
Oh. Stiles could do it. His entire life had been leading up to this moment. His finest hour is upon
him. He is David and this wedding is a shimmery white and red Goliath, taunting him, waving
money around in his face. It's not a problem, he decided to say. And it's like a contract had
been sealed.
Which is what lead to the single worst occurrence of Stiles' entire life the thing that lead to the
longest, most horrible two and a half months of Stiles' pathetic little existence.
Derek Hale came walking into the room, accompanied by Tiffany's caw of and here's my
man!, and Stiles thought for a second all his money might just have to go to his hospital bills
from the heart attack he nearly had.
---It should have occurred to him. That's what he's saying to himself as he sits across the glass table
from Derek, pointedly avoiding eye contact, just staring directly at Tiffany and nothing else,
tapping his pen incessantly against his notepad. He's stopped taking notes. Taking notes means
having to turn his head, turning his head means having to glance at Derek, glancing at Derek
means seeing Derek and seeing Derek means acknowledging that this is actually. Fucking.
Happening.
And Stiles still has not accepted that it is. No. It's a nightmare. He's going to wake up to Tiffany
standing over him going um, are you all right?, and it'll all be over. Derek Hale is not there.
No. No. No.

It should have! Occurred! To him! LA? Trust fund kid? Insanely attractive human being getting
married? All signs point to Derek Hale; except not really. He couldn't have possibly known,
because he had kind of already decided, long ago, that he was never going to lay eye on Derek
again in his entire fucking life. He was looking forward to it, honestly! A long, Derekless
existence! Ahh, just what the doctor ordered after the horror of a breakup he suffered because of
that... fuckface.
Fuckface himself spared him about four seconds of a glance, barely even reacted, and then sat
down across from him like it was nothing to him. Like Stiles was nothing to him. Like he didn't
even remember who Stiles was despite the fact that they dated for nearly an entire year while
Stiles was fresh out of college.
Fuck. You. Stiles sends the brainwaves as far as he can get them in Derek's general direction
without even looking at him.
...and, well, Derek doesn't really have much family left. Tiffany casts an apologetic glance in
Derek's general direction, but Stiles keeps his eyes locked firmly on her side profile, thinking
frantically about how nice and soft her skin looks, how her jawline is perfect, how her teeth are
all pin straight and shiny white, how much better looking than Stiles she is altogether... ...so it's
mostly just my family that you'll have to put up with. My mother can be, hmm...impossible, is one
word for it.
Okay. That's fine, Stiles assures her, in what he hopes is a calm and even tone. I'm sure I've
dealt with worse before it's my job to um....control situations. Manage, the, er the...
And don't get me started on my father, she continues on, like a real angel, ignoring Stiles'
stuttering, but I think your real problem might be with Derek.
There's really only about two seconds of dead air. The break between Tiffany finishing her
sentence, and taking a breath to start the next is miniscule, in real time.
But in Stiles' head, it feels like an hour. He literally stops breathing; oh god, oh god, she knows,
I'm getting fired before I even get started, she knows, she knows! His eyes flick to Derek, for
the first time since he walked in, and finds him staring at Tiffany - his fiancee' - with what might
actually be misconstrued as an actual emotion, and Stiles knows that Derek is thinking the exact
same thing that he is.
...he's so horrible at making up his mind about things! Stiles breathes out audibly; and he
swears that he sees Derek looking at him from the corner of his eyes. I literally have to force
his hand to get him to make any major decisions but it's really important to me that he have a
hand in the planning. I can't stand the thought of being one of those Bridezillas. It's just not me. I
want this wedding to be his as much as it is mine. Think you can handle the both of us?
---You're fucking kidding me.

Isaac has been laughing for five minutes straight, practically rolling around on the floor, tears
streaming down his face every time Stiles would think he was done, Isaac would calm down
for a second, look at Stiles' face, and start it all over again. While Scott...Scott has just been
repeating the same thing again and again, you're fucking kidding me," met with Stiles', I
know."
Five. Minutes.
The meeting had ended shortly after Derek had arrived, with Tiffany citing something about
needing to get back to work, and Derek shooting up out of his chair immediately thereafter to
follow her out of the room like a lost puppy, and then it was just Stiles sitting alone in a room
that looked like it cost six hundred thousand dollars itself, staring blankly at the wall; as if he
was waiting for Jesus Christ to appear to him and say, oh, just kidding, by the way. None of
that was real. You're hallucinating. You're going to wake up on the couch in
five...four...three...two...one...
Sadly, Jesus never appeared. It was just Stiles, and eventually a snooty secretary who kicked
him out, and then a snooty valet who handed him his keys back with a hint of disgust; like having
to touch the Blueberry was a serious tax on his health.
So, you didn't take the job?
Stiles takes another sip of his beer. Swallows. I took the job, Scott.
Good! You shouldn't let that that person ruin this opportunity for you!
Good? It's a horrible idea! Isaac wipes the few remaining tears out of his eyes, sighs deeply,
and shakes his head. This is the worst idea you've ever had, Stiles.
It wasn't an idea, Isaac. It was just thrust upon me, like a sneak attack, all right? It would've
never been my idea to plan Derek Hale's wedding.
The idea is Stiles making thousands of dollars off one job, Scott interjects, raising one finger
in the air, getting his name out to the wealthier population, a second finger, and becoming a
millionaire. A third, and final finger.
Right, Stiles hastily agrees after another sip of beer, exactly. Because the whole thousands
of dollars thing totally outweighs the whole...Derek thing, right? Totally. Absolutely.
Wrong, Isaac counters Stiles' internal monologue with another heavy shake of his head. So
fucking wrong. I feel like you're forgetting what Derek Hale was actually like."
At that, Scott purses his lips, narrows his eyes; but doesn't respond. Stiles doesn't have much to
say to that, either because he remembers exactly what Derek Hale was like. In vivid fucking
color.
I'd rather work with a rabid fucking wolf than spend even five minutes alone in a room with that

son of a bitch, he pushes his curls back on his head, looking Stiles dead in the eye. As your
friend, I'm seriously suggesting that you back out of this while you still can. The situation is justjust...
Too fucking weird, Stiles finishes for him, in a low voice. Planning a wedding for his exboyfriend? Who does something like that? It would make about a zillion times more sense if they
had ended on good terms, or if they both looked at each other and said, I don't really like you on
a romantic level, but as friends, we could totally work! Neither of those situations played out
with Derek and Stiles. Oh, no.
The ending was a car crash into a solid concrete wall at over a hundred miles per hour. Both of
them saw it coming, but neither of them moved to turn the wheel, to swerve in another direction.
Then why are you doing it?
Stiles sighs; and then fishes his wallet out of his pocket. He pulls Tiffany's check out and holds it
up in the air, right in front of Isaac's face.
Two hundred and forty dollars. Just for talking to her for an hour.
Exactly, Scott points to the check with a smug look on his face. What's weird to me is you
even entertaining the thought of turning this down just because you have a little bit of an
uncomfortable history with the guy!
Isaac blows a raspberry, but doesn't offer any more arguments for them to debate on a sign that
he's admitting Scott is at least partially right about this entire ordeal. Stiles reminds himself that
they're talking about ten grand here. That's Stiles' own place a semi-nice place. That's a new
car a nice car. That's paying off a huge chunk of his looming student loans. It's a lifechanging
lump of money.
Scott is right. He would be a fucking idiot to turn this down just because he and Derek...well.
Just because he and Derek.
Money. Money! A lot of money. So much fucking money. It's worth it, it's worth it, it's worth it.
---That doesn't match the theme, Tiffany laughs at Derek's invitation choice a sunny, yellow
thing with white blocky type. Stiles cannot believe that Tiffany is laughing at Derek instead of
kicking him directly in the balls for such a stupid fucking suggestion yellow? Block type?
Floral? For a winter themed wedding? God, it's exactly the type of shit he expects from the guy,
but it still makes him step back, scratch his head, and go, you can't be serious. The type of shit
that would've gotten the two of them into a huge bickering match, right there in the middle of the
store, in front of everyone.
But Tiffany just laughs, shaking her head and nudging Stiles conspiratorially, like, oh how silly

he is!
I think we're in the wrong section, Stiles starts, shoving his glasses up higher on his nose.
This is more, er...spring.
Right, Tiffany agrees, smoothing her sweater out. There's not a single piece of lint or cat hair
on it, and Stiles keeps finding his eyes shifting down to stare the fabric of it, to marvel at how
perfect and pristine it is. Rich people.
Winter would be in this direction. Unless you were thinking of going eclectic with it, which
wouldn't be that bad of a-
No," Tiffany insists, already clacking her high heels away from the conversation, I don't do
eclectic.
People with sweaters that clean rarely do eclectic.
Stiles speedwalks to catch up with her, to avoid getting left behind with Derek. The second he
walked into the store, even though the building is huge, and the couple was an entire fifty feet
away, Derek turned around and looked him dead in the eyes. It was just one of those creepy,
unnerving things that Derek was always doing when they were together the exact type of shit
that made Isaac so wary of him.
"You don't think he's, you know...odd?
Creepy. Creepy is what he is, dude. Incredibly fucking creepy.
But just as quickly as the eye contact was made, it was broken and Derek went straight back in
to trailing along behind Tiffany and focusing his full attention on her, like Stiles didn't exist.
Since then, it's pretty much just been Derek and Tiffany talking, Tiffany and Stiles talking, and
then Derek going deathly silent as if saying a single word would prompt a response from
Stiles, or initiate a conversation. Which, apparently, would be horrible, in his mind.
It would be horrible. Stiles knows that. So he plays along.
This one, Derek points at a sample card with confidence, tapping the glass display as if he's
running out of patience.
Dear. God. It's the single most hideous thing Stiles has ever laid eyes on. It looks like an
invitation to a four year old's snowman themed birthday party not an elegant seven hundred
thousand dollar wedding. Awful, gaudy blues. Cartoonish snowflakes. Comic? Sans? Font?
Tiffany laughs again. Stiles thinks he's going to have an aneurism.
Let's try this - Stiles suggests, keeping his tone even and light; not too demanding, not too
annoyed, just pleasantly offering an idea out to his clients. Because that's what these people are
clients. No matter how many times he's had sex with one of them. Clients. ...when you

imagine your mother receiving an invitation to your wedding in the mail, what do you imagine it
looks like in her hands?
Tiffany actually closes her eyes for a second; which Stiles finds amusing for all of two seconds,
until he realizes that it more or less leaves Derek and Stiles alone in the room together. Tiffany
has gone away into the land of imagination, and left the two boys alone to soak in the
awkwardness of the fact that they're standing here right now.
Stiles clears his throat. Pushes his glasses up on his nose. Tries to look professional and not like
a person way in over his fucking head.
Satin bow. Tiffany says matter of factly, opening her eyes again.
Red satin. Stiles suggests.
Tiffany's jaw drops. Exactly. Oh, my God. You and I are going to get along. I can tell. I knew
hiring you would be a good idea told you, Derek."
A few things occur to Stiles all at once things that probably should have occurred to him
sooner. He had been too busy trying to deal with the fact that this was a real thing that was
happening in his life to really consider all the many, many strings attached to such a thing being
possible at all.
For starters, at some point, Tiffany had said to Derek we should hire a wedding planner. This
would not offend Derek. Derek has the money to pay for it, Derek doesn't even like deciding
anything for himself, or handling anything himself. So a wedding planner just makes perfect
sense for his tiny little pea brain.
Second of all, at some point, Tiffany had said to Derek, we should hire Stiles Stilinski.
Oh, what Stiles would have given to be in that room at that exact moment to hear his name
rolling off of his ex-boyfriend's future wife's tongue, to see the look on his perfect chiseled face,
to see him drop his dinner roll into his lap in shock. Oh what relish. What joy.
Third of all, at some point, Tiffany and Derek had gotten into an argument about not hiring Stiles.
Two guesses as to which side of the argument Derek had been on.
Red is too strong a color, Derek says. It's in direct response to Stiles' suggestion, something
that should be directed at Stiles. But the stupid idiot doesn't even so much as flick his eyes away
from Tiffany, as if looking at Stiles through anything but a mirror would cause him to turn to
stone. Bright, I mean. Intense.
Tiffany opens her mouth to respond, only to be cut off by Stiles' firm burgundy.
Burgundy! Even the sound of the word, the word itself ...I like that.

Burgundy is too depressing. Not a glance at Stiles.

Well...
Maroon.
Maroon and burgundy are the same exact color.
Stiles' left eye twitches. Maybe we should go look at the color wheel, it's a cutting, biting,
sarcastic thing to say; but he says it in a cheery, happy voice, a smile spread across his face.
And you can pick which shade of red best fits your vision.
A color wheel?"
That does it. You know, Tiffany, Stiles touches her arm gently, I think me and the man here
should have a one and one, real quick. Normally that's how it goes a one on one with both of
you, to get the ideas out of them without the influence of the other.
It doesn't take much to convince her. Her eyes go wide and she nods. I should've thought of
that.
Okay, great, Stiles latches onto Derek's arm with a vice grip and starts dragging him towards
the door. Right now, then. Outside.
Derek doesn't put up much of a fight to being dragged out of the store, even though he could
probably easily shake Stiles off and evade the situation altogether. This is mostly, Stiles thinks,
because if he did put up a fight, Tiffany would find it odd; or at the very least get upset at Derek
resisting the planning of their fucking wedding.
So outside they go, into the crisp Autumn air, and Stiles wheels around on the other man to look
directly into his face, up close, for the first time in nearly a year and a half. He looks the same,
really; the same as he always did. Frown, furrowed brow, hazel eyes, dark hair kept the same
length and all. Right now, he's got that you're annoying me, Stiles face on, which is really just
like old fucking times. You have got some serious fucking nerve. Off to a great start. An
excellent start, here, ladies and gentlemen, Stiles and Derek, back again, for their encore
performance of : The Fight. You said yes to this entire thing-
As did you.
You heard my fucking name! How many Stiles Stilinkski's do you think exist in this entire
universe? One! And you're looking at him! You knew the minute she said oh honey!" Stiles
clasps his hands together and bats his eyelashes, putting on a fake girly voice that sounds nothing
like Tiffany, Stiles Stilinski sounds like a good guy to hire to plan our dream wedding!"
Derek's face sours, like it always does whenever Stiles starts getting theatrical. What was I
supposed to do?

Why did God put him on this earth? Stiles really wants to know who okay'd his birth. Who said
Stiles Stilinski - yeah, okay. Let's put him down there at the same exact time at Derek Hale.
It'll be hilarious. Um! Say fucking no! That word that you love so much, as I do seem to
recall!
She found your portfolio," and he says it like it's the single most ridiculous thing on the face of
the planet like Stiles having proof of his line of work and how good he is at his idiotic job is
so unbelievably crass and obtuse that it deserves a sneer and a roll of the eyes. She said it was
either you or I'd have to do it myself.
Dear. Fucking. Lord. So Tiffany would be sending out Comic Sans wedding invitations right
about now if she had never called Stiles. Derek might have horrible, shitty taste, and he might've
been rich his entire life and always had someone there to pick out his outfits and, like, do
everything for him, but he is at least self aware that he has no idea how to be a person all on his
own. Of course he'd rather suffer through this with Stiles than do the whole thing on his own. Of
course.
And the thought never occurred to you, it never crossed through your puny little brain, a
glower, to call me? Let me know? Before just bursting in through the door and acting like
you've never fucking seen me before?
Derek rolls his eyes. So don't call me ever again only applies when it's convenient for you?
The urge to slap this idiot clean across his beautiful face is so strong that Stiles' hand literally
starts shaking from the exertion he's putting in to not actually doing it. He's really struggling right
now, and he knows that one good, clean slap would at least get some of his frustration out.
But out of the corner of his eye, he can see Tiffany meandering down the aisles through the huge
glass window; what would her reaction be to seeing her wedding planner slapping her future
husband? Stiles predicts not good. This is not the time.
Verbal slaps will just have to do. You haven't changed one fucking bit.
I guess now you think you're so different, then? Maybe you are a wedding planner, Stiles?
Really?"
The words drip off his tongue like acid onto the ground, burning through the concrete and
steaming up all around their feet. Belittling every little thing that Stiles ever tries to do is just
another thing Derek is absolutely spectacular at. Derek was rich. Stiles was poor. Derek came
from Hollywood. Stiles came from Bumfuck, Nowhere. Derek went to Yale. Stiles went to
community college. So, naturally, everything that Stiles did was just lackluster compared to
Derek.
Yes! Really! Because I'm an actual person with an actual job instead of just a weird hermit with
a trust fund who does whatever the hell he wants, (see : buys hundred thousand dollar cars only
to get bored of them within two weeks) Go fuckin' figure.

One thing I really don't understand here - why are you mad at me? I seem to remember you
being the one who kicked me out, Stiles.
You know what, Stiles takes two steps closer, into Derek's personal space, and points one
finger into the taller man's face, I get the feeling you're making this job harder for me than it has
to be just so you can try and get rid of me. You think you can argue with me about specific shades
of red and point out hideous Comic Sans invitations to get me to crack, Derek purses his lips
guiltily, well it's not going to fucking work. I'm doing this damn job, and I'm getting my money,
and then I'm never, ever, ever, going to have to see you again. Now if you'll excuse me, he
shoves his glasses higher onto his nose and glares as menacingly as he can while looking like
Buddy Holly. I have some invitation orders to place. For your! Wedding!"
---I'm quitting, Stiles pronounces after downing a shot, slamming the glass down onto the table.
Called that, Isaac snickers, trying, and failing, to hide his grin behind his beer glass. Stiles can
imagine the entire scene all his so-called friends sitting around in a circle, placing bets on
when and where Stiles was going to wind up cracking. Would it be in a week? In a month? The
day of the wedding? Apparently, Isaac had been the only one to think that Stiles would hardly
even make it one day.
I'm not doing it. I cannot emotionally, physically, or mentally do it! It's it's not even about the
fact that we dated," he reaches across the table for Allison's drink the one she left behind to go
out onto the floor with Erica, leaving the men behind to talk about manly things. Like exboyfriends. It's about the fact! That he is still just as much of a fucking asshole as he was when
we were together! Two years ago!
Scott has the long-suffering look of a best friend who has heard this exact same rant, in
variations, about ten zillion times. I know.
And I know maybe I'm not really in a place to be turning jobs away-
You're not.
...and this would be a job that pays well and gets me out of my current, you know, situation...
situation meaning living on Allison and Scott's couch and eating all their ramen. But where do I
draw the line? Where can I draw my line of dignity in the sand, Scott? How low do I dare to
fucking sink?
Well, Scott begins, looking like he's about to say something really, really important, I don't
really see how planning Derek Hale's wedding and making ten grand is lower than sleeping on
my couch.
Oh, Scott. How naive you are! Stiles shakes his head solemnly back and forth before finishing
off the rest of Allison's vodka-sprite; slamming that glass down onto the table, as well. You

have no idea what he's like. You really don't. He said, and I quote, maroon and burgundy are
the exact same color.
Horror of horrors, Isaac mutters under his breath and there's another person he'd love to
fucking slap.
I feel like you're just not getting it here -
We're really, really not, Stiles. If you're getting paid forty dollars an hour just to sit and argue
about whether or not burgundy and mauve-
Maroon."
...are the same color, then you've got a pretty good fucking job. I'd do that job, easy.
Isaac snickers again, shaking his head, while Stiles opens and closes his mouth to try and think
of a retort. The reality is there is no retort, because Scott is absolutely right. Nowhere,
nowhere is Stiles going to find a better paying job than this one. Planning the wedding of one of
Allison's rich trust fund girlfriends from LA is the be-all end-all. He could work this job and not
work another one for months, living more than comfortably with a new car and his own house,
and maybe even a cat. This is, quite literally, a dream job. The job that changes the entire course
of his life.
The only hitch is that the groom is his ex-boyfriend. And, so what? Big fucking deal. Derek Hale
is a secretive asswipe who probably cheated on him anyways and will probably cheat on his
fiancee', as well! Who fucking cares.
People have done a lot worse things for money, Isaac adds, raising his eyebrows. You've
already done a lot worse things for money.
Stiles once ate a handful of earthworms, still wriggling and covered in dirt, for twenty dollars.
He also once purposefully threw a high school lacrosse game for fifty dollars a bottle of vodka.
Were either of those things worse than this?
Scott looks like he's remembering exactly what Stiles is, and he says, emphatically, this is not
the worst thing on the face of the planet. We're talking about forty dollars an hour. We're talking
about you not sleeping on my couch."
We're talking about the most uncomfortable three months of Stiles' life. But it's just business,
after all.
And business is never, ever personal.
---The question that Stiles heard for months after he and Derek broke up, the one he always dodged
his way out of answering, was this ; what exactly happened between you two? This was usually

always paired with raised eyebrows, wide-eyes, a bit of a slack-jaw. Complete and total
disbelief no one could believe that Stiles and Derek weren't together anymore that they
weren't going to be together forever. It only seemed that way on the outside.
How exactly did a broke, sad community college kid from the middle of nowhere California
meet a rich, sad Yale graduate from the opposite end of the country?
The Yale graduate wandered into the coffee shop the poor kid was using to put himself through
college. It was fodder for a romantic comedy, probably the rich criminal law graduate, the
poor english major, brought together by fate and fate alone. If things had wound up going better,
Stiles would've sent the script in to be optioned by film companies. Of course, things wound up
turning out more like a Shakespearean tragedy than they ever did turning out romantically. Like
double suicide dressed up as a love story levels, here.
They were literally insane about each other. And not in an eyelash-batting, aww, they're crazy
about each other! way. Like...they were literally nuts. Derek used to almost borderline stalk
Stiles although he could never prove that. Around the third week they were seeing each other,
he just started appearing in all of Stiles' usual places; including spots that Derek had absolutely
no reason to be at. He'd always act so casual about it, too. Like, oh, I forgot you go here and oh
I forgot you worked here and oh I forgot you get pizza here every week at six o'clock with your
best friends. Isaac and Scott used to look at him, shake their heads unanimously, and say you
deserve so much better than that fucking creep. It would've been sinister and odd, if Derek
was actually any good at following him around. He sucked at it most of all at being stealthy
about it.
And it wasn't like Stiles was any better. He became clingy, like, call three times in a one hour
period just to check in clingy, and possessive, like, why were you just over there talking to
her/him, and, ultimately, paranoid. Because it really didn't make sense to Stiles that Derek
would ever have wanted to go out with him. There was nothing that great about him he had no
money, no assets, no real goals, no anything. He was just plain old Stiles.
Derek had this air of mystery about him, like he was an enigma, or like there was just something
about him that he wasn't willing to let anyone know. At first, Stiles had found it intriguing and
sexy. At first.
As time went on, however, Stiles became...obsessive. He knew there was something that Derek
wasn't telling him. Weird, whispered phone calls in the hallway, him waking up at two in the
morning, putting on his coat and saying I've gotta go out with no other explanation. He would
vanish for a week at a time, no calls, no texts, no nothing.
Stiles thinks he did what anyone else would've done. He freaked out about it, constantly
demanded to know where he was going, constantly demanded to know who he was talking to,
and Derek never gave him a straight fucking answer. The answer, of course was obvious he
had to have been cheating. A lot. It was the only explanation that made any god damn sense.
Both of them saw the end coming; but neither of them could really predict how absolutely earth

shattering it was going to be. Three o'clock in the morning, Stiles ripping open his drawers,
tossing Derek's clothes out the window, throwing plates and glass cups at the wall, and
screaming, again and again, I want you out, I don't want to see anymore, I want you gone."
Derek kind of took the entire thing in stride. He didn't say much of anything at all, that night just
sullenly picked up his clothes from the front lawn, shoved them all into the back of his car, and
drove away. That was that. No calls (Stiles had expected at least one, despite his threats) no
emails (again, at least one) and he stopped coming around. It was almost like he left California
altogether. (Subsequent Google searches would beg to differ, however.)
Stiles couldn't afford their shared place anymore they had only lived there for two months,
because Stiles was a fucking idiot and thought it would be a good idea to move into a place with
his rich boyfriend who shouldered most of the rent money. So he had to literally pack up his
entire life and start all over again. And clearly, he had failed miserably at that.
I don't care that he's gone, he remembers saying to his best friends, that first night after he
moved back into his Scott's place, pre-marriage, it was a mistake to go out with him in the first
place. He was a liar, Scott nodded, a manipulator, another nod, and a... stalker." A pause.
Then another nod.
Now, Stiles wonders, what is he now?
His fucking boss. That trust fund money is getting poured directly into Stiles' bank account, check
after check, and in a way, it's like poetic justice.
Money for emotional damages, Stiles thinks, as he throws another three hundred dollar check
into the bank.
Tiffany is unbelievably easy to like, on a professional level. She's direct, knows exactly what
she wants but is willing to compromise, and doesn't pretend to like any of Stiles' ideas just for
his sake. On a personal level, it's also hard not to like her; with her easy smile, friendly
demeanor, and ability to take Derek's bullshit with a giggle and a shrug.
Stiles had kind of been expecting, you know a rich woman. Two thousand dollar crisp white
pant suit, with six inch stilettos, perfectly manicured nails, looking like she just got lost on her
way down the catwalk. Instead she typically shows up in jeans a sweater, dark hair pulled back
into a careful bun, minimal makeup, and a coffee for Stiles. She's a nice person.
No wonder her and Allison were such good friends good enough that Tiffany knew she could
call in a favor from her. She's Allison's long lost sister.
Derek, though. Ohohoho... Derek. Derek shows up forty-five minutes late, every single session
(hehe, he's so unpredictable! Stiles wants to fucking vomit), he wears six thousand dollar shirts,
like he's so fucking above it all, flashes the keys to Lamborghini in front of Stiles' face, and
disagrees with nearly everything Stiles says. Most infuriating of all, is that Tiffany is apparently
such a pushover that she'll just agree with Derek, no matter how absurd his ideas are. It

sometimes takes forty-five minutes to just explain to them both that blue and red do not belong
together anywhere else aside from on national flags, or that yellow daisies are not appropriate
for the wedding theme, just because Derek insists on bickering with Stiles at every turn, and
Tiffany goes along with it.
Sometimes he has to take off his glasses to meticulously clean them, staring down at them with
barely contained rage, chanting again and again in his head, ten thousand dollars. Ten thousand
dollars. Ten. Thousand. Dollars.
By the time he's shoving them back onto his face, he's composed. He's rational. He says in a
customer service voice, I think we should go down the roses road. We're thinking classical,
remember? Think Russia."
Anastasia, Tiffany reminds the men, finger going up in the air, was my favorite movie as a
child. Red and white. Red and white roses." This is basic stuff like, a no-brainer, in Stiles'
mind. Tiffany acts like she just cracked the morse code on the entire wedding. How is it possible
that two people so unbelievably rich have no taste whatsoever who raised these animals? Did
they not have parents? Belatedly, Stiles remembers just what happened to Derek's parents, to his
entire family, and a pinch of remorse for thinking something so insensitive about him, no matter
how annoyed the idiot makes him.
Then, as if Derek can sense Stiles beginning to feel sorry for him, he mutters under his breath,
maybe burgundy roses, and Stiles takes his glasses off again.
Have we come to any decisions about bouquets, Stiles asks as pleasantly as possible, still
rubbing at his glasses, you said you were thinking about icicles, but I think white roses with
cranberry spray branches might be best. Derek looks about a half a second away from saying
what the hell is cranberry spray, so Stiles reaches forward into a bucket less than a foot away
from him, pulling a branch out to show to the couple. Right?
Tiffany agrees enthusiastically, while Derek's face sours. Pretty much every single decision is
made this way.
The worst moments of all, though, are when Tiffany abandons the two of them, alone, to just
stand there and soak in the awkwardness. Derek never speaks a single word; just hovers
menacingly beside Stiles, looming and glowering with his hands shoved into his pockets, like
there's no place he'd rather be. How did these two people end up together? Stiles wonders that
so often it's become like a mantra in his head. How? How? How? Does not fucking compute.
Not that Stiles and Derek ever computed much either. But that's another story.
At this particular moment, Tiffany has vanished to go to the bathroom. Stiles sips at his
lukewarm coffee, playing idly with the cranberry spray branches, acting like he's doing
something important, to distract away from the fact that he can feel Derek's eyes boring into his
skull. Apparently, something about the flower mart makes Derek especially chatty, because, for
the first time in three weeks, since the drama outside the card shop, he directly addresses Stiles.

You're pretty okay at this. It's said like it physically pains him to speak, or at the very least
causes him broken bones to compliment Stiles.
It's what I do for a living. Stiles tries to keep his tone non-threatening; small-talk voice. Like
he barely knows the man he's speaking to. I hope I'm more than okay at it.
There's a beat of silence, and then Derek says, like a kicked puppy, I was just trying to be nice.
Stiles drops the branches back down into their bucket, fixes Derek with what he hopes is a
withering stare, before scanning the room to make sure Tiffany is nowhere in sight. Don't
victimize yourself in this ridiculous situation. Let me ask you something, innocent bystander,
does Tiffany have any idea, any inkling of a clue that you and I used to fuck?"
Derek looks around too, like he's embarrassed even a couple flowermart workers give Stiles
dirty looks, like they've never heard the word fuck before. Or maybe they've just never heard the
word fuck said by a dorky looking man carrying a hot pink scrapbook with the words Big Day
written in Tiffany's swoopy, swirly handwriting before. Lower your voice."
When they were together, Derek was always saying shit like that. Lower your voice, stop
yelling, it's not that funny, can you calm down? It was completely invalidating, and most of all
humiliating to be, like, chastised in front of Derek's rich fucking uncle and sister. Infuriating, too.
Needless to say, Stiles does not lower his voice. Does she know? Does she know?"
Christ Derek runs his hands down his face slowly, up and down; as though if he scrubs hard
enough he can make Stiles disappear. She doesn't need to know.
Stiles lets loose an incredulous bark of a laugh, one short burst of it, startling a woman with a
bundle of roses in her arms as she walks past Derek however, remains impassive, blank. It's
literally incredible to me that in the two years since I've seen you-
A year and a half.
...you literally haven't changed! You're still the same old, same old big secret keeper, never a
single word of truth coming out of your fucking mouth!
At the same time, they both notice Tiffany coming back around towards them, sidetracked
slightly by a man shoving tulips into her face for her to sniff. Derek looks away, and leans in
close to Stiles' face, murmuring in a dangerous voice, do I have to remind you that I'm paying
you? You are my employee. The fucking help. What I do or do not tell my fiancee' is none of
your business.
Stiles gets so angry that he wants to cry he really, really wants to cry. His lower lip starts
quivering. They're not even dating anymore, and Derek Hale still manages to make him feel
absolutely useless and obsolete. You never let me forget how much better you are than me,
Derek.

Derek pulls his neck back, as if surprised by Stiles' words, like he wants to disagree but
Tiffany is already there beside them, looking between the two men with a concerned expression.
Everything all right?
Fixing his glasses, and taking two steps away from Derek's looming presence, Stiles shakes his
head. Artistic differences, is all.
Right. Artistic differences.
---You are walking on a very dangerous line, here, Stiles.
Allison has mom voice on, paired with mom face and mom body language (hands on her hips),
and the three of those things together create a triple whammy of something akin to a guilt trip. As
though Stiles is eleven years old again or, at the very least, as though Stiles is back in high
school where he first met Allison and where she first started giving him that look.
Right now, that look is directed at a Stiles slumped on his usual spot on the couch, beer in hand
but beside a packed suitcase, this time. It's been over a month since he started working for
Tiffany (and by extension, Derek), and he has been given two thousand of the promised ten grand
so far two grand per month for three months, with a four thousand dollar final payment. It's
literally like he's being made rich for doing nothing but stopping Tiffany from making terrible,
shitty dcor decisions. It's almost, almost too easy.
It weren't for Derek, it would be an absolute walk in the park.
The point is, he's finally moving off of Scott's couch, into his own, very small, very humble
place a couple of blocks away. A one floor, one bedroom, kitchen/living room and one bathroom
type of deal. It's all he really needs, after all and he'll have plenty of money left over to take
the Blueberry into the shop to get that weird rattling noise checked out. Finally. Driving that thing
back and forth from Beacon Hills to LA has absolutely started to wear the poor thing down.
There's only so much such an old car can take before it gives up the struggle altogether.
This is supposed to be his Going Away party, for lack of a better word but it's turned more into
a Lecture Stiles party, with both Erica and Allison glaring down at him and making cryptic
statements about how he's making a mistake, and Isaac and Scott aren't offering very much help;
they're egging the girls on for Christ's sake.
You know, when I first started this job, you all told me I'd be fucking insane to turn it down.
Remember that?"
I was against it from the beginning, Isaac says, raising his hand in the air. Just gonna throw
that out there.
Scott glares at him, frowning. Okay...yes. I more or less pushed you into it...

And now you're coming back around and taking it back. Now that I'm finally moving off your
couch! You've got a problem with it?
Scott and Allison exchange a very long, silent look. The kind of look only people who have been
together for as long as they have can share with each other; the silent communication. Well...
It's not about the money, Allison says.
Yeah, of course it's not, he takes a sip of his beer and leans back, appraising all his friends
with a steady gaze, you get your couch back. So, I feel like, everything else is kind of moot.
More silence. Isaac adjusts his cardigan awkwardly, as if he's just trying to give his hands
something to do.
It's also not about the couch, Scott adds, as if tacking onto what Allison had been saying a full
two minutes ago.
Stiles blinks around the room at all his friends, and everyone is blatantly avoiding his eyes. So
then what is it-
You're acting like a psychopath! Erica nearly screams this at the top of her lungs, cutting Stiles
off while simultaneously startling the shit out of everyone else in the room. Apparently I'm the
only one who has balls enough to say it!
Has balls enough to say it Stiles repeats in his head, narrowing his eyes at her, before letting
loose an indignant squawk of what?
Allison and Scott exchange another glance. Well...
It's just that you've been acting a bit...well, a bit like you used to? Allison finishes off Scott's
thought, nervously, like she's afraid any second Stiles is going to lash out at her.
And, okay. Admittedly, Stiles has been a bit on edge lately, to put it simply. Maybe he's slammed
a few too many doors and drawers, and maybe he's been a lot more careless with where he
leaves his stuff, and maybe he hardly ever calls his friends anymore unless it's to go out and get
black out drunk. But for all intents and purposes, he's doing way better now than he was before
taking the job. He has money now. You know, the key to all happiness and success? Come on.
Fine. I hear you, he leans forward and drops his beer bottle onto the coffee table, huffing out a
sigh, but I think you're reading way too much into all this. None of them look convinced, least
of all Scott, so he continues on. I'm just wound up tight these days because working with Derek
is, you know, hard! He's so fucking annoying, and planning the wedding of your ex-boyfriend
who disappeared without a trace isn't exactly the most fun a guy can have. It's like every single
second I spend with him, the less I can believe I ever actually thought that I, like, loved him.
There's several long beats of silence, with everyone else in the room looking at each other, as if
wondering which one of them is going to speak first.

In the end, it's Isaac, surprisingly, that pushes his curls back out of his eyes, and shakes his head.
You didn't think that you did, Stiles he says with a strangely sad tone, you really, really did.
Stiles doesn't know what to say to that; doesn't even really know what to think about it. He just
sits there and soaks it in; letting the bizarreness of the statement wash over him.
I've never seen you like that. About anyone. The way you were when you were with him, and
how psycho he made you, and how you were when you broke it off... Scott stares off into space,
as if struggling to find the words. You were someone else, when you were with him.
Not particularly a good someone, Stiles, Allison says in a soft, soothing voice. An even
worse someone when you guys broke up.
You were a real dick, Erica supplies, tactful as ever.
And we feel like...
Hold on, Stiles holds his hands out in front of him, scans his eyes over the room, and then knits
his eyebrows together. Is this...an intervention?" No one says a word. Which is really all the
validation that Stiles needs. What the fuck you guys! This was supposed to be a good night!
It is a good night! Scott agrees, to a chorus of yeah's from the rest of the gang. But we thought
it would be best if we reminded you that getting back with Derek is a bad idea.
Getting wh what? What!? Stiles' eyes nearly roll directly out of his skull onto the floor.
Getting? Back? With? Derek!?"
We just think-"
No! No more of this! Rising from the couch, the one that's been his home for the last year, he
begins to pace back and forth across the hardwood, shaking his head frantically back and forth.
No more of what you think! Because just from the sheer fact that I I mean!? I'm planning his
wedding! To another person! I would sooner chew my own fucking toes off than even oh, God
I can't even begin to...ugh!
He's handling this really well, I think, Erica says to Allison, who purses her lips, probably to
keep herself from laughing out loud.
We only brought this up because we're worried about you, Stiles! Scott's puppy dog face is in
full force, now, while Stiles continues to pace back and forth manically, shaking his head still.
The absolute audacity of his friends to even begin to entertain the thought of Stiles getting back
together with Derek is unreal to him. Un fucking real. And, okay, maybe Stiles wouldn't actually
eat his own toes off before trying again with Derek Hale, but...he'd at least think about it! Weigh
his fucking options! Meanwhile, they're all looking at him with these faces as if they feel sorry
for him or something he feels like ripping out the hundred dollar bill that's sitting in his back
pocket and waving it around in the air; as if that would be proof that there's nothing to feel sorry

for him about.

You know what! I'm canceling this this ambush!" Skittering across the floor, he scoops up
his last bag, and his car keys, stumbling a bit over his feet on his way to the front door.
Goodnight, all of you!
Don't forget to check in! Allison caws as he slams the front door closed.
Outside in the brisk night air, he mutters under his breath as he shoves the last of his bags into the
packed Jeep, slamming the back door shut. As he's walking around to the driver's side door, he
thinks he spots something glowing red in the woods pauses for a second, staring.
Something rustles behind him and he's startled into dropping his keys swears. By the time he's
stood back up to look at the woods again, the red light is gone.
---I hope you don't think I'm a freak with no friends now, Tiffany says while a woman stands
behind her, clipping the dress a few sizes too big for her against her back. All my friends were
too busy to come down with me, and-
It's my job, Stiles cuts her off with a smile, it's actually pretty typical.
It isn't, actually. Normally the bride has already picked out her dress at this stage of the show
the wedding is only two months away and the girl still doesn't have a dress. These are the kinds
of judgmental thoughts Stiles has about all his clients. But even the Beacon Hills people at least
got their dresses and tuxedos on time. Stiles praises God that Tiffany isn't forcing him to go
tuxedo shopping with Derek. That would've been the final fucking straw.
All the same, Stiles likes Tiffany well enough. She's...nice. Stiles always struggles to come up
with any other word to describe her aside from nice.
She turns around, takes one look at herself in the dress in the mirror, and says, sadly, no. Not
this one.
She's been trying on lace dresses that fall straight down the entire way completely unflattering
on her first of all, and not really fitting with the theme of the entire day second of all. When it
comes to the dress, though, he tries his best to keep his opinions out of it, unless the bride is
planning on making a really horrible choice. So he just sits back and watches her go through lace
dress after lace dress, wondering why the store girls aren't trying to convince her to try a
different route.
Huffing down on the couch beside Stiles in her normal clothes, they sit together and wait for the
assistant to appear with more choices for her to peruse based on her general specifications. One
thing that's similar about Tiffany and Derek is that they can both just sit still and wait patiently,
without tapping their feet or fingers or fidgeting or fixing their hair every two seconds. It's

almost eerie it must be a rich person thing, Stiles surmises.

Or, a boring people thing. Either/or.
So, he begins, unable to stand the silence for another second, how did Derek propose?
She shrugs casually, flicking a piece of lint off the knee of her jeans. I proposed to him,
actually. Stiles raises his eyebrows but he's not surprised at all. Derek has never really been
the, for lack of a better word, pusher in our relationship. I was the one who asked him out the
first time, too.
With a sick curiosity, Stiles asks, as casually as possible, when did you guys start going out?
Mmm, she murmurs, about a year ago.
Huh. So Derek wasn't cheating on Stiles with Tiffany at least. Now that's one thing he doesn't
have to worry about anymore. He does still have to worry about the fact that, you know, he
knows in vivid detail what her fiancee's dick looks like and she has no fucking idea, but...eh. No
matter.
He's so distanced from all this stuff, honestly. She gestures widely to the boutique, as if this
room, right here, filled to the brim with bridesmaids dresses and bridal gowns encompasses
everything Derek avoids. I've been trying to involve him as much as possible, but...he doesn't
seem interested. It's hard to get him to really hm... commit to anything.
Before he can stop himself, before he can remind himself that it's a stupid thing to say, that he's
not supposed to know anything about Derek aside from what his checks look like, Stiles snickers
and goes, I know all about that.
Tiffany looks at him with a perplexed expression, and Stiles rushes to cover himself.
Um you know. From guys that I've dated. The whole commitment thing is, like, lost on them.
He laughs nervously, adjusting his glasses on his face just for something to do with his hands.
Tiffany appraises him for a second, and then twists her whole body around to face him with
another one of her pearly white grins. You're gay? Oh! She's got that look on her face that
Stiles knows all too well the look of a rich girl who has just discovered her new Gay Best
Friend.
He hates that so...fucking...much. They treat him like he's an amusing little puppy who's going to
tag along with them on all their shopping expeditions and dole out ludicrous relationship advice
while flipping a scarf sassily over his shoulder. It's infuriating, to say the least. If she were
anyone, literally anyone else on the planet, he'd shrug her off with a sarcastic answer, rolling his
eyes. As it is...she's not just anyone else. She's the woman who writes his checks. Yeah, I am.
Oh! So I guess I made the right choice in bringing you along instead of Derek.

Stiles' left eye twitches, and he takes his glasses completely off ten...thousand...dollars...
He has good taste, but- wrong. Wrong. So wrong. ...he has a very straight man way of looking
at things.
Slowly, very slowly, Stiles puts his glasses back onto his face, and turns to look at Tiffany with
what he hopes is a completely blank slate on his face. The assistant has come back, handful of a
hanger of heavy looking dresses, and Tiffany has her eyes trained on her, scanning the dresses
with her eyes, paying no attention to Stiles whatsoever.
She called Derek a straight man.
Tiffany doesn't even know that Derek is bisexual. She has no fuckin' idea. The thought that he and
Stiles had even met before the first meeting in her office building probably hasn't even occurred
to her she's in the absolute pitch dark. Which is probably exactly how Derek likes her.
Whether or not Derek comes out to the people in his life is entirely up to him who is he to
judge, after all? But something about this innocent statement from Tiffany straight man
makes him feel horribly awful about the entire situation she's in. No, Stiles has no plans of ever
getting together with Derek, like, ever again, but, Christ. The least he could do is let her in on the
fucking game they're playing, here. Stiles doesn't think that she would particularly care.
Maybe she'd start treating Derek like her new shopping buddy or something. But other than that...
He fantasizes for a moment, watching her paw through the dresses, only half listening to what
she's saying to the assistant, about just telling her. Here and now.
Look, Tiffany, here's the thing...I actually knew Derek before I met him under the umbrella of
planning his wedding. Me and him actually used to date. Like, a long time ago though.
Probably before the two of you ever even met. It's not a big deal or anything, but, I just
thought you should know. No big deal, right? Anyway, what about this dress here?
There are two things wrong with that, he decides. Number one, no matter how fucking pissed off
he feels towards Derek, he could never just out him like that.
Number two, he might get fired.
He lets the subject drop.
And speaking of Derek, Tiffany starts up again, holding up another long lace number an arm's
length away, appraising it, remember how you said at the invitation store that you usually have
one on one's with both members of the couple? Stiles feels like punching himself directly in the
dick right about now. I think we should plan something for the two of you to do. Maybe not
actually planning the wedding, but, you know just a little something.
Tiffany turns out to be one of those heinously annoying people who actually follows through on
her word when she says she's going to do something weird, right? So, three days later finds

him sitting in an upscale LA restaurant, the kind of place he never would've dreamed of affording
before this entire thing, checking his phone for the time again and again.
Because, surprise, surprise : Derek is late. Half an hour late, to be exact.
He had no idea how fancy the place would be; so he just showed up in ratty old jeans and a gray
undershirt. Compared to everyone else in the place, he looks fucking homeless. The staff keep
sending him nervous glances, like they expect him to dump the basket of rolls into his pants and
make a dash for the door at any second, tiny little packets of butter crammed into his fists.
You know, sir, his waiter says to him after forty minutes of him just sitting there, the tables
are only for... paying guests.
Stiles looks up at him through his glasses a good, long look. Blonde hair, blue eyes, chisleed
jawline, a crisp white button down shirt without a single spill or strain on it. He decides that he
hates this guy. A lot. Okay. What's the most expensive thing on the menu?
The waiter pauses for a second, looking confused. Er our fifteen ounce New York Steak,
but-
I'll have that then. Stiles leans back in his chair, with a smug grin. He doesn't even like that
steak that much.
It it's ninety seven dollars, sir.
Stiles gestures to himself, and says, do I look like a man who can't afford a ninety seven dollar
steak?
The waiter looks at him like yes, actually, raking his eyes all the way down to Stiles' five year
old, beat up Converse sneakers with I <3 Cock! written in Erica's swirly handwriting on the toe
of the left shoe. I'll have that out to you as soon as possible, then.
Two seconds later, Derek shows up. He comes sweeping over to Stiles' table dressed in all
black, like he owns the place, (and, for all Stiles knows, he does), sits down on the other side of
the table, without saying a single word, and opens up his menu.
Stiles is ready and willing to play this game. The silent game. The you want to pay me forty
dollars an hour to just sit here in silence with you? Fine. Game.
The problem with this game is that Stiles has a pretty intense losing streak the first time he lost
he was five years old. The last time he won was, well...never. Not even when he was a little kid,
an only child at that, did he ever, ever win the quiet game.
This time is no different. Derek and Tiffany have an affinity for silence, quiet, repose. Stiles has
an affinity for making any awkward silence even more awkward by filling it with a conversation
neither participants actually wants to have.

I recommend the steak, he pipes up. Derek doesn't look up from the menu. It's what I'm
getting.
It's silent for another ten seconds; and then, you don't even like steak. He scans down the menu,
probably looking for the steak, probably seeing the price, raising his eyebrows. The waiter
pissed you off, then.
Stiles glares off past Derek's head.
The waiter took one look at how you were dressed, and down Stiles' body Derek's eyes go,
and Stiles just sits there and lets it happen, treated you like a homeless man wandering inside
for some free water, and you got pissed off.
Oh, no one could guess how many times an exact situation such as the one Derek just described
had happened while the two of them were dating; Derek always wanted to haul Stiles off to
some fancy-pants restaurant, but he had no nice clothes. He still doesn't have any nice clothes.
He will probably never have nice clothes (though maybe he should buy a little something for the
wedding, now that he thinks of it.) Derek would always go Stiles, really, it doesn't matter, I
think you look fine just how you're dressed. Stiles doesn't doubt that Derek had no problems
with his grunge college student style of dress in fact, he suspects it's half of why Derek liked
him in the first place.
Everyone else, however, weren't so positive in their reviews of Stiles and his flannel. Derek's
sister Laura. Derek's uncle Peter. Derek's rich friends. All the restaurant workers of all the
snooty, hundred-doller-a-plate restaurants Derek would book reservations at.
Which is why Derek is so good at guessing why Stiles has ordered a hundred dollar plate of
food he only kind of enjoys.
I'm paying either way.
Stiles doesn't try to say oh, no, I'll pay, on me, first off because the entire reason he decided on
the steak is he was banking on Derek paying, and second off because this was his fiancee's idea.
He can pay for her terrible decisions.
You're not drinking anything, Derek points at Stiles' water with a puzzled expression. Just
water.
Am I supposed to be drinking whiskey at, he checks the time on his phone, fifty seven minutes
past noon? Is that how the other half typically lives their lives?
Right as Derek is about to open his mouth and probably spew out some really toxic bullshit
about everything is about money, with you even though if anyone cares that much about money,
it's Derek, the waiter appears. He, for one, looks very very pleased to see Derek sitting there; a
non-hobo, thank God.

As he scribbles down Derek's order, Stiles catches him glancing between the two of them with a
small smirk on his face he probably thinks that Stiles is Derek's edgy, alternative boyfriend
from a shitty part of the city that he carts around to family parties to start drama.
Funny thing is, that was once more or less exactly what Stiles was.
After their waiter leaves, in the wake of a dirty look from Stiles, Derek just sits across the table
tapping something out on his phone maybe a text, maybe an email, maybe even a tweet. Who
knows. When he and Stiles were together, he hated social media altogether and would go on
lengthy rants about the subject. That was a while ago, though. He might not be the same anymore.
It's not like Stiles has ever, like, googled the name Derek Hale.
Never. Not even once. Nope.
Stiles adjusts his glasses. Folds his napkin across his lap. Picks up his dinner fork, examines it.
Then his salad fork. Steak knife. He bounces his straw up and down in his water glass, ting ting
ting ting, swish swish swish swishEither drink it or I'm dumping it onto the ground, Derek says, finally looking up from his phone
with a withering glare.
Stiles freezes mid swish, promptly letting go of the straw. It would not be the first time Derek's
thrown his entire drink onto the ground. He is not a man of bluffs.
Well, he begins, pushing his glasses up on his nose for the billionth time, do you have any, er,
concerns about the wedding?
Not really.
Stiles watches as Derek's thumbs slide across his touch screen. Something about it seriously
pisses him off. Okay. Pause. Are you just saying that because you're trying to get me off your
case?
No response.
Because, I'm gonna be sitting across from you at this table for at least another forty minutes, so
maybe it wouldn't be so bad to, you know...talk. About your wedding. And not anything, anything
else whatsoever at any point in time. Ever. Just the er. Wedding.
Derek looks up, gives him a dirty look, and then returns to his tapping and swiping and ignoring.
It's the single most infuriating thing on the face of the planet, to really be trying here, to just have
a normal, half decent conversation with this idiot in front of him, only to be brushed off and
treated like he's the problem. When Stiles knows now that he has never once been the real
problem between the two of them.
Not the wedding, then? Fine. How about this lovely topic of discussion when are you
planning on telling your fiancee' about you and me?"

You and me, a nasty sounding laugh comes out of Derek's throat, while he shakes his head back
and forth, dumping his phone down onto the crisp white tablecloth. There is no you and me,
Stiles.
You know I meant past tense, asshole.
Past tense. Exactly. Why bring it up when it's past tense."
Because it fucking - he thrusts his arms out for emphasis, it fucking makes a difference!
How?
I've had your dick in my mouth."
Christ! Derek shifts his eyes around the restaurant, but, luckily, the closet couple is several
tables away, and they don't appear to have heard anything. You say I haven't changed a bit?
You're just as tactless as you always were, back then.
Stiles recalls when he got dragged off to a Christmas party at Derek's uncle's place - a real ritzy
one, with champagne towers and caviar spread across gourmet crackers - and Stiles said at one
point during a lull in conversations at top volume, let's go fuck in the coat room.
It naturally hadn't gone over well with most of the party guests Uncle Peter got a good laugh
out of it, though. Plus, they did wind up actually fucking in the coat room, so Stiles kind of
viewed it as a win/win for him.
If I weren't your wedding planner, Stiles continues on, pointing his index finger at Derek, and
you just ran into me at a party - would you introduce me as your ex-boyfriend or just as some
dude?
Derek scrunches his face up, like it's the stupidest thing he's ever heard. I don't get why you
care so much what Tiffany does or doesn't know.
It bothers me because I've been on the other end of your bullshit before myself, Derek! And it's
not very much fun! One mistruth leads to another, and I'm not just going to stand idly by while-
Derek runs his hands down his face and sighs so loud it actually cuts Stiles off. You just can't
leave things alone, can you? Have you ever in your life heard the phrase what's past is past?
Stiles rips his glasses off his face so fast that he nearly pokes his eye out with them cleaning
them with a level of annoyance unseen before by human eyes. I'd be able to let the past be the
past, Derek, if I even had any idea what the past actually was! You, still to this day, have not told
me the fucking truth. I just assumed you cheated, and you never really denied it.
The older man narrows his eyes. I never cheated on you, Stiles.
Shrug. Glasses back on face.You never told me the truth back then, either, so I don't know why I

would expect the truth now."

Believe what you want, then. I could give a fuck.
Oh, believe me. I know how little you actually fucking care, Derek, this fight is definitely
escalating far and beyond appropriate restaurant conversations neither of them are full on
screaming yet, but give Stiles thirty more seconds, and he's going to blow his fuse all over this
place and start flipping tables. Derek looks like he knows it too Stiles doesn't have problems
causing scenes in public places, and Stiles is positive that his ex remembers that in flying colors.
Seeing as how it was so easy for you to end it with me! To just to just walk away like that.
Like he's said the same thing zillions of times, in spite of the fact that he's never once said it
Stiles himself, Derek says, you asked me to. Okay? You asked me to get out of your life, and so
I did. Then, quieter, I would've done anything you asked me to.
Right then, the food comes out. And it's perfect timing, because all the fight drains directly out of
Stiles' bones, and he can't think of anything to say in response to that.
Because Derek really did do everything Stiles asked him to. It was always kind of a game for
Isaac and Scott; they'd goad Stiles into asking Derek casually about something like the Caribbean
like wow, sure would be nice to go see the Carribean Isalnds some day! And the next day
Derek would shove an envelope in his hands containing plane tickets to the Turks and Caicos
Islands. That was just the rich-dude stuff perks as Isaac always called them. Like Stiles saying
I don't like this place and Derek standing up to leave with him, or Stiles saying my meat is
undercooked and Derek getting in a fifteen minute long argument with the kitchen staff about it.
It was as if he was always trying too hard, or terrified to make a mistake, or to do something
Stiles didn't like. Even now, Stiles looks back on those times with a bit of a grimace, because
that's not really how healthy relationships work.
The only thing Derek apparently wasn't willing to do for Stiles was tell him the fucking truth.
And what was so horrible, so unspeakable, that he won't admit it even now?
Stiles slices into his steak, and Derek spoons into his soup, and they don't say anything else to
each other for the next forty minutes.
---I need to get out of this, Stiles is boiling pasta on the stove, stirring it mostly just for something
to do with himself, while his cell phone is pressed to his ear with his free hand. You know I'd
never admit it to those those animals but I think they might have been...
...they were right. Lydia finishes for him on the other line. She's currently finishing up grad
school all the way across the country. It's doubtful that even when she finishes up school, she'll
ever come back to Beacon Hills. LA, maybe. You never should've taken this job.
Easy for you to say, he dumps the pasta into the strainer and sighs, watching the steam fog up

his window, you've always had money. Ten grand would've just been penny change to you, I
know, but for me...
Lydia tsks. Okay. I see your point. Still not working with ex's is a rule of thumb for a reason,
Stiles. Nobody comes out the other side a better, more well adjusted person.
I'm not saying I'm going to be sane by the end of it, Stiles says. Truth be told, he doesn't know
what he's saying, exactly. He doesn't know what he's doing, either. Planning the wedding is
really on the backburner it's easy, simple, time consuming work. Some nights, rather than lay in
bed thinking about Derek Hale, he sits up making seating charts. He's made at least five different
ones, at this point all loaded into separate scrapbooks. Tiffany will love it. It's not a problem
for him.
Everything else is more or less up in the air. He can't decide whether or not he despises or likes
Tiffany. He can't decide whether or not he despises or tolerates Derek. He never knows what to
say to Derek when he sees him does he fight with him, ignore him, be nice to him? Can he just
let whatever happened between them be water under the bridge, finally, can he just let go of the
fact that Derek will never be honest with him, can he just...not. I can't just quit.
You're in way too deep, Lydia agrees solemnly. I'm so mad at him, honestly who does he
think he is? Just showing up, knowing that it was you? And, you know - this whole thing just
feels a bit weird to me.
You're telling me, he dumps half a jar of sauce into a pan to warm it up, actually
experiencing it is weirder.
I mean, like, really weird. Why would he ever have agreed to letting you be the wedding
planner, where there had to have been about two dozen better qualified ones just within his city
limits?
Stiles gives pause at that, biting his lip. He told me that Tiffany said it was either me or Derek
had to do it himself.
There's a couple of seconds of dead air on the other end. It's not that you're not a really good
planner, Stiles-
Thanks.
...it's that you're not the most celebrated one. You have no accolades. Your resume consists
mostly of under five thousand dollar affairs held in people's backyards. If she's really an
upscale, Los Angeles girl who grew up walking on a red carpet everywhere she went...
Stiles dumps his rigatoni into the warm sauce and then slaps the strainer down onto the counter
beside him. Yeah...
Sorry. It just doesn't make any sense. I don't think Tiffany even knew what your name was until

someone else said it to her.

Allison says that she asked her specifically if she knew me. Like, she knew I was from Beacon
Hills and that Allison lived there... he trails off, rubbing a bit of fog off his glasses.
There's more silence for a couple of moments, and then Lydia sighs, deeply. I'm saying that I
think Derek is the one who found your name and brought it up to Tiffany, Stiles.
Stiles can't help it he laughs out loud. A real gut busting thing, resonating from the depths of his
belly; he almost loses his glasses into the pot of pasta.
I'm serious!
Ohh, man. I'm sorry. Holy shit. It's just that, he takes a second to compose himself, wiping a
few tears out of the corners of his eyes, it's so ridiculous. If you had any idea of the way he
treats me now it's just absurd to even think that he ever rallied for my participation! In planning
his wedding! It's psycho!
And he was so sane while you guys were dating right?
Come on, Lydia! He starts eating his noodles straight out of the pot; because he lives alone
now, and he can do things like that. Adulthood. I know he was always a little weird, but really?
You have to admit that everyone has their limits. He would not go this far just to see me again;
and do I need to remind you the man is getting married. To another person. And you think he's
secretly pining away for me? His lowly wedding planner? Come on.
Lydia doesn't sound convinced. Think about it.
---It is Stiles' 24th birthday. Incidentally, he's also exactly a month and a half into planning the
single worst wedding of all time (don't get him wrong the dcor and the invitations and the
cake and the dress and the table settings are all ab-fab, and probably some of his best work but
the people...), which means he only has a month and a half left to go until he can wash his hands
of the entire experience.
Those two things paired together calls for celebration. And celebration calls for...getting
blackout drunk.
The day starts out the way all his birthdays have started out since his mom died; his father
appears, slaps a birthday hat on top of his head, drops some pancakes down onto a plate in front
of him, and a present into his lap.
What's weird about this is last time he checked, he didn't live in his father's house anymore (he
doesn't even live in Scott's house anymore.)
How did you even get in here? Stiles says, examining the wrapped gift in his hands.

You keep your spare key in an idiotic place, his father answers, leaning back into the couch
and looking smug. Everyone looks under the welcome mat first thing, Stiles. It's like you
remember nothing I've ever taught you.
And a lecture from my father about stranger danger on my birthday. Typical.
Open your present and shut up.
Stiles does as he's told, happily, pulling off the smiling snowman wrapping paper (they've been
using the same exact jumbo-sized roll for every single occasion and gift for the past four years)
to reveal a plain white box.
Jewelry? He asks excitedly, half as a joke, half for serious, before pulling the top off.
Inside is, indeed, jewelry but not exactly the Every Kiss Begins With Kay kind. Nothing
shimmering, nothing glittering, nothing fancy at all really. It's a simple silver chain, and as Stiles
slowly picks it up out of the box, he notices that there's one lone item dangling from the end of it.
It looks familiar, but he can't place exactly what it is; the word bullet comes to mind. What...
It's a silver bullet, the Sheriff says, confirming Stiles' initial thoughts. A real one, too. Not
just some flimsy thing I picked up at a comic book store; I had it made.
Stiles likes it. He really does. It's...fucking cool, is what it is. He'll look like a badass walking
around wearing this thing; maybe people will stop treating him like such a huge nerd with this
thing on.
Nah. He'll be an even bigger nerd with it on.
The thing that's weird about it is that Stiles has never once mentioned wanting a silver bullet to
his father. He's never thought about silver bullets. Nothing, anywhere, has a sign pointing to
Stiles wants a silver bullet on a chain for his birthday ! What would compel his father to just
go out and have something this off the beaten path made ? All specially and everything?
It's supposed to be good luck, he continues on, while Stiles drapes it around his neck. Protect
you from the forces of evil, and whatnot.
Stiles laughs, and thanks his father for the gift, and eats his pancakes.
Phase two of the birthday celebration occurs at Allison and Scott's house where they make him
his favorite meal (meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and peas) and begin the obligatory birthday wine
drinking session.
He inhales two entire plates of food, takes down three glasses of wine, before Allison points to
the chain around his neck, and says, that's an interesting necklace you're wearing, Stiles.
She's been eyeballing the thing all night Stiles had noticed that. He had kind of just assumed

she was a fan of silver jewlery, or maybe that she was jealous of it or something. But the way
she says interesting isn't like...hmm, interesting! Quite! Pip pip! It's more like, I know exactly
what that thing is and why the literal hell are you wearing it ?
He glances down at it, picking it up between his fingers and shrugs. Dad got it for me. He says
it's good luck, or whatever.
Scott leans in closer to it, narrowing his eyes. It's a weird little thing.
It's just a silver bullet.
It is good luck, Allison says, in that same strange tone of voice; not that Scott notices anything.
He just goes right back to the wine, forgetting the entire thing. Stiles looks at the bullet for a few
more seconds, perplexed, and then drops it. Can I look at it?
Without waiting for a response, she comes to Stiles' side of the table, leans down, and takes it
between her thumb and index finger, turning it around and around, examining it. There are no
markings on it Stiles checked. Nothing but silver as smooth as silk all the way through. But
Allison is looking at it like there is something marked on it. Something she can see.
A small smile spreads across her face. It's nice.
Phase three of the birthday celebration occurs at the same bar that he and his friends have been
going to for each and every single one of their birthdays since their all their 21sts a shitty little
corner dive place at the very edge of BH, with neon cowgirls lining the walls, shitty western
music, and a man that comes every Friday night to lead the place in bingo. It's a very 40's bar; or,
more specifically, almost no one under the age of 40 comes inside it. That was always half the
appeal of the place to the gang. They were never really big on ever making new friends, or being
around other people their age.
Except Scott; because he can get along with anyone. He's the exception of the group.
So he's about four vodka-sprites into the night, coupled with the three glasses of wine at Scott
and Allison's, and he's...drunk. Enough. Not exactly falling all over the place, but, you know.
Getting there. And happily so! He hasn't thought about Derek all fucking night, and Erica keeps
tickling him in his underarm and he keeps screaming in laughter, and Isaac bought him a plate of
fries as a birthday present, and the night is going swimmingly! For the first time in a month and a
half, he's not feeling incredibly pissed off and on the edge of a mental breakdown. It's a god
damn miracle. 24 might just be the best yet, he thinks, ordering yet another drink, announcing to
his friends that he's paying the tab, waving a hundred around in the air.
His friends all cheer, even the sober Allison, sipping on her shirley temple. It's a fucking good
night.
So, it only makes sense that it all goes to shit.

Right as he's received his drink, right as his mouth is drunkenly trying to find the straw, Scott
leans over to him, and says, in his instantly recognizable drunk voice, hey. Isn't that...
One tan finger points somewhere past his head, and Stiles turns, still unable to find the damn
straw with is mouth, to where his best friend is trying to point to. What?
I just think that's...
Stiles eyes focus on a specific point. The bar is mostly empty, it is almost always nearly empty,
aside from a group of girls hovering around the jukebox, and one lone dude sitting in the back
corner, in one of the only booths in the place, reading a book and drinking what looks like water.
The dude's back is turned to them, coat collar popped up so the profile of his face is blocked out
of view. He's simultaneously the most suspicious person in the entire bar, and also the stupidest
because he's holding the book upside down .
Stiles knows beyond a shadow of a doubt who that is. No. Fucking. Way.
What? Allison asks innocently, and even the bar tender looks up from cleaning off a martini
glass, everyone turning to look curiously at Stiles.
Derek ?
The book clatters out of his hand in surprise, smacking down onto the table, knocking his water
over, spilling all over the table and onto his lap.
Derek? Isaac repeats, and then everyone is turning around to stare at him as he jumps up out of
the booth, pants dripping wet with water. Allison has a slackjaw, Scott has slapped his hand
over his mouth to keep from laughing, Isaac just keeps repeating Derek? Derek? Derek? , and
Erica screams it looks like you pissed on yourself!
Derek!? Stiles hops sloppily down off his bar stool, and Scott follows suit, nearly falling
down onto the linoleum underneath their feet, but righting himself at the last second. What the
fuck ?
The man in question looks like he's about to make a run for it, actually , un-fucking-believably,
but Stiles has drunk speed. He latches onto Derek's arm in a vice grip, pulling him around to
look him in his stupid-idiot face. Are you a mirage ?
A few blinks, and then, er no.
You're stalking me again?
What? I again ?
Stiles' eyes bulge out of his skull, like Courage the Cowardly Dog, and he thinks for a second he
starts seeing red around the edges of his vision. For real . The drunk is strong, he realizes out of
nowhere and probably actually standing up and running over to his psycho ex-boyfriend has

something to do with this epiphany. You followed me here !

I didn't follow you here... Derek trails off, avoiding eye contact, choosing instead to work on
dabbing at his lap with a scrunched up napkin.
Technically, he's right. Stiles knows exactly what this is. One thing about Derek that was actually
pretty good while they were dating, but both a blessing and a curse, is that he has an insane
memory. He remembers everything dates, song lyrics, directions, people's names, etcetera. So
he probably remembered that Stiles' birthday was tonight, remembered the name of the shitty bar
he got dragged off to against his will, remembered how to get there, and just showed up .
Stiles remembers that last time pretty well. Derek stuck out like a sore thumb in his Armani suit,
permanent scowl, and refusal to drink any alcohol. It lives in infamy as The Reason Stiles'
Friends Hate Derek it was the night that prompted questions and comments such as why the
fuck are you dating him again? And he's so fucking rude and I don't understand how you two
get along at all . Stiles had been furious at Derek for acting like a baby at his birthday party.
These things, Stiles is good at remembering.
Now, more than an entire year later, he's standing in the exact same bar, furious again; but for a
different reason. Same person, at least.
You are unbelievable !
I didn't come here because of you, he affirms, finally giving up on trying to dry himself off.
Oh, right ! You drove all the way from Los Angeles down to Beacon Hills, the place you
dubbed as A Shithole Straight Out Of Satan's Ass, behind them, Erica cackles again, to
come to this specific bar on this specific night! For no reason !
Derek looks the same way he used to always look when he'd get caught mid-stalk like he never
ever imagined he'd get caught, and now has to struggle to come up with an excuse. In this
scenario, however...there are literally no excuses. He's really dug his own grave on this one. His
mouth opens and closes about a thousand times, before it slams shut and then he just stands there,
clenching his jaw, avoiding eye contact.
Then, he opens his mouth, and says the single worst thing he could possibly say. History books
will discuss this moment, many many years down the line school children will stare up at their
teachers in awe as they repeat these next words in a menacing tone as being the words that begin
World War III. ...happy birthday? The Pleasantry Heard 'Round the World.
Stiles attacks.
Well, Stiles tries to attack.
He winds up just getting one swipe at Derek's jawline, nearly breaking his fingers off, then
careening forward towards the ground.

Derek grabs him at the last second, right before he hits the floor that probably hasn't been swept
for six months. You fucker ! Stiles shouts, clenching his maimed hand in the other, you broke
my fucking hand!
First of all, Derek says, ripping the hand in question to hold in his own he squeezes the
fingers, eliciting a yelp from Stiles. It's not broken. And second of all, you hit me .
He looks smug about this as he sets Stiles back up on his own feet, like haha, I have a bizarrely
hard jawline, I win ! It makes Stiles want to punch him all over again.
But Scott is there at his side now, to put a warm hand on his shoulder, and say, you're drunk,
man.
True. Very true. But even more true is that he's pissed and he wants to have a fucking
conversation with Derek Hale about his obvious mental issues. He's about to say as much, about
to start in on a whole 'nother round of yelling, when Derek gets a strange look on his face.
Like...almost fear , or worry, or anxiety. Shock, perhaps. Stiles isn't sure. It's not a look he's ever
seen on this specific face before.
He leans forward, reaches out to grab the silver bullet around his neck, and then pulls his fingers
back, as if he's been burned. Where did you get that?
Stiles looks down at his neck, confused, holding his glasses onto his face out of drunk-fear that
they're going to fall down to the ground. My dad gave it to me. For my birthday . Which you're
ruining by the way!
Derek looks even more concerned to hear that. He looks up, sees something else in the bar,
scrunches his eyebrows together Stiles looks back just in time to find Allison staring brazenly
back at Derek with a bizarre expression on her face. Then Derek, enigmatically as ever, says I
have to go.
As he's turning to book it out the front door, Stiles yells, of course you do! What else do I ever
expect from you!
The door slams closed, and Stiles dubs his birthday as officially over.
When they're all piled back into Allison's SUV, he starts going off. You know what? There were
a lot of things wrong with what occurred tonight!
Agreed, Scott says from the passenger seat, playing with his seatbelt.
Derek showing up was one thing. Derek nearly breaking my hand was one thing. But can we
mention something here?
Mention it!
He's stalking me...while I'm planning his wedding! To another woman!

Right? Erica agrees, shaking her head.

Well - Isaac pipes up from the way back, maybe not stalking. Maybe just...conveniently
appearing where he knows you're going to be.
The question is why. Scott says. Why would he come down here like this, when he's, like, in
love with someone else? You guys are two thousand percent done,
We're four thousand percent done!
...and yet he's stalking you on your birthday?
I think he's messed up in the head, Erica sounds very matter-of-fact as she says this like it's a
no-brainer.
Something is obviously amiss in that guy's brain. Maybe he's not full blown psychotic, but...he's
not normal. Normal people don't drive two hours just to eavesdrop on their ex's birthday party
while simultaneously being engaged to another person. Except maybe in B romantic comedies
from 2001.
Either way, the guy completely destroyed his birthday party and made him look really stupid in
front of...well. In front of his friends, who have seen him do way worse shit than that, a gaggle of
21 year old girls in sequin mini skirts, and a sixty year old bartender. The point, though, is that
Stiles is pissed off. He's drunk pissed off.
When Allison drops him off at his house, she rolls down the window, with that ominous whrrrr
noise, and speaks her first words since Derek showed up at the bar. She has mom look on her
face but this time, Stiles can tell it's not the kind of mom look that you roll your eyes at and
shrug off. It's the real fucking thing. Quit that job, Stiles. Seriously.
---Stiles does not quit the job.
For reasons not even he can fathom...he keeps the job. He doesn't even really entertain the
thought of quitting the job he barely even has the thought of quitting the job at all, in spite of
how fucking spooky Allison had been on his birthday. She was acting as if Derek wasn't just a
huge burden on Stiles' life in general, but as if he were a real threat.
Which, okay. Yes the fact that he followed Stiles around while they were dating is a clear sign of
an abusive relationship. And yes the fact that he came to Stiles' birthday party uninvited is a
clear sign of someone who might be slightly off their rocker. But like he's told his friends about a
zillion times; the 'stalking' never felt like a psycho possessive boyfriend thing, or an I must
control your life sort of thing. It felt like...something else. Like Derek was genuinely worried
something was going to happen to Stiles Stiles had even began to wonder for a while there if
he might've had some kind of an anxiety disorder that made him worry 24/7 about things like

Stiles tripping and falling face first into a hot dog cart, getting stuck in there, and drowning.
Point being Stiles and Derek did not have an abusive relationship. A weird one, true, but not
abusive.
He thinks Allison just wouldn't get it, seeing as how she's a third party observer, so he doesn't
think too much about the ominous way she said it, or the look on her face as she did.
Stiles winds up wishing he had quit the job, when he finally meets Tiffany's mother.
They're all gathered in the reception hall, and by all Stiles means Derek, Tiffany, and Stiles, and,
hey, three's a crowd especially when 2/3rds of the group are actively ignoring each other in an
effort to make things less awkward and failing miserably.
Tiffany, for her part, is oblivious. She's clucking her tongue at barely visible scuff marks on the
floor and pointing to pillars with elegant fingers, saying um, can we move this?
While in the background, Derek stands with a perma-frown, barely moving a muscle, and Stiles
can't stop fucking pulling down on his shirt sleeves frantically. He finally invested in some nice
clothes a white button down underneath a burgundy sweater vest and he feels ridiculous,
uncomfortable, and like everyone can tell that he doesn't belong here, or something. Like any
second someone's going to point to him and go imposter! Remove this sea urchin from the
premises immediately!
It's the way he always used to feel when he was with Derek.
He's standing underneath a thirty thousand dollar chandelier, beside his ex-boyfriend, holding
Tiffany's ludicrous wedding scrapbook, when Derek says to him, by the way, a shrug,
Tiffany's mother is coming today.
If Tiffany had said this, casually, he would've taken it in stride. Internally, he'd have probably
freaked out a little bit, but externally, he'd have said oh, great! Finally meeting the fam! Pip
pip!
With Derek...it's always another story. You couldn't have told me that? He glances sidelong to
make sure Tiffany isn't paying attention, and she's not she's measuring the floor, for God's sake.
Like, on my birthday maybe?
The bigger man's face sours. Look, I'm sorry if you think I somehow crashed your little birthday
party but I-
If I think you did?
...really wasn't trying to be malicious, all right?
He's heard that before. Oho, boy has he heard that before. I wasn't trying to be malicious, I
really didn't mean anything by it, you're overreacting Stiles, you're making too much of a thing

out of this, just calm down, it was a mistake.

But never, never once, just plain old I'm sorry .
Derek's eyes slide down to Stiles' neck, where the silver bullet is sitting, half hidden behind the
collar of his shirt. He stares at it for a few seconds, his mouth a grim line and Stiles is just
about to open his mouth to ask him if it personally offends him in some form or another, when
he's interrupted.
The double doors closest to them come flying open, and then there's a woman's voice trilling on
and on, echoing off the high ceilings of the reception hall. ... really, I told her about a thousand
times, New York! New York, darling! New York ! But she wasn't having it I guess that's what I
get for moving to California after she was born, now it's all sunshine and sand , and neon bikini
bottoms.
Tiffany is at Stiles' side in an instant, with a look of sheer bottomless despair colored across her
beautiful, blemish free face. Here we go.
Stiles turns his head to see a tall, thin black woman in a skin tight black dress, red fur coat, and a
lit cigarette in her hands, despite the ten thousand no smoking signs in the foyer and lobby of the
building, sweeping towards them as if she's walking on top of a cloud. She looks like well, she
looks like a modernized Cruella DeVille, honestly. About ten times more attractive than Cruella
ever was, but, that's aside from the point.
Beside her is a haggard looking man in his 30's with a sheen of sweat atop his brow, carrying a
small, shaking dog in his arms. The Villain's Hapless Sidekick Stiles thinks to himself,
remembering the two bumbling idiots that Cruella had do her dirty work.
She trills, Tiffannyyyyy! at the top of her lungs, and in a flurry of red fur and expensive
perfume, wraps the girl up in her arms. How nice to see you!
Before Tiffany can even think about returning the pleasantry, Cruella's eyes dart over to Derek;
who's standing there like he's waiting for his turn to get a finger chopped off. And Derek Hale.
Nice to see you as well. You're looking- she searches for the word for a moment, taking a drag
from her cigarette, blowing smoke in Stiles' general direction, ...tan.
A lull of silence falls upon the room, wherein Tiffany's mother stares at Derek, as if daring him
to say something, and Derek looks back at her, like a wolf about to strike on its prey, and Tiffany
stands in the background, eyes darting between the two of them frantically.
So, Stiles does his job; the job he was born to do. He word vomits. There's a lot of sun in
California.
All three pair of eyes turn to him five if you count the sidekick and the dog Rocket, Stiles'
memory supplies - and Stiles continues on. That's probably why he looks so tan. The sun.
Right?

Cruella sucks on her cigarette once more, leaning forwards a bit towards him. And who is
this?
This is Stiles Stilinski, Tiffany answers for him, grateful for the change in subject, probably.
He's planning the wedding, remember? I told you about him, on the phone!
Having this woman's eyes on him is like being stared down by, like, a fortune teller or
something. She looks like she's analyzing every last crevice of his skin, every last nook and
cranny there is to be seen on him, like she's trying to crack some unhidden code buried beneath
the surface.
Unfortunately for Stiles, there actually is a hidden code in this scenario. This woman looks like
the kind of no-nonsense individual who can sniff out a lie from a mile away.
He sticks his hand out, smiles as widely as possible, and says, it's nice to meet you, finally, as
though he's heard so much about her, when in reality, the subject has never come up.
She smiles back, snakelike, and slides her soft, warm hand into his. Virginia Milano. And
you're Stiles ?
Yeah, he replies, releasing her hand to fix his glasses. Virginia tracks the movement with her
eyes. My birth name is Sarnocinski, but no one could pronounce that so I started going by
Stiles.
Ah! For some reason, this delights her; she throws her head back laughing. You know who he
looks like? He looks like like Gregory Peck, in those glasses!
Atticus Finch from To Kill A Mockingbird that's not one Stiles has ever heard before. He gets
Harry Potter a lot; which makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. He wants to say just because I
have glasses that doesn't mean I look like every other person on the planet who also happens
to wear glasses , but instead he just smiles and nods.
You picked this place? She gestures to the hall with a curled lip.
Er
I did, Derek cuts in, and then all eyes are on him.
Really? She drags the word out like it's being pulled out of her by an invisible string, while
her eyes glance all around at the walls, and the ceilings the place is ridiculous, by all means.
Chandeliers, intricately carved baseboards on the walls, deep red wall paper. Stiles honestly
can't see anything wrong with it; it fits the theme of the wedding perfectly, but she's looking at it
like it belongs in a trailer park. That makes sense.
Derek has a look on his face his just calm down, Derek look. Stiles imagines that he's counting
down from ten, telling himself that a huge fight isn't worth it, that it would upset Tiffany.
Something along those lines. Ha ha.

I'm sure you would've picked a better place, Sarnocinski, his birth name rolls off her tongue
easily, like she's said it ten zillion times before. You have the eye .
The eye. Instantly he's imagining the Eye of Sauron.
Are we eating lunch? Can we remove ourselves from this place, please? Virginia is already
leaving the room, muttering something to her consort and the tiny dog, and Tiffany trails behind
with an apologetic glance at Derek.
How is it, Derek is lingering, making a show out of checking that he has his wallet and phone,
that you've known that woman for ten seconds, and she already likes you better than she likes
me?
Stiles glares at him. She can't tell I'm a street rat unlike your family.
My family never thought you were a street rat, oh my God...
You're going to be late for lunch!
Derek fixes him with a withering stare, and then starts taking steps to follow the rest of the party
out the door, so slow you'd think it was causing him physical pain to move at all.
Derek's mother-in-law hates him, na na na na! It's not the most mature thought, but fuck, if it gets
him through these remaining weeks, he'll take what he can get.
---You have crazy eyes. Has anyone ever told you that?
Tiffany made good on her promise. The unspoken promise. The promise of Stiles becoming The
Gay Best Friend . Well, maybe he's being a little bit melodramatic.
He confided in her that he doesn't have an excess of nice, fancy clothes to wear around a
colossal mistake, in retrospect. He should've known what she would do to him.
She had snapped her neck backwards, as if she had been slapped, and blinked at him blankly for
several seconds. You have a suit, though.
Erm...no?
Not one suit?
I have a blazer. I mean it does have the Gryffindor Crest on it, but -
What are you going to wear to the wedding ? Like this was the single most important thing
she can think of, like this was a life or death scenario, she said this.

Well...
Which is what lead to him standing in the middle of the single most expensive store for men in
Los Angeles, getting, like, measured and poked and prodded by a small tribe of people who
keep giving his I <3 Cock! sneakers dirty looks. Tiffany, for her part, noticed them once and let
out a short gasp, followed by trilling laughter. At least she has a sense of humor.
How come you don't wear contacts? Tiffany asks him now, holding a fabric sample up beside
his face, scrunching her nose up, moving onto the next one.
The thought of putting my finger inside my eyeball kinda freaks me out.
Tiffany pauses for just a moment, pursing her lips at him. That's not how contacts work, Stiles .
Seriously.
He shrugs, and she moves onto the next fabric sample with a cluck of her tongue.
The only reason he agreed to this is because she insisted on paying for every thing and even
with the paychecks coming in, he's still not in that much of a position to be turning down the
opportunity to get something for free. Most of his money has gone to student loans, paying off
some of his mother's remaining hospital bills that his father has been struggling to pay off since
her death, and, eventually, to getting that rattle in the Blueberry fixed up. He's paying his rent,
and buying food, and gas but...everything else kind of feels like an extravagance. It's worth it,
though, if it means not having any more bills over he and his dad's heads.
So getting his clothes for the wedding for free was a pretty sweet deal; in spite of the annoyance
and ditziness of Tiffany. Don't get Stiles wrong, she's a nice girl. She's a nice girl, could be a
supermodel...and that really about sums her up. She's boring , and on top of that, a bit of a
doormat when it comes to Derek. Even if he says the single most ludicrous thing, even if he's
acting like a complete dickwagon, she'll just smile and nod and bat her eyelashes like oh honey !
It feels to Stiles like she's trying too hard to make him happy. Like, if she doesn't do everything
exactly as he likes it he'll just up and leave her. Maybe she's not conscious or aware that that's
the way she acts, but, all the same. It's getting a little old.
This one, Tiffany decides, and the tribe of assistants snap their heads to look at the square she
has in her hands. It's red. Not quite fire engine red, but...pretty close. What do you have in
this?
A litany of brands and designers is read off by one of the tribesmen, and Stiles' head starts to
spin Ralph Lauren, Paul Smith, Canali...
Well, it has to be Armani, she nudges Stiles in the arm and winks at him, like Derek. The only
thing Derek will ever wear is Armani. He's such a snob.
Stiles knows this good and well. Remember when he showed up at that dive bar on his birthday

in Armani? Back then, it had seemed like it had just been to make everyone else feel ridiculous
and poor; but probably he thought nothing of it. To him any special occasion meant Armani .
Stiles, at one point, had this ridiculous suit he bought at K-Mart for twenty dollars that he wore
for job interviews; Derek used to sneer at that thing with such disdain you'd think it killed his
family.
Stiles doesn't have that suit anymore because it got tossed into a box along with dozens of other
things that reminded him of Derek, and shipped off to good will.
This doesn't come in an Armani, miss, the poor kid looks like he's about to get the lashing of
his life for this, already wincing.
Oh, Tiffany says, disappointed.
In the end, Tiffany settles on a designer Stiles has never heard of, and then, just like at the
wedding dress boutique, it's just her and him sitting on the couch, waiting for one of them to
appear with the ordered item.
She taps one high heeled foot on the ground, staring down at her inbox on her phone, her lips
puckering as she reads. Stiles just sits there fidgeting; suddenly he feels like wearing these
particular sneakers was a poor decision still owning these sneakers at all is a poor decision.
He's 24 and wandering around in shoes with profanities scrawled all over them. He needs to buy
some new shoes. And, maybe, he should get contacts, too he'd look older without his glasses.
As it is, he looks like he could be a college freshman.
Stiles, I wanted to talk to you about something. She has a serious voice on; like, a you're fired
voice. Stiles fixes her with his complete, nervous attention. I've noticed that you and Derek
haven't really been getting along that well.
Stiles opens his mouth, even though he hasn't the slightest idea what the actual hell he's supposed
to say back to that. Um...
I know he's not the easiest person to get on with, sometimes... most of the time. All of the time.
...and I know he sometimes makes things harder than they have to be... like every single second
of Stiles' life, for example. ...and he can be a little bit rough around the edges. But, at the end of
the day, he is your boss.
Stiles swallows a lump in his throat. Because he recognizes this for what it is, now he's not
getting fired . He's getting lectured, about Derek Hale; and that is somehow far, far worse.
I get that you guys clearly have two incredibly clashing personalities, and when two people like
that get together to work on something there can often be explosive results, but-
Sorry, Stiles butts in, holding his hand out in a placating gesture, but, where is this coming
from? Last time Stiles checked, the only times Stiles and Derek got into any arguments were
either when Tiffany was nowhere in sight or too busy examining wallpapers to notice what was

going on around her.

She gives him an apologetic look; which is interesting, considering the circumstances. He
mentioned to me that the silly little lunch I sent you two off on didn't go very well.
That fink ...
He said well, she adjusts herself in her seat, as if she's uncomfortable, ...he said you were
a brat.
A a? A? Brat ? Stiles nearly goes into a rage, right then and there. He very nearly leaps off of
the couch to go grab the nearest potted plant and throw it as hard as possible against the wall.
He's so angry that he doesn't speak. He just sits there, glaring not at Tiffany but straight forward
at the wall, his hands shaking with anger in his lap.
Tiffany, oblivious, continues on. You're young, and you haven't had to work with very many
clients before, so I think you just need a little more practice. Great. Now he's been patronized ,
like some idiotic fifteen year old child. But if it happens again, I'm going to have to fire you.
Stiles really wants to start yelling, right about now. He wants to say the reason that your
fuckwad of a fiancee' said I was being a brat that day is because he's still bitter about the
fact that I broke up with him! That the reason this conversation is even happening at all has
nothing to do with how good he is at his job, or how professional he is, or how young it is. It is
entirely about Derek's personal vendettas against him. It is entirely Derek's fault. From
beginning to end.
But he can't say any of that. He has to sit here and have his very livelihood be questioned and
judged by this woman, and he has to smile, apologetically, and say, I promise, it won't, while
on the inside all he really wants to do is...cry.
Oh, that's nice to hear! And before either of them can say anything else, the ridiculous red suit
appears in Stiles' peripheral, and it's time to move on.
Inside of his car, with the stupid suit hanging in the backseat, he tries to just drive and be calm.
He tries to be calm, to just drive, and listen to the radio, and not think about what just happened.
If he starts to think about what just happened, he's going to freak out. If he freaks out, he might go
off the road and die in a fiery explosion of a car crash. All of these are things he'd really much
rather avoid.
So, he keeps his eyes on the road, with his mouth a grim line, and just drives. It's a long trek
back from LA to the Beacon Hills, and he decides to use the time to calm down. To breathe.
There's less than a month until the wedding, and he can make it. He can fucking make it.
Less than a month until Derek Hale is gone and out of his life. Under four weeks, fuck . Ten
thousand dollars, remember?

He's made it out of the LA traffic, and is cruising down the highway, hurtling back to Beacon
Hills as fast as the speed limit allows him to because all he wants to do right now is go home
and lay on his couch in the dark feeling sorry for himself. Because of this entire shit situation that
Derek Hale has dragged him into.
It's amazing, really amazing; when they were together, Derek made him feel small and pathetic,
and it turns out he can do that even when they're not together, anymore. Incredible.
Of course, it's right then that the Blueberry decides to start making sounds. Not the classic
rattling noise that he's grown so accustomed to, oh no. But a loud whrrr noise, followed by a
clanging sound, and then the car begins to jerk.
Oh, no, Stiles moans, pulling over to the side of the road, out of the way of oncoming traffic,
as the jeep slows to a pathetic crawl, jerking and whrring the entire way. Oh, no, no, no . Not
here. Not now.
And then, just like that, the Blueberry dies.
Stiles tries turning the ignition once, twice, three times, but it just sits there, smoke billowing out
of the hood, dead on the side of the road.
That just about does it. He punches the steering wheel once, hard enough to nearly break his hand
in half, and then he starts to cry. The really embarrassing kind of crying, too all heaving and
gasping and whimpering. Not very adult at all. Definitely the kind of crying a so-called brat
would do, but right about now, Stiles doesn't care. He needs this cry right now, god dammit, he
needs to fucking cry!
He doesn't know how long he sits that way, weeping hysterically, before a knock on the driver's
side window jerks him back into reality. Frantically, he wipes at his eyes to cover up the fact
that he's been crying, puts his glasses back on his face, and turns to see who it is.
Of course, it's Derek Hale. Of course it is. Who else would it be?
It's Derek freakin' Hale in yet another Armani suit and tie, paired fatally with sunglasses,
frowning in at him from outside the car. Stiles glances in his rearview mirror and sees the single
worst sight of his life.
The Camaro. Something he thought he'd never in his life have to see again.
He grits his teeth and puts his eyes back on Derek. Is there something you need? He shouts, so
he can be heard even through the glass of his rolled up window.
Derek frowns even deeper. Roll down the window, Stiles.
A shrug. I'm fine.
Your car is smoking.

Oh, gee, is it? Huh. Didn't notice.

Stiles... low, warning. He pulls on the door handle, only to discover that it is, in fact, locked.
Stiles laughs in his head. I know you're still mad at me about your birthday, but this is
ridiculous .
Stiles rips his seat belt off, so he can angle his body towards Derek, narrowing his eyes. You
think I'm this mad about the birthday thing ? Ha!
Derek looks confused on the outside, as he turns his head, appraising the slow, steady stream of
cars coming back and forth, and then turns back to look at Stiles through the glass. Please don't
play this game with me. If you're mad at me, just say why.
The fact that I even need to tell you at all is the ridiculous thing here, Derek.
The sunglasses get ripped off of Derek's face, and it's funny, really; because that's a mannerism
that he learned from Stiles. Pulling-the-glasses-off-the-face, thing. All Stiles. Really? You're
sitting in a smoking car, crying hysterically,
I was not !
-in clear need of someone to help you, but because it's me who's shown up, you'd rather just sit
in there so you can prove a point. A point about something that I don't even know about!
Stiles turns his own head now, to glare straight forward at the setting sun on the horizon, because
he refuses to make eye contact with Derek while he says this. You told Tiffany, and I quote ,
that I was a brat .
This gives Derek pause. There's five seconds of silence on the other side of the glass, and then,
you were being a-
Do you have any idea, any fucking clue, how humiliating that was? To be lectured by my boss
about how immature I am? Because of you ? Derek doesn't say anything in response, so Stiles
plows onwards. This was my big break, Derek. I've been planning backyard weddings for over
a year, barely even making ends meet, and this was supposed to be my way in if I planned this
wedding and it did it well, I could plan six other weddings for the same price, but now! Now !
Tiffany's going to tell everyone that I'm a brat and no one's- oh, God, Stiles is not about to cry
again, no, he's absolutely not .
He does start crying again. ...No one's going to hire me! And now ! My piece of shit car is
dead! And I've had the worst day! Of all time! And the last person I want to see, he rears back
on Derek, tears streaming down his face, is you !
Stiles swipes at his eyes, smacking the traitor tears off of his face, as if that'll erase them from
Derek's memory, but it's too late. Derek Hale has definitely seen Stiles crying.
It's not the first time; but for some reason, this particular time feels worse than all the others that

have come before it.

On the outside of the car, Derek is rubbing at his forehead. I know a guy. He can have this car
up and running again before midnight.
Stiles sniffles, but doesn't respond.
Come on out of the car, Stiles.
No.
Derek sighs through his nose. You're being ridiculous. I know you're upset , and I know how
you get , how Stiles gets oh, he wishes he could punch through the window right now right
into Derek's stupid nose, but I'm not going to help you until you get out of that car.
Stiles purses his lips. Because, of course, he knows he's being a little bit over the top. He knows
this is a little much, even for him. He's a 24 year old man crying in his car and screaming at his
ex-boyfriend. This is not the most dignified moment of his life, not by a long shot.
He unlocks the door, and Derek steps back, right before he throws the door open and climbs out.
Derek is reaching for his cellphone, probably about to call whatever guy it is that he knows that
can magically fix an entirely dead car in less than five hours, but Stiles grabs his arm to stop
him. Let me ask you a question, Derek.
Derek blinks back at him, confused.
Just this one question. And you have to be honest , for once. Be honest with me. Stiles squares
his shoulders, looks Derek dead in the eyes, and asks, did you tell Tiffany my name? Were you
the one who orchestrated this entire thing?
Derek clenches his jaw for a second, and looks up at the sky before sighing through his nose
yet again, and looking back down to meet Stiles' eyes again. Yes.
Stiles pulls his hand off of Derek's arm, makes a tch sound, and says, call the guy, before
turning on his heel and stomping off to get into the passenger side of the infamous Camaro.
---Stiles sits in the idiotic Camaro, and tries not to think about how many things have happened
inside this car. The millions of memories that Stiles has been trying to suppress come flooding
back the second he gets a whiff of the familiar leather, the second he sits down in the passenger
seat; it feels like two years ago. It feels like he's going backwards, instead of forwards like he's
been trying ever since Derek left. Like he's that person that he swore he'd never be again.
The fights, and the sex, and the way Derek used to look at him, and all the times Stiles thought
that this was going to be his forever, all inside of this car, all streaming back inside his mind,
and none of it is helping him think at all.

Because Derek has done a lot of terrible things. To Stiles, specifically. Derek has lied more
times than Stiles could easily keep track of, and he's vanished and left Stiles all alone more
times than that, and he's said horrible things about and to him; but this one, this situation...this
really takes the entire fucking cake.
Derek slides into the driver's seat, slams the door, and starts the car up with a hauntingly familiar
purr. He'll have that done for you.
Turn signal clicks on, and Derek sits waiting for an opportunity to slide back onto the highway
off the side of the road, and Stiles sits with the opportunity to jump out of this car and get as far
away from this person as possible, to quit the job, to quit Derek altogether, finally, finally .
Derek turns around, and the car is going back to LA, and Stiles' opportunity passes.
I thought you were taking me home, he says, in a sullen voice.
I'm not taking you home, Derek says matter-of-factly. For starters, you won't get your car all
the way in Beacon Hills unless I drive it back to you, and I'd... rather eat my own flesh than
drive that piece of shit, Stiles finishes for him in his own head, glowering, ...and second of all,
you and I need to talk.
How classic Derek. Classic Derek Hale! Trapping Stiles in his least favorite car, seatbelt
strapped like a straight jacket, so he can't escape the oncoming conversation. Nevermind the fact
that Stiles willingly got into the car, and willingly put his seatbelt on, and willingly agreed to the
entire situation, time and time again. Someone has to take the blame for this, though, and Stiles
will happily always pin it all on Derek without a second thought.
You ever think maybe I don't want to talk to you?
I didn't mean for this to be an entire ordeal , okay? I didn't know what was going to happen
when I gave your name to Tiffany, I swear. I had no idea she knew Allison Argent, he grits out
Argent the same way he always has like a curse word, I had no idea she knew what Beacon
Hills even was. At most, I just thought we would get an interview with you and that I could see
you again. That's all I was trying to do.
Stiles rolls his eyes. How did you even know what I was doing? Huh? Were you stalking me
again?
Oh, Christ, Stiles, Derek's hands grip the steering wheel even tighter, I googled your name at
one point after the engagement was finalized and you have an entire website if you remember
that!
Beaconhillsweddings.com Built by his old high school friend Danny for cheap. Stiles imagines
Derek landing on that page, while sitting in his upscale office in front of a panoramic view of LA
on his MacBook Pro, flitting his eyes over Stiles' pathetic little website about his pathetic new
career. The thought enrages him all the more.

I cannot fucking believe you-

Like you never googled me!
Ha! Like I ever needed to? I bet I can guess, here and now what you've been doing for the past
two years,
One and a half, Derek grits this out through his teeth.
You got your so-called dream job working underneath your psychotic Uncle, alongside your
crazy judgmental sister, you have a corner office and a secretary and a Beamer and a closet full
of pretentious designer clothing and you spend your days at the country club playing golf with
your, like, clients or whatever. The look on Derek's face suggests that every thing Stiles just
said is absolutely ten thousand percent true, and Stiles smirks smugly with his arms crossed over
his chest. A hundred other wedding planners would've tripped over themselves to plan the
Derek Hale's wedding, yet for some reason you-
I never wanted you to actually plan the wedding. I didn't think Tiffany would like you! I
assumed she'd take one look at you and want nothing to do with you!
It's not anything worse than anything else Derek has ever said about Stiles. It's really probably
one of the least insulting things he's ever said, comparatively, but that doesn't stop Stiles from
nearly breaking his hand on Derek's jaw a second time. Right. She'd get one look at the trash
that somehow wandered into her office-
Oh, for fuck's sake...
...and go running for the hills!
That isn't what I meant, Stiles , they're coming back into city limits, and Derek's face is lit up
by the glowing street lights and the distant glow of high rise buildings. You're not exactly
you're not...you're not like the people Tiffany associates with, okay? That's not a personal attack,
it's just the truth! So yes . I thought she'd find the thought of hiring you ridiculous.
Stiles tch 's, shaking his head, turning away from Derek to glare out the window. You didn't
factor in that I might actually be good at something, for once.
A long suffering sigh comes from the other side of the car, and then there's a pregnant silence
thick with tension, and unspoken words. It's pretty much just like old times. Derek and Stiles,
arguing in the Camaro : episode #1245.
My point was that I never thought it would get this far. If I had known, I never would've given
her your name.
Stiles does believe that. Because for as much of a bonehead and a fucking cocksucker that Derek
can be, he'd never willingly go through this himself. He'd put Stiles through it, sure; just as some
weird revenge. But this can't be very much fun for him, either.

I just wanted to see you , and I really don't know how you can fault me for that.
If Stiles were to try and give him shit for that, or hate him for it, he'd be a hypocrite. The biggest
hypocrite that ever existed. For all the times that Stiles did , in fact, Google Derek's name, for all
the times he got into his jeep and almost drove to LA, almost went to where he knew Uncle
Peter's huge office building was, almost, almost .
Almost picked up the phone. Almost wrote that letter. Almost.
Can Stiles really hate Derek for being the one out of the two of them with any real follow
through? For being the one to do what Stiles just fucking couldn't ?
Maybe his method wasn't exactly the best, and now they're in hands down the worst imaginable
situation, but...Stiles can't find it in himself to really blame him for that, specifically.
For other things, for nearly every thing else, Stiles has nothing but blame for Derek. You left. I
don't know if you remember that as well as I do, but-
Why do you keep throwing that in my face? As if you weren't the one screaming at me to get out,
Stiles.
As Stiles turns to glare at Derek, the car comes to a stop, and Derek takes the key out of the
ignition, and Stiles gets his wits about him. He glares out the windshield, ducking his head to get
a better look at where exactly they are, and he sees what he instantly knows to be Derek and
Tiffany's house. The huge garage is a pretty big hint the sheer size of the house itself is another.
Stiles swallows, takes his eyes off the house, and tries to focus on the conversation. As if you
weren't the one cheating on me!
OH MY GOD ! Derek whips his seatbelt off, angles his body in Stiles' direction, and fixes
him with the single most aggravated look Stiles has ever seen on his face. I. Never. Cheated.
On. You. For the zillionth time, Sarnocinski.
Then what! What was it Derek? Where would you go when you'd just vanish? The late night
phone calls, the evasiveness, the way I never got a straight fucking answer!
Derek clenches his jaw, and his eyes trail down to the silver bullet hanging around Stiles' neck
again then, like he doesn't want to be caught looking at it, his eyes zing back to Stiles' face. It
just wasn't that.
Stiles laughs a mean, ugly sounding thing. Oh, thank you! The truth comes out! Finally, after
all this time, I see the light!
The palms of Derek's hands press against his own eyes, and it looks like he's struggling to keep
his temper in check. Okay. Okay . Fine. You want to know what it was?
Yes, Derek. I do want to know. I've only asked you about fifty times-

You really -
Yes, fuck!
A pause. Derek still hasn't taken his hands off of his eyes. He sits there, still as a statue, for
seconds on end. I I was dealing drugs.
Stiles opens his mouth, and then shuts it. He scrunches his face up in thought, tilts his head from
side to side as if mulling it over, and then leans back into his seat. Huh.
It's like a side project of my uncle's, makes sense, he you know to have control over the, er,
city, so he can... Derek trails off, doesn't finish.
Stiles thinks for a couple more seconds. It does make sense. It makes perfect sense. Everything,
now that he thinks on it, puts all the pieces together, makes sense now. I don't get why you
wouldn't have just told me that, before you-
I'd rather have you go off and find someone else, Stiles, he says, quietly, than have you think
of me as a...as a monster. Maybe I thought you deserved better.
Stiles doesn't know what to make of that. He doesn't know what to make out of any of this
Derek drug dealing is, first of all, in some ways absolutely hilarious, and in other ways
moderately disturbing, and in other ways too hard for him to wrap his mind around, because
finally this huge question that's been haunting him for nearly two years has been answered. So,
Derek dealt drugs for a while there and...and he was too humiliated, or maybe too proud, or
too scared to tell Stiles the truth.
The whole thing about Stiles deserving better is really what trips him up. Oh, because he's heard
it before, only about a thousand times from his best friends. Isaac's big puppy dog eyes fixing on
him as he pats Stiles' arm, murmuring those words, and Allison giving him the mom face, and
Lydia rolling her eyes at him, and Scott getting angry with him, and Erica snickering through it.
He's heard it before. But he's never heard it from Derek and it sounds different, coming from
his mouth. It sounds...scary. That's the only way Stiles can think to explain it. The thought that
Stiles would just walk away from Derek in search of something better than him.
This conversation is certainly not going the way Stiles had anticipated it going, at all. This
doesn't feel like two people resolving their issues so that they can work together in a civil
manner. That is not the road that they're going down.
Maybe now you can tell me why you got rid of me that night, Derek says it quietly, not looking
at Stiles, but instead staring up at his own house with a grim frown.
Stiles thinks back to that night, so long ago now but still, he can see it in vivid color in his
head. How horrible that night had been, and how horrible the following months had been; how
he literally had to uproot his entire life in the wake of Derek Hale, how he felt so incredibly lost
until he managed to get back up on his feet. I guess I just thought I just thought you'd come

back. Like all the other times, and I didn't... Stiles swallows, stares out the window,
desperately. ...I didn't know it was the last time. If I had known, I never would've told you to
go.
Derek gets a weird smile on his face. The kind of smile that people get on their faces when they
finally say something out loud, that's been weighing down on their shoulders for far too long. I
wish I had stayed.
Stiles takes a second before he answers, considering if he really wants to say what he's going to
say. He feels like, if he says this, then there's something that they can't come back from. Maybe in
the back of his head, he knows what it is he's committing to, and maybe it scares him to
acknowledge it; to think that there's a fork in the road, and he could choose one way or another,
and to think he's choosing this one.
The wrong one. I wish you'd stayed, too.
Derek's eyes, illuminated by the lights outside the car, coming from his house that he shares with
his fiancee' , stare at Stiles' profile; until Stiles turns his head and looks right back at him.
I'm here now.
It's the wrong place, and it's the wrong time, and everything is wrong, wrong, wrong , but Stiles
leans in anyway, and Derek does the same.
What happens next is...bad. It's really bad. It's so, so bad, and as it's happening, Stiles is both
giving into it with reckless abandon while simultaneously trying to stop it before it gets too out
of hand. Eh, but out of hand...that's just how things with Stiles and Derek usually go.
One second they're making out in the Camaro, just like old times, and the next the massive front
door of Derek and Tiffany's house is slamming behind them, and Derek pounces on him, pretty
much literally grabbing Stiles' mouth with his own, shoving backwards until Stiles smacks up
against the closed door.
A warm hand trails underneath Stiles' shirt, while the other keeps a firm grip on the back of
Stiles' neck, and Stiles, well...
He's thinking no, no, no, no, pretty much on an endless fucking loop in his head while not trying
at all to push Derek off of him, because his body is screaming yes! Yes! Yes! Responding of its
own free will, it wraps his hand up in Derek's tie, ferociously licking into Derek's mouth, and...
And Stiles would not be proud of this later on. But, maybe , just maybe, he chooses to do the one
thing that would always mysteriously make Derek go borderline nuts, back when they were
actually together and having sex regularly.
He climbs up on Derek like a spidermonkey; legs wrapping around his waist, arms around his
neck, and Derek holds him there, steady, like it's nothing to him. Then, Stiles smirks, somewhat

devilishly, and turns his head to the side. Exposing his neck.
Derek freaks out. One second Stiles is in the air, in Derek's arms, and the next, his feet are on the
ground and Derek is stumbling him off towards the staircase, while licking a stripe up the side of
Stiles' face. Derek was always doing shit like that like, the weird animalistic stuff that Stiles
would never admit really turned him on.
So, he tilts his head to give him better access, and Derek flips out again.
Right as they're coming to the first landing, Stiles loses his footing, distracted by Derek's tongue,
and he slips. He flops halfway onto the landing, while his legs dangle awkwardly downwards
onto the descending stairs. Ouch, he says, trying to pull himself up, pushing on his elbows. But
then Derek is there, kneeling one step down, pushing in between Stiles' gangly, spread legs,
pawing at his belt buckle. Here is fine, he pants, right here is fine, as Stiles' belt clinks in
the background, and Stiles thinks yeah, okay, this is fine .
Help me out, c'mon.
Stiles is on absolute autopilot. Sexy autopilot. Without thinking about it, without pausing to
consider the implications of what's going on here, he sits up, and starts pulling his shirt off;
revealing creamy white skin and a light brown trail of hair disappearing into his pants. The
pants, by the way, are undone, not off because Derek is too busy taking his shirt and tie off,
flinging them over his shoulder with abandon. His bare chest is exactly as Stiles remembers it;
tan, shiny, the single most incredible upperbody Stiles has ever seen, etcetera.
Derek leans down, forcing Stiles to spread his legs even more, and kisses him again. This time,
it's a bit more frantic like he thinks at any second that Stiles is going to change his mind; that
he's going to pull back and go whoa, what the hell !
By all means, Stiles should be doing that. He should shove Derek the fuck off of him, put his
damn clothes back on, and walk right on out of here.
He does not do any of that. No, sirree bob.
Derek pulls back suddenly, with a bit of a hiss, and growls , take that thing off.
Stiles blinks at him, lips still puckered from kissing. Huh? Oh. Oh, right! He reaches behind
his neck to undo the clasp of his necklace and then drops it down on the ground beside them.
Duh. He has no idea why it's a duh ; no clue whatsoever why Derek has repeatedly been so
offended by his father's gift; but he's in such a daze that duh is all that comes to mind.
As soon as it hits the ground, Derek raises his foot, incredibly, and kicks it away with his shoe,
until it clatters down the steps. Hey! Stiles caws, annoyed, but is cut off and distracted, by
Derek tugging his jeans and boxers off.
And that . Is how Stiles came to have sex with his ex-boyfriend on a set of marble stairs. The

same stairs that Tiffany has walked up and down on a thousand times.
She will put her seven hundred dollar Jimmy Choos on the exact spot Derek fucked him, the
exact spot that Stiles came all over the marble, literally a thousand more times after the fact.
This did occur to Stiles at the time. This ran through his head. He imagined it as the act was
happening; but it was just that, at the time, he really didn't fucking care. More than that, it amused
him, somewhat, or maybe even made the entire thing that much sexier.
Now, though, as he's waking up in his own bed the next morning, his perfectly fixed and working
Jeep sitting out on the side of the road in front of his shitty apartment, he feels wracked with
something. Guilt is way too small of a word, and regret is miniscule .
He fucking hates himself let's put it that way.
---Helloo-ooo?
We had sex.
Hmm? Lydia sounds half-distracted, like she's doing homework or writing a paper.
We. Had. Sex!
A sigh comes from the other end of the line, and Lydia clucks out, you and Derek?
Stiles is too bamboozled to be surprised that she just instantly knew who Stiles was referring to
even though, if you asked Stiles in the past who he thought he'd be hooking up with, his last
answer would be Derek Hale. Last! Answer! Yes, yes, me and Derek, Lydia! He's pacing
back and forth across his living room floor. Not that there's much room for it he's pacing the
same ten foot space again and again, mostly just going in circles, for something to do with
himself, because sitting still and thinking about what he's done is absolutely not an option.
What, like last night?
Yes. Yes, last night. My car broke down, and he saw me on the side of the road because how
many people drive that exact car in a hundred mile radius-
Mmhmmm.
-and then he knows some guy who does amazing car things and he sent it to him to fix and then
Derek drove me to his house and I don't know, we were talking, and talking turned into an
argument, and an argument turned into, like, understanding ? And then -
And then...
And then! And fucking then! We had sex in his shared house with the woman whose wedding

I'm planning . To him! Are you hearing me?

Stiles, Lydia says, and he swears he hears her typing on her laptop in the background, I am
hearing you loud and clear. I'm pretty sure even if we weren't on the phone, I'd hear you from all
across the country.
Stiles takes a deep breath. Tries to calm down. Fails. Fuck!
I know, she says, in a soothing voice and Stiles knows that she couldn't possibly know,
because she at least has never done anything this stupendously shitty; but she's not here to cast
judgment on Stiles and his crap decisions. She's here to lend an ear. Albeit while multitasking.
We had sex on his stairs, Stiles is still pacing, we had sex on the stairs that his future wife
uses to get to the bedroom where they have sex! Together!
The stairs were a better idea than their bed, at least.
That doesn't make me feel any better. He starts slowing down, regulating his breathing, taking
a second to notice that something is very, very odd about this conversation. How can you
possibly be so calm about this?
Because, she says simply, while the keyboard taps continuously on, I saw this coming a mile
away.
Stiles pauses altogether, stopping dead in his tracks. What ?
Well, I didn't specifically know that it would be on the stairs-
WHAT?
-but I did know that you two were going to wind up screwing. It would've surprised me more if
you didn't.
WHAT!? Stiles feels like he's drifted off into some weird dimension. That's the only
plausible thing here. Everything, from the second Tiffany lectured him and then gave him a red
suit (still sitting in the back of his Jeep, now that he thinks on it) to this conversation he's having
with Lydia has got to be a dream or something. Like, the longest and most vivid dream of all
time.
Well, come on, Stiles. Remember the way you guys used to bicker and argue when you were
together? Remember how every single fight between you two used to end?
Stiles does, indeed, remember. Post-fight sex is pretty much what Derek and Stiles did
absolutely best. Normal sex, where neither of them were even slightly annoyed at each other,
just wasn't as much fun. Maybe that's why Stiles was always picking fights with Derek, and why
Derek always let him.

This is different, Lydia . This is this is me being the other man .

The other man who's planning the other woman's wedding.
Exactly. Exactly! It's so fucked up, it's so fucked up, it's! So! Fucked! Up!
So...you're quitting.
Stiles pauses at that. Honestly, for as much as he's been laying around his apartment feeling like
the world's biggest sack of shit, for the drive of shame all the way from LA back to BH, for the
forty-five minute shower he took...at no point did he even think about quitting the job. At no point
did he think abort mission, remove self from situation, run like fucking hell . The thought just
never crossed his mind. Um...
Stiles .
Well! It's, like, complicated!
The situation itself is complicated, I agree. The decision you have to make regarding the
situation, however, is not. You can't be that guy, Stiles, and you know you can't. Homewrecker?
Do you really want that attached to your name?
Homewrecker. Homewrecker . Christ, that's what Stiles is, isn't it? He's a god damn
homewrecker. And not the glamorous Marina and the Diamonds type, either oh, no. He's the
sleazy, slutty, trashy, gay, poor wedding planner that slithers his way into planning people's
weddings just so he can run off with the groom. Good fucking God .
Exactly. Quit the job, no explanations given.
Stiles would have to be the biggest kind of idiot to keep the job, after this. He'd also be the
biggest kind of idiot to even entertain the thought of going near Derek Hale ever again. Whatever
happens between Derek and Tiffany is none of his business. Derek is a cheater (which Stiles
suspected all along anyway, but was only wrong the first time, and it's not like drug-dealer is that
much of a step up), and Stiles, as the cheatee, might have some kind of cosmic favor owed to
Tiffany, to at least let her know what's going on behind her back. What he should do is quit the
job. Lydia is right. He needs to quit the job, never see Derek Hale again, write Tiffany an e-mail
telling her not to marry Derek because ...
I mean, it's obvious. It's staring him right in the face in glowing, neon lights. It's Las Vegas in his
mind, with all those arrows pointing to a blinking QUIT! in the center of it all.
You're not going to do it, are you? Lydia sounds tired whether from the paper she's probably
writing, or from Stiles' complete idiocy, Stiles isn't sure.
I... Stiles can't find the words to say. He can't figure out what it is that's keeping him stuck,
when he knows that it's crazy. He knows that it's dangerous. He knows he's playing with fire,
holding his hand out to a rabid dog, hoping to god that it doesn't bite him.

He thinks something inside of him, something dark and buried deep, likes the thought of it. Likes
that feeling he has, of falling off a cliff, of doing something wrong . Of doing something stupid .
He likes it. He's an idiot.
Afterward, after everything was done and said and Stiles' Jeep was waiting for him out in
Derek's huge roundabout driveway, Derek had given him a strange look. Strange, because it had
never been on his face before, and yet familiar, because Stiles knew he had the exact same look
on his face. It was a silent conversation, between the two of them and unspoken words passed
between them, words that said what are we doing? What are we doing to each other? Is this
really what we are? Is this who we are?
Are you okay with destroying everything in the hopes that something good will come out of the
ashes?
Lydia's tongue clicks. It's your life. It's your mistake to make. Do whatever you want, but just
remember my voice saying this, because I'm too lazy to say it twice I told you so.
---You look like a strawberry.
Stiles glowers at his best friend, adjusting the vest for the billionth time, trying to make it look
like something he actually should be wearing. It's not working. As many times as he looks in the
mirror, he feels like...a strawberry.
He's being carted off to some dinner party at Tiffany's house how he got bullied into it, he will
never know wearing that fabled red suit, vest included. All he knows is that he is not getting
paid for this, that it's the literal last place he wants to go, that he still hasn't spoken to Derek
since having sex with him, that he's making a mistake, that something horrible is bound to happen
eventually. It's a lot. It's too much.
I think he looks handsome, Allison says from behind them, curled up on the couch pretending
to read a book, but really just eavesdropping on the boys and eyeballing Stiles' ridiculous suit.
It really does look good on you.
Eh, Scott says, scrunching up his nose, strawberry .
That isn't even strawberry red. It's more...rose. Rose red.
Like rose is that much better?
Stiles tunes out their banter, staring at himself in the mirror. He looks nothing like himself. He
looks like some weird, alternate universe Stiles that's come in and replaced the Stiles of this
world, so that he can walk around in thousand dollar rose red suits and silk button up shirts,
expensive black shoes that don't say I <3 Cock! to top it all off, and he'd be saying things like
hmm, yes, this caviar is quite...quite! How utterly utterly!

Stiles wonders if alternate universe him would be a homewrecker, too. Probably not. Alternate
universe him is a gentlemen and a scholar, not a literal piece of trash on the side of the road.
Allison and Scott, as well as the rest of the gang, have been...tolerating towards Stiles' decision
to keep this job. No one knows about he and Derek hooking up aside from Lydia, and Stiles
plans to keep it that way, but ever since that night at the bar on his birthday, everyone has been
more or less walking on eggshells around him. Nobody wants to flat out say Stiles, you're being
a fucking idiot! But no one has absolutely any problems with subtly hinting as much to him, in as
many creative ways as they can find.
Allison is probably the worst offender of them all. Every now and then Stiles catches her just
looking at him, like she's looking for something to magically appear on his skin or his person in
general; he isn't sure what, exactly, but whatever it is...he really does not enjoy being scrutinized
like that, even by one of his best friends.
Now, he's about to make a horrible two hour trek to Los Angeles to sit in the very house he broke
the sixth commandment in, to look the woman he's wronged directly in the face and pretend that
everything is all honky-dory, while simultaneously trying to avoid Derek while also trying to get
him alone so they can, like, talk?
Stiles has really put himself in a fucking doozy of a situation, this time.
---When he pulls up to Derek's house in his jeep, the one some nameless faceless magician man
fixed up for him while Derek and Stiles made their conjoined mistake, he just sits there for a
moment, staring up at the house. In the driveway right in front of him sits Tiffany's bright white
Range Rover, immaculate without a single speck of dirt, shining in the dim lights projecting out
of the house. He tries not to look at it as he gets out of his own car, slamming the door behind
him.
The steps he takes up to the front door feel long. Every step he takes is precise and premeditated,
while in his head he plays a mantra of just be normal. Just be normal. Act the same as always,
she won't notice a thing.
It's perverse and horrible and shitty. Yet not a single part of him considers doing anything
different.
He rings the doorbell, listens to it ring throughout the huge house, and then a maid is pulling open
the door. A maid. A maid? Stiles doesn't remember there being any maid in the house when he
was here with Derek at least, he hopes there was no maid around during that.
Er - he begins, flabbergasted.
Sarnocinski? She pulls the door open wider, smiling at him pleasantly, her blonde hair pulled
up into an elegant bun on top of her head. He didn't even know people still made maid outfits

like the one she's wearing. It reminds him, insanely, of Gilmore Girls.
It's Stiles, actually, he tells her, stepping inside in the space she's made for him, Sarnocinski
was my father's name.
She seems confused. I thought-
No. I just meant it was just a joke. God almighty.
Oh, and then she starts pity laughing at him or, more accurately, she starts laughing because
it's probably in her job description to laugh at the pathetic jokes of anyone who comes through
this door.
Don't joke with the maid, Sarnocinski, Virginia appears in the foyer, cigarette free this time,
leering at him in a white mini dress that a woman her age should never wear, she doesn't
understand anything but how to hang up coats.
Stiles feels bizarrely uncomfortable, already, and it's only been fifteen seconds since he's
entered the house.
Right, the maid agrees, somewhat dismally, would you like me to take your jacket?
Stiles pulls on the ends of his suit coat, trying to remember what the correct procedure is. Is he
supposed to take his jacket off? Is that how suits work? The maid would know and she asked,
so he thinks it's probably pretty typical to go without it. Um, sure.
He shrugs out of it, and dangles it out for the maid to take in her hands, and then she's skittering
off away from him, deep into the bowels of the huge house, vanishing down the hallway as her
skirt swishes with her movements.
Stiles hovers there for a moment, blinking, unsure of what to do, wishing he hadn't taken off his
stupid jacket because now he feels bizarrely exposed in front of Virginia, who's just standing
there eyeballing him like he's a piece of meat at the butcher's.
Stupid girl didn't even invite you in, she smiles at him and shrugs, like oh well! She's fired!
Somewhere behind her, he can hear the definite sound of Tiffany laughing, accompanied by the
grumble of Derek's voice. Stiles wants to go up in a cloud of smoke.
Well... he begins, shoving his glasses farther up on his nose, trying to decide what to do.
Fleeing in terror sounds like a pretty good plan right about now.
Come on, then, she cocks her head back towards the direction of the voices, and then turns
around without another word, vanishing just like the maid.
Stiles feels like he just stepped into Oz.
As soon as he rounds the corner, Tiffany's voice is cawing a drawn out Stiles!, and a drink is

dropped into his hand by that same befuddled looking maid, and the next thing he knows he's
sitting down on a plush white couch right across from Derek.
Derek, for his part, sweeps his eyes over Stiles with moderate interest, and then goes right back
to munching on cheese and crackers. Casual. Calm. Like nothing whatsoever has ever happened
between the two of them.
Stiles doesnt fare so well. He tips his drink back, downing it way too fast, and in his rush to put
it back down onto the coaster on the coffee table right in front of him, he winds up dropped it,
spilling ice out all over the pristine carpet.
Shit, he curses before he can stop himself, throwing himself down onto the floor to gather up
as much of the ice as he can manage, I'm so, so sorry, holy shit, another curse, and he wishes
he could melt just like the ice into the carpet and disappear into the fibers. Please, God, get him
out of this alive.
The maid is at his side in under five seconds, shoving his hands away, scooping the ice up
herself.
Honestly, Stiles, Tiffany says, holding a wine glass above him, that's what the maid is for.
Stiles wonders if the maid has a name as he stands, and meets Tiffany at eye level. It's not a big
deal. Derek tracks dirt on this carpet three times a week it practically lives at the cleaners.
Satisfied with this, Stiles runs his watery hand down his pants to dry it off and then belatedly
realizes that this was not the correct thing to do at the way Virginia scrunches her eyebrows at
him. Well...he did just wipe his hand on a thousand dollar pair of pants, so she might have a
point on that one.
Slowly, he drops his hand, and then accidentally winds up making eye contact with Derek, who's
staring at him with pursed lips. Stiles recognizes that face.
It's the Stiles, you're making a fool of yourself in public face. Stiles' least favorite face of
Derek's.
Stiles narrows his eyes behind his glasses and turns away.
So, tell me, Sarnocinski, Virginia crosses her legs and grins at him, how's the wedding
coming along?
Stiles takes his seat back on the couch, clears his throat, and tries to look and sound as
professional as possible. Perfectly. We're right on schedule with everything, and next week we
can start getting into the reception hall to start setting everything up.
Setting up...?
Like, the tables and the tablecloths, parts of the centerpieces...

And you do that?

Stiles smiles. I oversee it. This time he oversees it, because Tiffany had the money to shell out
on an entire crew for him to work with. Normally, however, with all his past jobs, it was him
and the family doing it all. It's amazing how much less he has to actually work with this job, and
yet he's still getting paid over ten times more.
But you've never done a wedding this size before.
Stiles pauses considers how to answer that. For a brief second, he glances at Derek, who
looks genuinely interested in the conversation, leaning back into the couch cushions with his eyes
flickering between Virginia and Stiles. No, I haven't.
Virginia clucks her tongue. Stiles is just about to swoop in and defend himself, something along
the lines of um, er, ah...but Derek beats him to the punch. He's done bigger events, though.
Stiles turns his head in his direction, blinking in surprise. He did the Christmas Parade for
Beacon Hills this past year. That was, what, two thousand people?
Derek actually looked at his portfolio. Not only did he actually look at it, he actually took a
fucking genuine interest in it Stiles kind of thought Derek took one look at it, sneered, and went
back to counting his millions alone in his office while petting a fluffy white cat. Around there,
yeah.
Virginia doesn't look impressed in the slightest, but Stiles could give a fuck about what she
thinks.
So I think he knows what he's doing.
Tiffany is off to the side, beaming like the sun, probably thinking oh, the boys finally are getting
along, how lovely!
If only she knew the beginnings of just how well Derek and Stiles are getting along, these days.
After that, it's all just cheese and crackers and wine and liquor and Derek and Stiles trying their
hardest to not look too interested in each other, and Stiles thinks that it's going pretty well,
considering the circumstances. Virginia, slick as she might be, hasn't seemed to notice anything
when she's a woman who notices everything, like when the hot appetizers come out ten seconds
after they were supposed to, and she screams at the maid, or when the curtains and the carpet or
two different shades of eggshell white and she clucks her tongue at Tiffany, or when Derek's shirt
becomes partially untucked. She's the single most annoying person Stiles has ever had the
displeasure of spending an evening with, and he can tell Tiffany is mentally unraveling more and
more as cocktail hour wears on; if the wine she keeps chugging in the kitchen when she thinks no
one is looking is anything to go by.
Half an hour before dinner is to be served, Stiles excuses himself to go to the bathroom, at the
same exact time Derek says he's going down to the cellar to get another bottle of wine (two

guesses as to what happened to the other bottles.) It's completely by coincidence. Absolutely not
related at all.
Stiles intercepts Derek on his way down to the basement, because he really was going to get
more wine, and Derek doesn't look surprised to see him. That suit looks good on you, he says,
raising his eyebrows.
He thinks, okay, so, we're going to talk, and we're going to, like, work this shit out and figure
something out because we can't possibly keep going on like this and even more than that we
can't possibly have sex again, right...? Right!
None of that comes out of his mouth. Nothing comes out at all, for several seconds. He's just
standing there, staring at Derek, and Derek's amazing good looks, and Derek's amazing ability to
charm anyone when he really fucking wants to and...Stiles just shrugs. He just fucking shrugs,
and says It's okay. He thinks about mentioning that Tiffany picked it out for him but doesn't
think that bringing up Tiffany would be the best idea, at a time like this.
Derek opens up the door to the cellar, and takes one step back into it, keeping his eyebrows
raised. Is your car working all right?
Stiles takes two steps closer, until he's standing in the doorway, watching as Derek moves back
two more steps. In his mind a warning alarm is going off. Do not do this, Stiles. Nothing good is
waiting for you on the other side of that door, Stiles. But he doesn't stop. He smiles wider. Yes,
it is. Who was the guy who fixed it for me?
The cellar door closes behind Stiles, and before Derek has a chance to answer, they're on top of
each other. I guess we're not going to talk about how fucked up this all is, or what we plan on
doing about it Stiles thinks as Derek tangles his hand up in Stiles' hair, sucking on his bottom
lip, and Stiles is returning the favor.
I hate Virginia, Stiles breathes out against Derek's lips as the other man kisses his way down
Stiles' neck, she really-
I don't want to talk about her right now, fuck, Derek hisses out, licking across his exposed
collarbones.
I'm just saying-
Don't say anything, Derek, out of nowhere, runs his big hand down along Stiles' groin area,
feeling until he gets a firm grip on the outline of Stiles' dick through his pants, eliciting a gasp,
before he starts stroking it slowly through the fabric.
Hold on, Stiles says, sadly pushing Derek's hand away. I don't want to be walking around
with my hardon tucked into the waist-band of my underwear, all right?
Derek smiles, kissing Stiles gently on the lips. I want you to, though, he moves his hand back

into its original position but holds it still, like he's waiting for Stiles' go ahead. The heat from
Derek's hand is more than enough to get him half-hard, though, and he can't fucking think straight.
I like the thought of you, another kiss, sitting through dinner, hard for me.
Okay, so here's the thing. Stiles was always the initiator. Fucking in coatrooms at parties or in
the McDonald's parking lot after Stiles ate a McFlurry; Stiles' ideas. All of them. This, too, was
Stiles' idea he was the one who followed unsuspecting Derek down to the wine cellar when he
could've just stayed at fucking cocktail hour. But what most people wouldn't think, is that despite
all the grumbling Derek will do on the way there, despite all the eyerolling and embarrassed
glances he gives people at how crass and rude Stiles can be...
Derek gets off on this shit just as much as Stiles does.
Okay, Stiles breathes, and immediately Derek is back at it, jerking him off through the fabric of
his pants, keeping his eyes trained on Stiles' face as he pants and bites his lip. He tilts his head
back, so the top of his head leans against the wall behind him, and Derek puts his free hand on
Stiles' exposed neck, stroking against his jawline with his thumb. Okay, but don't fuck don't
make me cum like this, Derek doesn't slow down, do not make me cum in these pants, Derek.
You won't, he promises, gently keeping Stiles in place against the wall with the hand on his
neck. This is an exceptionally good through-the-pants handjob, Stiles thinks and he isn't sure if
it's just because it's Derek, or if it's because of the fact that they're hiding out in a wine cellar,
while literally less than fifty feet away, Tiffany is arguing with her mother about table settings.
Stiles can hear their voices drifting down the hall, and something about it...
Or it could be the fact that Derek is vicious about it. He's rubbing at Stiles like his very life
depends on it, and Stiles is starting to moan, quietly, feeling himself drifting closer and closer to
the edge, feeling himself losing control...
And then, just like that, Derek's hands are off of Stiles, and he's taking a step back. Stiles
whimpers, trying to follow Derek's hand as it moves away, but Derek pushes him back against
the wall with two fingers in his chest.
He moves closer again, right into Stiles' personal space, and Stiles is thinking yes, yes, finish me
off, yes screw the fucking pants...but then something clinks, and Derek pulls back with a bottle
of wine in his hands.
He takes two steps, opens up the cellar door, and raises his eyebrows at Stiles. You better get
tucked in.
And the door closes behind him.
Stiles sits through dinner with a jiggling leg. Virginia and Tiffany carry the conversation, which
isn't much of a surprise, and Derek sits at the head of table eating and only glancing at Stiles
when absolutely necessary. Stiles just sits, staring down at his food, eating enough of it so that no
one asks why he's not eating, desperately trying to think about anything, anything else at all, aside

from Derek and Derek's hands and Derek touching him andWhat's the name of the woman making our cake, Stiles?
Stiles looks up, swallows a bite of green bean, and flicks his eyes to Derek for a fraction of a
second to find him sipping at his wine casually. Um Erica Reyes.
Right, Tiffany agrees, smiling. She's one of Stiles' friends. Apparently she's done the cake for
every single wedding you've ever managed?
That's right, yeah, Stiles feels like at any second, he's going to explode. All he can think about,
no matter how many distractions there are, is getting off. From the look on Derek's face, he
knows it, too. Smug. Smug.
By the time he's getting his jacket back from the maid and pulling his car keys out of his pocket,
he's mostly calmed down. His body has calmed down. He is in his right mind as they're all
gathered around the front door, saying their goodbyes. Virginia gives him a headnod and a
handshake, Tiffany wraps him up in a great big bear hug, and Derek...
Stiles reaches his hand out for Derek to take, and he does. Two quick shakes, and while his back
is turned to the two women, he mouths you owe me.
That was really only the start of this entire fucked up charade. From then on, the remaining two
weeks before the wedding that is, it's just a non-stop screw-around fest between Derek and
Stiles always in some clandestine, sleazy way, too. In Derek's Beamer after Tiffany leaves the
cake tasting appointment, in an alleyway behind the florists, in the winecellar again (several
times, at that), and after each time, Stiles feels like his grip on reality is loosening. The thought
of huh...Derek is cheating on his fiancee' and I'm helping him stops crossing his mind. He
stops thinking of it like that, at all all he can see it as is Derek touching him, and that's all he
thinks he really needs to see it as.
Danger, Will Robinson! goes through his mind more often than not, however only it doesn't
have anything at all to do with Tiffany. It's this sick, nasty reminder, lurking around in the back of
his head, that...he's been here before. He's seen all this before. He's felt this before, and...doesn't
he remember how that turned out? Doesn't he remember the screaming, and the crying, and the
fighting, because no matter what, Derek Hale is still Derek fucking Hale. Fiancee' or not.
Nothing can stop him, though. He's falling back into what got him here in the first place. He's
fucking up.
It gets so bad that one night, two days before the rehearsal dinner at Tiffany's house, Derek calls
him at eleven o'clock at night. And, of course, when Stiles looks at his phone and sees who it is
on the caller ID, he knows exactly what type of call it's going to end up being. He lies there in
his bed, staring at his phone, letting it vibrate in his hand, debating on whether or not he should
answer.

He does answer. Tiffany is staying with her mother, he says. She thinks I should go and stay with
my family for a while before the wedding, too, he says.
Can I come over to your place, he says.
Two hours later and Derek's Beamer is sitting outside on the street, looking like the single most
conspicuous thing on the face of the planet, and Derek himself is sitting on Stiles' piece of shit
garage sale couch, looking so bizarrely out of place that Stiles almost wants to take a picture of
it. If he thinks this place is a dump, he might not say it, but he definitely shows it. All over his
face. The way he eyeballs the tiny, four foot wide kitchen ten feet away from him with the half
eaten pot of macaroni and cheese still sitting on the stove, and the queen sized bed ten feet away
in the other direction, all in the same room as the couch he's sitting on.
His upper lip curls in disgust, but he says nothing.
Stiles hands him a mug of tea and folds himself onto the couch beside him, fixing him with a
smile. So, Tiffany is staying with Virginia? It's bizarre how they can just sit here and talk about
her, like this like she's a mutual friend and not a mutual person they're stabbing in the fucking
back. Like she's a concept, and not a real person, who might really be fucked over by whatever
the hell it is that the two of them think they're doing.
The question Stiles never thinks to ask : why don't you leave her? For me?
Yeah, Derek answers after a sip of the tea, I guess she wanted...I don't know. Some weird
thing about not seeing each other for a few days before the wedding, like,
Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Stiles supplies, grinning like a bobcat.
Derek smiles back, as he reaches out and strokes his thumb down Stiles' cheek. Exactly.
And you're supposed to be at your Uncle's house, he continues on, as Derek's thumb continues
to run down his face. But instead you're here.
Instead I'm here.
With little old me.
Mmm.
And whatever, Stiles grabs Derek's hand, pulls it down off his face, to lace their fingers
together, did you want to do with me?
He shrugs his shoulders, running his tongue along his teeth. I wanted you.
Me, Stiles thinks, as Derek leans in and kisses him hard on the mouth, pulling him closer by the
back of his neck. He wants me, as Derek pulls Stiles' shirt up over his head and runs his warm
hands down his bare chest. Me. Me. Me.

As has been happening more often lately, a nasty, dark voice in the back of his head, one Stiles
can easily ignore when Derek is touching him like this, whispers but he's not marrying you.
Stiles pushes that to the side as his pajama pants are slid down his ankles onto the ground,
exposing him to the cool air of his barely heated apartment. Derek doesn't seem to mind.
He drops down to his knees right there in front of the couch, in front of Stiles' waiting body, and
Stiles' spreads his legs. He rests his feet on the coffee table behind Derek, one on either side of
his shoulders, and leans back into the couch, letting his ex-boyfriend and current booty call wrap
his lips around the head of his dick.
Derek goes slow. He takes his time on each section of Stiles, running his tongue all around, and
under, before taking in more. By the time he's at the base of it, Stiles feels about ready to grab the
back of his head, to hold him there and just fuck up into his mouth of his own accord but he
doesn't. He lets Derek keep going slow, keep savoring every last taste of Stiles he can find, lets
him gently finger at his balls, until he can't take it anymore. Please, please, faster, he groans,
eyes shut tight.
Abruptly, Derek is off of him.
Stiles' eyes fly open and he looks up to find that Derek has leaned back onto his knees, away
from him. Nope, he says, a sly look on his face.
Please, Stiles tries again, jutting his hips forward, and Derek puts both hands on Stiles' chest
to hold him down onto the couch in place.
I want you to tell me something, he appraises Stiles' dick, throbbing and ramrod straight,
leaking pre-cum all over his creamy stomach.
Okay, Stiles pants, squirming slightly.
When we were apart, Derek leans forward and breathes a thick pool of hot air onto Stiles'
weeping cock Stiles tries to thrust up into it with a bit of a cry, but he's locked down in place
by Derek's firm hands. Did you miss me?
Stiles nods, frantically. Yes. Yes, God, yes.
I want to hear how, a soft kiss to the head, and Stiles nearly starts crying, I want to hear about
all the ways you wanted me.
Derek, please.
Tell me.
I fuck. I did google you, and the word google sounds so fucking ridiculous while he's in this
situation he's never noticed how unsexy that word is until now, I googled you and I used to
check up on your company website looking for news about you, Derek starts rubbing soothing

circles into Stiles' thighs, just close enough to the pool of heat between them that it's enough to
drive Stiles nuts, I used to I used to e-mail old mutual friends of ours, like Danny, for
example, and Jackson Whittemore, and Vernon Boyd, asking about you, and how you were
doing. Please, please, please...
A long lick up the entire length, and Stiles nearly comes completely undone. More.
When I got my glasses prescription updated, I picked...I picked the kind I thought you would
like the most, it's the most embarrassing thing he thinks that Scott could tell, when he picked
them out, why he picked those. Specific. Ones. But Scott never said anything about it.
Derek leans in and takes Stiles completely in again, for just a fraction of a second, before
releasing him again with a pop.
No, Stiles moans, reaching down to grab at his own dick himself, getting one fast stroke in
before Derek pulls his hand away. I can't do this, I need to, I need to, I need to...
Derek doesn't say anything. He sits and watches as Stiles' pants, and whines, and squirms in
Derek's grip, a mantra of please draining out of his strained vocal chords.
After ten long seconds of this, Derek finally speaks. You are so beautiful.
With that last word, Derek finally sucks Stiles into his mouth, hard and fast and quick, and Stiles
is spilling into his mouth in a matter of seconds, crying out so loudly he's sure the neighbors all
the way down the street could hear him.
As he's coming down, feeling as slow as glue and as loose as puddy, that same, dark voice from
earlier creeps into the back of his mind.
The wedding is in three days.
---Maybe Stiles was just...waiting for something. Maybe he thought that eventually, something
would have to change, and things would get better, and every thing would start to be all right and
not just be this shitty, fucked up thing, where he's some dirty little closet secret for Derek to
stash away, and then pull out again whenever he starts to feel bored.
But that's not how Derek treats him, Stiles reasons. Derek treats him like he's precious, and
prized, and like he really, truly loves him. Derek will come to Stiles' shitty apartment and not
make a single comment about how he lives like a pauper. Derek will sit and run his fingers
through Stiles' hair for hours on end while watching a shitty movie on Lifetime at two in the
morning. Derek will gently slide Stiles' glasses off his face, and sit and clean the smudges off of
them for five minutes without being asked.
Can Tiffany say the same? Stiles doesn't know.

And it wouldn't matter, in the end, anyway because of course every thing had to come to a
screaming, screeching halt. Of course every thing had to go up in flames in the most dramatic
way possible. Of course.
The rehearsal dinner. The fucking rehearsal dinner. Tiffany didn't want some fancy affair at a
reception hall or a restaurant for her rehearsal she wanted a fancy affair at her own god damn
house. Like, cocktail hour, only for a wedding. It makes zero sense. And Stiles was in his red
suit, again, and Scott called him a strawberry, again, and Allison gave him mom face about
Derek, again, and he pulled up to Derek and Tiffany's house in his Jeep, again.
This time, when the door opens, it's a different maid.
The house is covered in decorations that match the entire theme of the wedding Stiles would
know, seeing as how he planned this as well. More like coordinated it, really Tiffany more or
less gave him the day off and told him to go and be with his friends and family for the last time
before she was going to take over his entire life and drive him fucking crazy. Her words, not his.
Stiles was fine with it. With the entire ordeal. He spent the day obsessing over his hair,
wondering if he should try contacts for the first time, nearly poking his own eyeball out, settling
back down on his glasses, running gel through his hair and then washing it out, on and on in an
endless cycle. And he was fine, all day.
He's fine now, too. Absolutely fucking fine. Stiles is fine with it when he comes into the spacious
living room and sees Derek standing with Tiffany. Stiles is fine with it when Derek asks Tiffany
what she wants to drink, but doesn't even glance in Stiles' direction. Stiles is fine with it when
Tiffany reaches up and pecks Derek on the lips. Stiles is fine with it when Derek walks right past
Stiles with little more than a courteous nod.
Stiles is fine with it when he tries to follow Derek into the empty kitchen, when he sidles right
up beside him with a smile, and Derek just blinks at him and says is there something you need,
Stilinski?
Stiles. Is. Fine.
He leaves the kitchen with a rum and coke (mostly rum) and disperses himself back into the
party, pretending like he's not having a hard time not crying and pretending like he's not about to
just go out to his car to drive away and leave.
Snacks. Snacks are just what he needs. All of the fucking snacks.
He picks up a mini plate and just starts loading it up every thing on the table. Bacon wrapped
shrimp, spicy Russian sausage on a toothpick, pigs in a blanket, pierogis, the whole fucking nine
yards, and then stands in the corner, looking out of place even in his hand-picked Tiffany suit,
staring down at his plate and nothing else, eating.
This is the first time since this entire thing started that he's ever truly felt like what he is. Derek's

fucking dirty, disgusting, poor, embarrassing slut that went to community college and uses every
single spare dime he makes to pay off his debt.
Nobody else in the room knows, is completely oblivious, but Stiles feels completely and utterly
humiliated. How stupid he was. Look at where you are, Stiles!, that nasty voice in his head
screams at him. You're at his wedding rehearsal! He's marrying someone else! You stupid,
stupid, fucking idiot!
He finishes the last of the food on his plate, and then is just standing there with an empty plate
and an empty up in his hands. Sighing, he starts to make his way through the crowd of people to
get to where a trash can is sitting off to the side a red trash bag, which he picked out, a white
shimmering oval can, which he picked out, dorned with a silver sparkling bow, which he picked
out. A fucking trashcan. And the thing fits in here way better than he does.
Dumping his stuff, he turns around and sees Tiffany leading a small group of people towards the
staircase, talking the entire way. ...I wanted red velvet to cover these stairs, because, look at
them! They're so slippery! But, oh, they just look so beautiful, don't they? And Derek and I both
agreed, we'd leave them as is, she's going up the first slight of stairs, now, raking her eyes up
and down them, as if reminding herself that, yes, these are my stairs! ...because there is such a
thing as too much, and there is such a thing as over the - she freezes mid sentence, a confused
look crossing her features.
She leans down, disappearing onto the ground for two seconds, and then she comes back up,
slowly. Turning around, she scans the crowd, and when her eyes land on Stiles, she holds
something shiny up in her hands.
Stiles' entire body goes into lockdown.
The silver bullet. There it is, in her elegant fingers, dangling from a chain. She has a bemused
smile on her face, as she yells, honey, isn't this yours?
She doesn't seem mad. She hasn't put the pieces together yet. She hasn't realized that the only
other time Stiles was in this house was for that dinner party with Virginia, and that Stiles never
fucking went near the stairs, not even within thirty feet of them, when he was there. She knows
that. She isn't thinking. If Stiles can get over there and take that thing out of her hands fast enough,
cite something like oh, silly me! Must've fallen off!, then she won't think about it ever again.
Or if she does, and she questions him about it, he'll just use the spare time to come up with a
good excuse. Something like...he doesn't know. He can't think right now.
Then he does something really, really stupid. Like...even stupid for him.
Unconsciously, he looks and finds Derek in the crowd, and stares right at him. Tiffany's eyes
follow the movement, and an even more confused expression crosses her face.
Something must click in her brain. Stiles thinks he sees her putting the pieces together. She'd

have to be a fucking idiot to not read into that one.

He's just about to take his first steps, just about to cite something about the maid taking it,
something, when a very familiar voice is screaming his name.
Stiles? Stiles! Stiles! Oh, my God!
The coffin has been nailed shut. Slowly, like an old man, Stiles turns and faces his demise.
Laura Hale is bounding towards him in six inch high heels and a flowing white dress, looking
like she just crawled out of heaven, she's so fucking ethereal, and behind her, coming at a much
slower pace, is Peter Hale.
This isn't happening. This cannot be happening. This is a nightmare. Wake up, Stiles, wake up,
this is Oh, look at what you're wearing! Laura howls in laughter, throwing her head back. Trying to
fit in with us now, are you?
He looks nice, Peter says after he catches up, and Stiles nervously looks over to Tiffany, who
has apparently given up on her tour and is just standing there, slack-jawed, still holding the
silver bullet in her hand.
Um -
What are you doing here? Didn't you hear Derek's getting married to someone else? You're not
still, you know, pining are you, because-
Laura, Peter warns, but he's smiling, shaking his head.
You're right. I'm sorry. That's rude. out of the corner of his eye, Stiles can see Tiffany coming
over to them. He needs to back out of here, right the fuck now, he needs to jump out of the
window, or just make a fucking break for it. I'm working on that, you know. Not saying the first
thing that comes into my head I always really liked you, Stiles, you know, and it was never a
problem that you were-
Laura, Tiffany says, the fakest, least genuine smile Stiles has ever seen plastered onto her face.
Tiffany, Laura says back, meeting her smile was an equally unpleasant one. Tiffany's eyes go
to Stiles, and then to Laura, and back again. Ew, what the why do you have that? Laura
points to the silver bullet.
You know Stiles? Tiffany asks, ignoring her.
Laura has her eyes trained on the silver bullet, her upper lip curling in a bit of a snarl, and then
she looks away. Huh? Do I know Stiles?

Yes. Stiles, Tiffany gestures emphatically to Stiles himself. The wedding planner. Do you
know him?
Laura's neck snaps back, and she looks between the two of them in confusion. Then, a huge grin
spreads across her face. The wedding planner? Stiles?
Peter looks like he just figured out exactly what is going on here, and he brings his hand up to his
face to keep from laughing.
Honey, Laura leans in closer to Tiffany, that's not the wedding planner. That's Derek's exboyfriend.
Tiffany scrunches her eyebrows up, and Stiles pulls the silver bullet out of her hand, because he
plans on making a break for it. He really, truly does nothing he could say, nothing he could
ever, ever, do or say could ever make up for all the things he has done to this woman. She never
did much of anything to deserve it. And Stiles...he clearly isn't that great of a person. He's been
fucking her fiancee' behind her back for nearly three weeks.
He is what all these people, from this completely different world, always said that he was.
Trashy, low class, gold digger. He fits the description to a T.
So he's about to make a break for it, when Laura wraps her finger around his wrist, stopping him
easily, and says, Stiles, hold on, I know what this is-
Let me go, Stiles growls, shifting his eyes nervously to Tiffany, who's just standing there, in
utter shock. He has to get out of here before she comes back into awareness.
No, wait, Stiles, I can explain to you what-
His free hand, the one with the silver bullet tucked safely into his palm, lashes out to push Laura
away. Laura hisses, almost, dodging out of the way of his hand, releasing him, and Stiles
disappears out into the crowd.
As he's getting into his car, he hears Lydia's voice trilling in the back of his head.
I told you so.

and I will follow you home.

Chapter Summary

What you were to him. And what, exactly, was Stiles to Derek? Even when they were
together, he was so ridiculously insecure about himself that he always felt like what they
had was nothing more than some intense fling. Never anything that would, you know lead
to him being the lead role in an action/romance flick.

Chapter Notes

Let me tell you guys something...I knew people would not like Derek lmao but little did I
know how much some of you would truly hate him omfg it shocked my socks off I had to go
back and re-evaluate everything - but I hope that for some of you this finale kinda changes
your tunes a bit.
I really felt like a huge action scene would not fit in with the mood of this fic...like, at all,
which is why the one action scene in here is chopped up a bit oddly. I hope it still flows
well enough, though.
It's also insane how many different conflicts I wound up having to force Stiles and Derek to
deal with so I really hope that the transitions all go through well enough.
In any event, thanks for reading!! I hope you like this!! ! !

See the end of the chapter for more notes

You made the choices you made, Lydia says on his phone's voicemail, because Stiles stopped
answering his phone a while ago and he guesses she got a little tired of listening to the dial tone,
and now you get to live with it. I'm not blaming you, Stiles. I'm not trying to put you on a guilt
trip, or accuse you of anything. I'm just telling you to drop it. Drop him. It's for the best. For your
own good, sweetheart, it's time.
Stiles drops his phone down in his lap, and glares out at the early morning sunlight that's spilling
in through the window. He doesn't sleep so much anymore.
As one could possibly imagine, Stiles didn't get any jobs after that. Once a person gets a
reputation for being a homewrecker and a liar and an all around piece of literal shit, the phone
sort of stops ringing. Stiles never even got his final six thousand dollar pay check even though
he practically already had the fucking money spent.

So, more or less, he was screwed after that. He had to move out of his house because he couldn't
afford the rent, after two weeks of not landing another gig, and, yes, back onto Scott's couch.
Again.
Coming clean to his friends about what he had been doing with Derek had been really, really
traumatizing for Stiles. Admitting that someone else might've been right has always been a little
hard, but this particular subject was especially sore for the gang. Because it's not just been one
time they've told him to stop with Derek, to cut it completely the fuck out with Derek; it's been
dozens. And Stiles, stupid and oblivious and blind, has never listened. Not even once.
Allison and Scott were sympathetic, albeit begrudgingly. Isaac nearly punched Stiles in the nose,
while Erica just shook her head sadly and said that was really fucked up of you two, Stiles. And
Lydia kept leaving voice mails.
It was kind of hard to stay mad at him, though, when he was just so painstakingly pathetic. He
took care of canceling all the caterers and the church and the reception hall, but Tiffany had been
pretty clear that he wasn't to go near the guest list for cancellations.
I don't want you speaking to my friends or family, she had said with a sniff, refusing to even so
much as glance in his general direction. Stiles really couldn't blame her.
In some ways, yes; it is technically Tiffany's fault that word got around about him and Derek
being adulterers. The thing is, though, that she wasn't doing it to be a spiteful, vengeful bitch,
believe it or not. She was doing it because she had to give all 800 of her guests a reason why she
was canceling her wedding two days before it was supposed to happen. So, the grapevine
trickled down, and down, and down, and soon everyone knew yadda yadda yadda...
The man practically couldn't even give his services away for free. It was all oh no, he'll try and
steal your husband! He'll probably succeed at it, too! Lock your men up! Humiliating truly
doesn't even begin to cover it.
So there was that shame. Then there was not being able to pay his rent. Then there was selling
his car just for money to, like, live.
Also, the crippling, near debilitating heartbreak. Probably the most fun of it all. Oh, how he had
trusted Derek again, and listened to Derek, and believed in Derek, even though it was the single
most idiotic thing he'd ever done in his life. He was getting married. How fucking delusional
can any one person be? Heartbreak and feelings of absolute humiliation do not mix very well
together. It was a Molotov cocktail, up inside his brain, and he felt borderline paralyzed by it,
for the first couple of weeks. Some mornings, he would just lay in his bed, staring up at the
ceiling, listening to his alarm clock blaring on and on and on for hours on end before even
moving. How does a person just get up and keep going on, after something like that happens?
Stiles thought for a few days there that he honestly wasn't going to make it out of that aftermath
alive. That it was just going to swallow him whole.
When he showed up on Allison and Scott's doorstep with nothing but a tiny duffel bag of his

most important possessions and clothes...it would've just been downright cruel to say no to him.
Just until I get up on my feet, he had said a bit abysmally, settling back down onto that old,
uncomfortable couch.
Right, Scott agreed, patting his back gently.
As luck would have it, back on his feet meant taking his old, shitty, underpaid job as a barista at
the local cafe. He made enough money to shoulder his share of the rent, and was squirreling the
rest of it away to buy himself another car. A better car. A nice car well. Any car. Walking to
and form work was starting to get very, very old.
After he got the car, he would start squirreling away for his own place, again. If Stiles' math is
correct, he should be getting up and off the couch again in about, eh, a year. Give or take. It's a
nice, simple goal. A reachable goal. That's what he needs to set his sights on now; nice, simple,
reachable, possible goals.
Whatever put him in any form of psychosis, whatever made him think he could actually make it
as a wedding planner...Stiles isn't sure.
Whatever convinced him to think that Derek Hale actually gave a shit about him, much less loved
him.
Stiles isn't sure.
---Work is fine. Work is work. It's mindless, and continuous, and very rarely ever anything aside
from the usual humdrum of coffee grinders and espresso machines frothing at milk. Stiles guesses
that it's nice, to have something so...ordinary and plain, again. After a whirlwind of nothing but
bizarre and strange and insane, it was semi-nice to come to a place where everyone else was
just like him. There was no one around here to sneer at his clothing choices or mock him for his
community college degree.
Like most things in his life, though, that too had to be taken away from him.
One night, half an hour before closing, when the floor was mostly empty save for a few kids
cramming for a test or writing a paper, the belle ting tings as he's wiping down the counters, and
he looks up, and, well...he sees a sight. A sight worse than if Derek Hale himself were to walk
straight through that fucking door.
Laura Hale. The greater of the two evils.
She strides forward with a look on her face, and it's not the look of, oh, you work here! Didn't
know! It's the look of haha I knew you worked here and now I'm going to taunt you about it!
Stiles wishes he hadn't already taken his fifteen; he wants nothing more than to throw his apron
on the ground right now and flee the floor completely, right to the back door and down the alley.

Then again, Laura would just follow him. She has a bizarre knack for doing shit like that.
Hey, Stiles, she says when she approaches the counter, eyes taking in his entire form from head
to toe.
It's one thing to see Laura Hale in certain settings. You know, like, at the Hale family Christmas
party, or at his ex-boyfriend's wedding rehearsal. She has this way of just kind of blending into
places like that not that she's boring, or just like everyone else, but just that she...works, there.
She fits like the perfect accessory of an outfit, at those places.
It's another to see her in this setting. In her body hugging black dress, knee high boots, and
sunglasses she looks out of place. In the worst possible way. In the everyone is staring at her
way. What's worse, to add insult to injury, is that Stiles is covered in chocolate syrup, reeks of
coffee beans, is wearing his dorky visor and his even dorkier glasses, and a hideous brown
apron.
This is the worst day.
Can I get you something to drink? He asks her, trying to keep his voice light and pleasant. I
don't think we serve the blood of the innocent here, but-
Har har har, she takes her sunglasses off, probably just so Stiles could actually see her rolling
her eyes, I'm a heinous bitch, har har har.
Who said heinous bitch? I never said heinous bitch. The exact term I used was, I believe,
fucking psycho witch, but same difference, I guess.
Laura smiles as she remembers the same night that Stiles is referring to. It was, about, two
weeks prior to the break up with Derek (the first one), and he was at yet another Hale company
party, drinking too much, and getting whispered about too much, and getting ignored by Derek
too much, and all around not having a great time. Laura tended to always be the fucking cherry
on top of a not great time (see : Derek's rehearsal dinner), because she has no fucking filter.
At this particular party, she and Stiles wound up getting into it about something stupid that Stiles
can't even remember now - that's how stupid it was and Stiles had wound up calling her a
fucking psycho witch and she'd cackled like one as Derek tugged him away; grabbing at his cup
of rum and throwing it in the trash.
I'll have a sixteen ounce coffee.
Stiles blinks. He wasn't expecting an actual order. He was expecting a verbal lashing, a cackle
or two, a flip of her middle finger, and then the lingering traces of her citrus perfume after she
breezed out of the building. Room for cream?
Yeah, whatever, she flips her hair over her shoulder, and fixes Stiles with another intense
stare. All the Hales have that same stare like they can see straight through you or something.

Stiles scrawls Laura across the cup before dumping a fair amount of coffee in, leaving room,
and sliding it across the counter towards her.
In between her middle and index finger sits her American Express Platinum Card. Because of
course none of them ever walk around with penny change to throw at the commoners when they
order two dollars worth of coffee.
Stiles takes it, slides it, says, have a nice day, and expects her to get gone.
She doesn't. She looks over her shoulder, as if checking to make sure there's no one in line
behind her, and then turns back to face Stiles with that scrutinizing look again. Okay so...this is
really big of me. And I hope that you can at least appreciate it, if not accept it. She straightens
up to her full height, squaring her shoulders, takes a deep breath, and says, I'm honestly sorry
about outing you at Derek's rehearsal dinner.
Surprised is an understatement. Shocked doesn't even begin to cover it. Catatonic state of alarm
might be a better term for what Stiles feels at the moment. For all the shitty things Laura Hale has
ever done or said to him, she's never once apologized Derek more or less the same. Albeit, all
her shitty things were more just nasty, bitter remarks than they ever were life ruining secrets
spilled.
Stiles thinks that even the most coldhearted ice queen would have to admit that what she did
warranted a fucking apology.
He nods. I do appreciate it.
It was really more to get back at Derek for trying to marry that girl in the first place. You just
happened to be in my way so...nothing personal, she slides her sunglasses back onto her face
and sips the coffee; scrunches up her face in disgust, dumps it into the nearest trashcan. Stiles
senses that just about ends their heart to heart session, and is confirmed in thinking so when she
says, you look like a dope in that getup.
Are you kidding? Stiles adjusts his visor. You didn't see me in Paris on the runway sporting
this?
Laura scrunches up her nose again her classic expression for anything even remotely
distasteful but this time, she does it with a smile on her lips. I always liked you, Stiles.
Is that so? He starts wiping down the counter, in case his boss decides to peak out and make
sure he's working and not just talking to the supermodel standing in front of him. Could've
fooled me.
Hm. I wasn't always nice to you.
Understatement. Laura always treated Stiles like he was some weird hick from Kansas,
scratching at his ass with a piece of wheat hanging out of his mouth, when in reality, he was just

a stupid kid fresh out of college with no money and an inexplicably hot boyfriend. He didn't
know what the fuck he was doing, and Laura never, ever made it easy on him.
That leads me to the other reason I'm here. She checks over her shoulder once more, this time
scanning her eyes all the way outside the windows of the place as well, as if making sure there
was no one lurking around in the shadows. You should call Derek back.
Nope, Stiles doesn't even think about his answer as he dips his rag back into the sanitation
bucket, no, thank you.
At least give him a working number. Because Stiles had changed it after two weeks of the
thing ringing incessantly with Derek's work and cell numbers.
Nope.
E-mail.
Absolutely not.
Laura has a pinched expression on her face. The not used to hearing the word no face. The sight
of it gives Stiles great, intense pleasure. Your life is so great, now, then? Working at the two
dollar coffee shop, wearing a hideous apron, living out of a cardboard box.
Here we go. Two years ago, these kinds of words from Laura would've absolutely devastated
him. Like, reduced him to crying on the phone to Derek devastated. Now, he's learned to take it
with a grain of salt, and to see Laura for what she is. The older child who didn't get any of the
benefits of being the older child was forced to walk in the footsteps of her older brother, watch
him run the company, watch him make all the money, while all she ever did was party in fuckin'
Tijuana or wherever the kids are going these days.
She's a perfectly nice person, if you can ignore the rough edges. Until you don't do what she
wants you to do. Then, she's as caustic as a snake. Stiles knows better than to try to really argue
with her, at this point. The reason my life is so shitty, Laura, isn't because I'm not calling Derek
back, he dumps his rag once and for all with a resounding plop, it's because I ever called him
back in the first place. There are actual customers coming in behind you, so...
Laura looks about ready to leap over the counter, grab him by his neck, and choke him the fuck
out. She could too Stiles has gotten a little taste of her slap before, and it hurts as much as any
full blown punch from a grown-ass man. She could have him out like a light in seconds, if she
really wanted to.
Some things about him, Stiles, she says with a cryptic edge to her voice, you just don't
understand. He wasn't trying to play you.
This reminds him of what she said at the rehearsal dinner, right before he hightailed it the fuck
out of there. She said she knew what this was, and that she could explain. Of course, she never

actually told him, and Stiles isn't really interested in asking explanations are the last of what
Stiles wants, at this point - but that's just how Laura and Peter and Derek all are; with the
riddles, and the weird looks, and the Haleness of it all. Stiles is used to it, and has learned to
just tune it out, and move on.
---Stiles comes in through the backdoor one night after work, which he usually doesn't do but his
shoes are all muddy from the fucking rainstorm that he had to walk home in, and he wants to take
them off in the back before coming inside.
He shakes the rain out of his hair, takes off his soaking wet jacket, and is just wiping the fog off
of his glasses when he hears Allison's voice trailing down the hallway towards him.
...seriously need to stop calling me. I mean it. She sounds like she means it too it's mom
voice out in full fucking force. Stiles leans down and starts undoing his muddy, soaking wet
shoes, sniffling from the cold. I've told you, again and again, that whatever's going on, we will
handle it. We don't need you checking in every other day; and you and I both know that it's not
the real reason you call me.
Stiles is peeling off his socks with a grim expression, dumping them into the waiting washing
machine.
You forfeited your right to come checking in on him a very long time ago, Derek.
Stiles freezes as he's about to come padding out into the hallway. Derek? Allison is talking to
Derek? How does that make any fucking sense? Stiles cautiously goes back into the mudroom
again, leaning back against the wall, eavesdropping.
Why don't you just go sit outside in the woods and listen for his heartbeat like you usually do,
creep? Stiles can't even begin to unravel the mysteries hidden inside that sentence; he imagines
Derek hunkered out in the rain, standing there straining to get a glimpse of Stiles in the window.
It just doesn't compute. You know, I've shot people for a lot less! You're lucky I let you get
away with that!
She's really good with a bow and arrow she's good at, like, hunting, Stiles had assumed from
all the pictures she has of herself out in the woods with that giant, scary bow she has downstairs
in the basement.
She said shot people though. That's an...important distinction. ...And I mean it. Do not. Call this
number. Again.
Allison must not have heard him come in he's sure that she would've hung up the phone by now,
if she had any clue that he was listening in to her conversation with Derek Hale, about shooting
people, right about now.

Like I've said only ten million times, we're taking care of it. If we need your help, we'll call
you.
It's silent for a few moments, and Stiles guesses that means she's hung up already. He should
make some noise, to make it sound like he's only just now gotten home, that he was nowhere near
the premises while that bizarre phone call was taking place, but he feels moderately glued to the
spot.
He gets an idea. A wild, bizarre, totally improbable idea. But also the only idea that makes even
one iota of sense.
Allison must be in the drug cartel with Derek. She must be a, a...a mafioso or whatever the hell
they call those people that run the fucking crime rings. Suddenly, the fact that her parents have all
that money makes sense. The fact that Derek has all that money makes sense. Of course...it's all
connected. That explains why Derek and Allison were always acting so fucking weird around
each other, like they were secret archenemies, or something.
Well, maybe they really were. In the drug industry. Stiles' head is spinning. He still hasn't made
any noise to alert her to his presence. He doesn't feel ready to look her in her face, knowing
she's, like, allegedly killed men before in the name of cocaine or whatever.
He hears a car door slam outside, and he very nearly gasps out loud. Does Scott know about
this!? Oh, dear fucking God, what if Scott's in on the entire thing, too! And that's why they've
always really hated Derek (aside from Derek being a complete and total fuckwad, at least)
because he's their drug ring rival! Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck...
The front door opens, and Allison and Scott are greeting each other with a smacking kiss and a
most likely prolonged hug in the foyer. Stiles home yet? Scott's voice carries pretty far the
kid is nearly always half yelling.
Not yet. And you'll never believe who was just calling me, again.
Don't tell me...
Derek.
I thought you told him to stop calling?
I've told him nearly a thousand times to stop calling me. I think I'm going to try and get his
number blocked tonight, but knowing him...he'd just figure it out, and get a new number.
Scott tsk's, and their footsteps begin disappearing into the kitchen, where their voices grow
much louder. But you've never told Stiles about that. Have you?
Of course not, the fridge opens, and then shuts seconds later. What do you think he would
even say?

A few seconds of silence. He'd probably go ballistic.

Allison lets out a breath of a laugh, opening up the cupboards now, probably trying to find
something to get started for dinner. I think you don't give him enough credit.
You didn't go over there to his house after the rehearsal dinner, Allison. You have no idea what
he was like. What he was doing. The way he was acting.
Stiles doesn't have much of an idea about that, either. He more or less blacked it out; like, his
mind simply couldn't believe the sheer number of horrible things he was forced to go through in
one single night, that it just kind of...shut down, completely. When he woke up the next morning,
nearly all of his dinner plates were smashed; so at least he has some baseline idea of what the
literal hell was going on that night.
...ballistic, frankly, is too generous of a word.
It sounds like she's pulled a box of rice off the shelf. I've seen how he can get about Derek,
okay? I mean, look at what he did, Scott. He never would've acted that way, or done what he did
if it were anyone else aside from Derek Hale.
Is that true? Stiles asks himself. Would he really not stoop that low for anyone else aside from
Derek? Is he that hopelessly lost in the dark hole that is being in love with Derek Hale? Still?
After all this time?
And yet, Derek still never told him the truth, Scott sounds sad. Maybe Derek hasn't mentioned
to them that he did, in fact, tell Stiles at least part of the truth a few months ago, before
everything went to shit.
It goes quiet in the kitchen for a few seconds, with nothing but the sound of Allison poking
around through the cupboards for an appropriate sized pot.
And then, almost so quietly Stiles can barely hear it, Scott says, I'm worried about him,
Allison.
---Stiles thinks maybe his friends being in the drug cartel might not entirely be his business.
He also thinks that he should mind his own fucking business, for the first time in his life, and not
go meddling into other people's lives; or, at the very least, to not go ruining other people's lives.
Pretty much, he tries to forget what he heard altogether. So, what, Allison has apparently shot
people before, and she's Derek's arch nemesis, and Scott might be in on the whole thing. So
what? It's not his business. He does not have to get involved or even mention that he knows to
any of them. So long as it doesn't start affecting his pathetic little life, then it's all fine.
That's what he reasons with himself, at least, as he sits at the dinner table, staring at Allison's
fingers, imagining her pulling the trigger on a gun. To kill someone.

Then he looks over at Scott, who's cutting at his meat with his tongue poking out of his mouth,
and imagines him as some drug lord. That...is a picture that just doesn't make any sense. No.
Back to Allison.
Allison is holding her knife like she's...stabbed things before. Possibly flesh. Possibly human
flesh.
How was work today, Stiles? She asks him, big brown eyes staring at him from across the
table. He flicks his eyes up and away from her hands, tries to look normal.
It was fine. I think- he forks up a pile of mashed potatoes, ...I think I'm going to try to get a
second job.
Scott and Allison look enthused; they both start nodding enthusiastically, and Scott goes great
idea!, so fucking loudly that he's sure he hears the nearest window rattle from the sound waves.
That man couldn't be part of any underground operation in ten million years. That's clear, crystal
clear, to Stiles.
So the we Allison was referring to when she was on the phone with Derek, that wasn't we as in
her and Scott. That was we as in...well. Stiles isn't sure.
You should do another wedding, Scott suggests, his big puppy eyes blinking at Stiles so
innocently; when he knows that he and Stiles have already had this god damn conversation, and
he knows that it didn't go very well last time, and yet here he is, trying to push the envelope,
again.
Stiles forgets about Allison for a moment, and clinks his fork down onto his plate. We talked
about this.
Yeeahhh, but...
I can't get a job in that industry anymore, Scott. Even showing my face in LA would be a
fucking disaster I fucked over my entire career. I can't just bring something like that back from
the dead.
But...you could just do weddings here.
The website is still up. My phone number is still in the book. And has anyone called me? The
answer is a big, fat resounding no.
There's a couple seconds of silence at the table, wherein Scott sits staring at his potatoes,
looking guilty, and Allison sits staring at Scott, looking annoyed. It's a pretty typical dynamic that
these three have when they start getting into it Scott tries to do something nice or say the right
thing, and he winds up failing miserably and saying the wrong thing, most times to Stiles, and
then Stiles gets all upset and Allison gets all mad that Scott would ever say anything that fucking
stupid.

Stiles isn't really in the mood for it tonight. He takes his napkin off his lap, drops it over his half
eaten plate, and says, I'm gonna go out for a while.
Scott and Allison look surprised, and disappointed, vaguely. To the bar? Allison asks slowly.
To run a couple of errands, he answers her because to the bar is the wrong answer,
undoubtedly. It's the truth. But it's not what she wants to hear.
But...it's raining out, Scott says, an edge to his voice.
I'll wear my coat, Stiles says matter-of-factly, and watches as Allison and Scott share the
Stiles is being difficult and depressed and weird look. I'll be back in a couple of hours.
---The nearest bar within walking distance of Scott and Allison's house is three blocks away not
a bad walk, unless it's raining. Raining hard really more of a downpour. Stiles trudges along in
his ridiculous rain coat, his glasses covered in rain drops so he can barely see, and when he
finally steps inside the bar, he looks a lot like a drowned rat. Luckily , it's a god damn bar, so no
one really cares about the dorky, sad kid sitting alone at a table dripping water all over the floor,
spending the only spare twenty dollars he has on getting fucking drunk all by himself.
After three drinks, he fishes his notepad out from his raincoat pocket, slightly damp, but not
ruined, and plops it down on the table in front of him, staring down at it with his lips set in a
tight line.
He's been at it for months, now, with this stupid little notepad, covered in crossouts and
scribbles and he still doesn't have anything even close to resembling a coherent letter. The only
thing he's gotten out so far is Tiffany, and after that, it's just gobbledigook. Maybe half the
problem is that before he can even so much as think about writing her an apology, he has to be
partially shitfaced.
Clicking his pen, he sits there for at least an hour two more drinks, and not a single word
written down. What do you say? What does a person say? He's thought about going down the
route of I got what I deserved, trust me, I'm homeless, I work as a barista again, my life
fuckin' sucks; but he's concerned that it might sound too feel sorry for me even though I
destroyed your marriage. Or there's the route of it was all Derek's fault which he has toyed
with, as well.
But, here's the truly pathetic thing even though Stiles knows that Derek basically was sitting
there like the fucking puppet master, pulling his strings, dragging him in to plan his wedding,
cornering him when he was at his most vulnerable, convincing Stiles that he loved him. It was
fucked up. Derek fucked with him, fucked with Tiffany, fucked with people's lives. And...
Stiles still struggles with hating him. The only reason he ever for fifteen seconds feels like he
truly does hate him is because he feels like he should, and all his friends tell him that he should.

Never because he truly, really does.

The truth, though, is that for as much as it's Derek's fault, it's Stiles' fault as well. Which is why
he's even writing this letter to begin with, because if he doesn't at least try to apologize to
Tiffany, he's going to fucking drown in his guilt and self-loathing.
He tries ordering a seventh drink, and the bartender looks at him for a second, the same she
always does, raises her eyebrows, and says, go home, Stiles.
He packs up his useless notepad and his pen, gets all wrapped up in his raincoat, and steps
outside. The rain is lighter, now, but still isn't something he's really looking forward to walking
around in.
A few steps out, crunching in the gravel of the parking lot and splashing in the few puddles to be
seen, and he starts getting...a weird feeling. He ignores it for a few more steps, convincing
himself that he's just drunk and stupid and paranoid, but the feeling persists. Strongly .
Like someone's watching him.
He pauses, wiping at the frames of his glasses to get the rain droplets off, blearily staring all
around himself to see if someone's just standing outside the bar glaring at him but there's no
one in sight. It's nearly one o'clock in the morning.
A rustling starts up in the woods at the edge of the parking lot. Twigs snapping, leaves rustling,
and Stiles actually starts moving towards it. A raccoon, drunk-him thinks, a raccoon is probably
the one staring at him. Stiles likes raccoons. He wants to see the damn raccoon.
Once he's about ten feet away from the edge of the parking lot, where the gravel meets the
treeline, he spots a glowing red light, and a sinking feeling pools up in his stomach. I've seen
this before he thinks, bizarrely, but he can't remember where. Something red glowing out at him
from the woods, he's been here before. He moves closer, and closer, and the closer he gets,
something becomes very clear to him, even with his foggy glasses and drunk-sight.
That's not a glowing red light. It's two red eyes, staring out at him from the woods.
Tires screech behind him, startling him enough that he takes two huge steps backwards, nearly
tripping and falling backwards onto his ass. Turning his head, he sees a pitch black Lamborghini
slamming to a stop five feet away from his feet.
The door drifts open, that sexy way that Lamborghini doors do, and out pops...
Laura. Fucking. Hale.
In a collared red dress with lace sleeves, black boots, her hair pulled into a messy bun, looking
at him like he's the single stupidest human being she's ever laid eye on. What the hell are you
doing, Stiles?

Stiles blinks at her, and then turns his head to look out at the woods; the eyes he thought he saw,
the eyes he more likely than not hallucinated, are gone. Laura looks out at the woods, too, but
with a different look she's looking for something, scanning the perimeter with her upper lip
curling in annoyance, as if daring the raccoon to jump out and try to get her. What's it look like
I'm doing?
Laura looks back at him, and smiles. It looks like you're drunk, honey.
Well, he says, wiping drops off his glasses, what are you doing?
She's still standing there, getting her nice dress soaked completely through, but it looks like she
couldn't care less. I'm - a pause, sometimes I come down here to get away from the city.
A one in the morning excursion to Beacon Hills? In the fucking Lamborghini Aventador? And she
just so happened to stumble upon drunk Stiles trying to talk to raccoons outside the seediest bar
in town?
Are you going to get in, Sarnocinski? Laura has next to no idea how to pronounce his real
name she tries, though. She casts one last long look at the woods, scanning, looking, for
something ...
I'm going to ruin your seats, Stiles says in a small voice, gesturing to his wet self.
Laura grins as she finally stops eye-fucking the treeline. I can buy new seats.
Which is how Stiles winds up sitting in a four hundred thousand dollar luxury car, dripping all
over the leather, listening to the weird heavy metal screamo Laura has playing softly in the
background. Laura simply pulls her wet hair into a tighter bun on top of her head, ignores her
damp dress, and then looks at Stiles. You hang out in the woods a lot, Stiles?
I wasn't hanging out in the woods. There was a raccoon.
Laura's cherry red lips slowly curl into a smile, and then she turns her head like she's trying to
hide it from Stiles. Interesting.
You hang out in Beacon Hills a lot, Laura ?
At this, she side-eyes him a bit, before starting the car up with a soft purr. I had some work to
do here. Have work to do here. Sometimes.
Stiles stares at her. You said you come here sometimes to get out of the city.
Well, fucking hell! You got me officer, body's in the trunk! She scoffs at him, rolling her eyes.
I was just trying to be nice , and give you a ride home. I should just let you out so you can
walk.
Stiles looks out the window at the rain pouring down, at the muddy sidewalks, at the red-eyed

raccoons in the woods, and purses his lips. Thanks for the ride.
Laura makes a that's what I thought noise, and then they're peeling out of the parking lot. It's a
short drive back to Allison and Scott's house three blocks and Laura pulls up on the side of
the road behind Scott's shitty Toyota and it's the most ridiculous looking thing from the outside,
Stiles bets. A fucking black Lambo lurking around on one of the poorest streets of Beacon Hills,
which is poor enough as it is. Stiles half expects the neighbors to start pouring out of their houses
with pitchforks and fire torches, come to try and set the Lambo on fire, out of fear of the
unknown.
He looks at Laura right as she puts it in park, and she looks back at him. You're not going to tell
Derek where I live are you?
Laura smiles but this time she covers her mouth with the back of her hand to try and hide it
from Stiles.
Hold on...how did you know where I live? Stiles gave her no directions didn't think about it.
He just rested his forehead on the window and almost fell asleep.
She looks annoyed like a person who's dealing with something incredibly beneath her, like
being handed a sheet of math problems for fourth graders. Do me a huge favor, Stiles, and try to
remember this, she leans forward, taps one finger on his temple, stop fucking around near the
woods.
---The next morning, Stiles is convinced it was a dream. Or at the very least an incredible drunk
hallucination. That wasn't Laura Hale , it was just some completely normal Beacon Hills girl.
That wasn't the lambo, it was just a shitty black acura, probably. Some stranger took pity on him
canoodling with the raccoons, and scooped him up, and gave him a ride. That's all that
happened. For starters, Laura was about ten times more pleasant with him than she's ever been
before, and that alone should've been a clue that he was imagining it.
That's what he tells himself for the next two days as he goes to work, and gets drunk, and does
all his normal Stiles stuff. Just his imagination running wild the glowing eyes in the woods,
and the lambo, and the Laura, it was all just one huge dream! That's the safe thing to believe,
Stiles thinks.
It's what he thinks, anyway, until Laura shows up for the third fucking time.
He's in the back alley, again, close to closing time, dumping a trash bag into the dumpster. When
he came out, there was no one in the alley on either side (he always checks, out of fear and
paranoia). When he turns, Laura Hale is just fucking standing there.
Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin. Holy fuck!

With her hands in her coat pockets, a beanie on her head, and a wane smile on her face, she
raises her eyebrows. Startle you?
He's leaned back up against the dumpster, his hand over his heart, trying to regulate his breathing
again. She smirks. Fucking what are you doing? Are you following me around? Does stalking
run in the family, or something?
Laura flashes him another cryptic smile. More or less, yes. Does doing stupid things like
lurking in the woods and back alleys and trying to walk home, drunk, all by yourself in the dark
at one in the morning run in your family, Sarnocinski?
Stiles glowers at her. Listen to me listen to me very carefully. Say this with me. Sar no
chin ski. It is not that fucking hard.
She gives him an up and down look; unimpressed. Whatever.
Can I ask you something? He fixes his visor, and then his glasses, and glares at her with
narrowed eyes. Why why exactly are you following me around? What do you care if I go
into the woods or not! Or into the alley or not! Nothing is-
I'm just trying to look out for you, she says this so enigmatically, while casting a glance over
her shoulder. It's the single most suspicious thing he's ever seen her do and she's done a lot of
suspicious things since he's known her.
Stiles gapes. Oh, my God...is, he takes a couple of steps closer to her, and she turns her head
just in time to make eye contact with him. She has a bemused expression on her face. ...is
someone trying to whack me?
Laura's face goes through a rollercoaster. She snaps her neck back, scrunches her eyebrows
together, opens her mouth, closes it, and then throws her head back laughing; while barely
choking what!?, out in between guffaws.
I don't see how that's funny ...
Whack you?
I don't know, like, mafia terminology so excuse the fuck out of me for-
Hold on, she sobers up a bit, her laughing fit over and done with, and touches Stiles' arm
gently she has warm hands, just like Derek. Hold on...did you just say mafia ? Stiles doesn't
respond, feeling like probably Derek would get in trouble for having told him the big family
secret about dealing drugs and being crime lords and all. ...did Derek tell you something?
Stiles blinks at her, and then subtly nods his head.
Laura blinks back. He told you that we're in the mafia.

Stiles nods again.

A sigh so deep it sounds like it comes from the very pit of her entire being resonates out of
Laura's mouth. She tilts her head back with it, staring up at the sky, like she's cursing whatever
cruel God put her on this earth with Stiles. All right, fine, she says when she comes back
down. We're in the fucking mafia. And yes, someone's trying to...whack you.
She says it so calm and nonchalant, like this is just an every day occurrence and eh, no big deal.
To her, after living in a crime family for her entire life, it probably really is an every day
occurrence.
Stiles, however, is not really used to the thought that someone might be trying to kill him, so he
has a much bigger reaction. Are you fucking serious? He backs away from her, and then gets
startled by his back smacking into the dumpster and jumps ten feet in the air before backing up to
the opposite side of the alley. Who's trying to what the who!
Laura's eyes are rolling back into her head. I don't...the other mafia. The other mafia is coming
to whack you, Stiles, and that's why-
How can you be so fucking calm about this? Stiles rips his visor off his head, and runs his
hands through is hair again and again, just for something to do with his hands.
Fucking - she growls in frustration, I'm not worried about you, because I'm looking out for
you!
Stiles slowly puts his visor back on. She does have a point there. If anyone tried to like, kill him
off while he was standing in this alley way, Laura would be here to stop them. You have a
gun?
Another one of her classic cryptic smiles stretches across her face. I have weapons.
He leans back against the brick wall, and then slowly sinks down to the ground, covering his
face with his hands. Why would anyone want to-
To get to Derek, she says this simply, with a shrug. Hearing Derek's name at all, or even
thinking about him period, is not a simple thing for Stiles to handle. He's still pretty emotionally
fucking traumatized from the events three months ago; but hearing that some mafia crimeboss is
coming to kill him just because it'll bug Derek...
Holy fuck ...
Calm down. Don't have a panic attack.
I'm not having-
You look like you are.

If I were, first of all, he takes his hands off his face and glares at her, you saying don't have a
panic attack would be absolutely zero help.
He's met with a sarcastic grin and a shrug of the shoulders. I don't care. The point is -
Before Laura can tell him what the point is, the back door to the coffee shop is booming open
and his boss is standing there in the doorway. She catches sight of him, curled up in a fetal
position against the wall, looking distraught, and says, are you feeling okay?
---Stiles is not feeling okay. He's not fucking feeling okay.
Let's just list this out here let's talk about the last six months of Stiles' pathetic little life. First
off, he gets this job. Like, the job, and for all of ten seconds he thought he was going to have a
brand new life with champagne and a cat. That's really what he thought. Second off, it turns out
that his dream job consists of working with his cocksucker ex-boyfriend. Third off, it turns out
that his cocksucker ex-boyfriend tricked Stiles into doing the job in the first place just so he
could swoop in and have some weird gross affair with him. Fourth off, Stiles the fucking idiot
decided to completely go along with it, because, hey, what could go wrong, right? Fifth off,
naturally everything fucking went wrong because of Stiles' shit decisions, he lost all his money,
his livelihood, his house, his car, and went homeless again.
And, sixth off, now apparently he's being targeted by drug lords.
How is this even a possible chain effect? How does taking a job to plan a wedding lead into him
being fucking knocked off?
He sits on the couch, tapping his foot incessantly, trying to focus on the TV in front of him, but he
keeps glancing out at the window, as if half expecting someone to pop up and sniper shoot him
directly in the fucking skull.
Every sound that Scott is making in the kitchen makes him jump, every time Allison passes
behind the couch he jumps, every time a tree branch hits the window he jumps; is Laura watching
the house right now? Is Laura going to kill someone before they kill him? Jesus fucking Christ
he didn't think Laura even liked him all that much; let alone enough to kill for him?
And Allison! And Scott! A part of the entire thing! Apparently there's no one, no one in this
entire universe, that he can trust. Except possibly Lydia, but even then...he doubts he can confide
in her that someone's trying to kill him all because he used to date some fuckwad.
The doorbell rings, and Stiles nearly flies off the couch to take cover. Allison sing-songs I'll get
it!, pattering her feet on the hardwood behind Stiles' head, and Stiles leans forward, trying to
catch his fucking breath, trying to damn calm down! Nothing is going to happen to him.
Nothing bad whatsoever. Everything is fine, everything is fine, everything is fucking...great!

In the foyer, there's a few seconds of dead silence after Allison opens the door, and then he can
hear voices quietly start whispering to each other so quietly, in fact, that he can't even tell
whose voices they are. Most likely not someone who's going to kill him, though, so he relaxes
back into the couch, not trying to eavesdrop, but catching bits and pieces of the conversation
nonetheless.
...I have no problem with...
....just needed to see him to....
....fucking get out or I swear to God I will....
....I dare you to shoot me, I really do...
Stiles sits up. He sits up, and peers over the coach all he can see from this angle is Allison's
back. She's standing with her arms crossed, leaning in close to whoever else is standing in the
foyer with her.
He stands up, and abruptly the voices stop. Allison turns around with probably the single most
fake smile he's ever seen cross her face and says, Stiles! Hey!
Stiles ignores her, padding on the hardwood to try and get a look at who's in there. Somewhere
deep down, he suspects that he knows exactly who it is.
Who's here? He asks cautiously.
My parents, she says, and they were just leaving. Right dad?
Stiles hears the shuffling of feet and he lunges.
He comes skittering out into the foyer, to the sound of Allison's protests, and comes face to face
with Derek and Laura Hale.
In the three months since Stiles has seen Derek last, he's shaved, and that's the only thing that's
different about him. Just like every other time they've gone long months without seeing each other
the man always looks the same as he did in Stiles' memory. And that pisses Stiles off the most
of all.
Because when you look back, in hindsight, you tend to focus on the positive, mostly just to keep
yourself sane. All Stiles can think about when the Derek from his memory is standing right in
front of him is how much he loved him. It's infuriating.
The looks on the siblings' faces are starkly different Laura looks amused, as she very nearly
always does, and Derek looks like he's just had nine of his fingers methodically chopped off and
is about to go in for the tenth.
He turns to Allison. Your dad's a lot younger than I remember. She looks away, guiltily.

It's literally taking nearly every thing in him to avoid Derek's eyes; because he can feel Derek
staring at him, in that bizarre way he always does, the way that makes Stiles' skin itch and crawl.
Almost against his will, his eyes shift to meet Derek's, and then it's just them. Allison and Laura
aren't standing there with them, Scott is not ten feet away in the kitchen making pot pie, there are
no neighbors on the street, there is no one, no one for miles, except Derek and Stiles.
It's so ridiculous, so idiotic, that Derek can still do this to Stiles, after everything that the two of
them have been through together. None of it, none of it whatsoever, good.
I want you, Allison says, her voice a low warning, prompting Stiles to finally look away from
Derek, to get out of my house.
Okay, G.I. Jane, Laura says with a roll of her eyes. It wasn't my idea to come because-
You are the reason we had to come, Derek argues back at her, you convinced him that a
mafioso was coming to fucking kill him, Laura.
You told him mafia to start off with, okay? Laura puts her hands up, as if in surrender, I was
just building off of what you said.
I didn't- Derek pinches the bridge of his nose, I didn't say mafia. I said drugs . I should've
known that he would make that leap, he shifts his eyes back to Stiles with an unreadable
expression on his face, Laura shouldn't have told you all of that, Stiles.
Stiles narrows his eyes at him, not quite following the conversation, but not appreciating this
exclamation from Derek one bit. Told me what? The fucking truth for god damn once, Derek?
Silence falls over the room. Allison sighs, Derek rubs at his face, and Laura snickers.
The truth, for once, Derek? She nudges Derek in the side.
Derek rubs at his face for another thirty seconds, while everyone in the room just stands there,
waiting for him to speak up. Laura actually gets on her phone during the silence, tapping out a
text, it looks like.
There is no mafia coming to kill you, Stiles, he says this sullenly, as if it's bad fucking news,
but all Stiles can do is breathe out a sigh of relief.
Thank fuck, he huffs out, hysterical laughter pooling up in his throat. He might hate his
pathetic, stupid little life, but he doesn't much like the thought of being shot down by some old
dude in a drive-by.
...we're not in the mafia. I never sold drugs. That was a lie.
Stiles blinks at him. He glances at Laura, who's still on her phone, and at Allison, who looks like
she wants to back flip her way right out of this fucking conversation. Stiles is with her on that

one. Hold on so you're saying...you, a point at Derek, made up a lie that you sold drugs just
to make me believe you never cheated on me, and you, a point at Laura, who doesn't even
appear to notice, went along with it, just to keep the jig up?
Oh...my...God... Derek's hand balls up into a fist at his side, like at any minute he's going to
send his fist though the wall. I never cheated on you, Stiles.
Oh, right, Stiles smacks his forehead sarcastically, you cheated with me. An important
fucking distinction to make here.
Derek narrows his eyes, moves forward, mouth open, probably about to spew some really toxic
bullshit when Laura saves the damn day.
Are we really going to sit here bickering about your relationship problems? She intones,
looking up from her phone with an annoyed expression; Derek freezes. Or are we going to tell
Stiles what we came here to tell him? Because with the first option, we'd be here all day, and I
have a hair appointment.
Derek looks like he's just been asked to chop off his own dick, the way he glares at the floor and
rubs at his forehead, opening and closing his mouth, again and again.
The truth, Laura reaffirms, it's been years and, frankly, he deserves to know, after every all
the shit you dragged him through.
Stiles can't imagine what it would be. If Derek wasn't cheating, and he wasn't a drug dealer, and
he wasn't in the mafia, then...the possibilities, he guesses, are endless. A prostitute? A money
launderer? A sidewalk clown?
Finally, Derek sighs, looks up, meets Stiles' eyes, and says, I'm a werewolf.
Stiles waits for a round of laughter for Derek to go ha, just kidding, I cut you open in the
middle of the night and sold your kidneys on the black market, or for Laura to go stop joking
around, Derek, or for Allison to mention how fucking ridiculous of a lie that is.
None of that happens. All three of them stand there in silence, staring at him expectantly and
waiting for his reaction. This has to be a practical joke. There's a hidden camera in the picture
frame on the shelf beside him some dude eating donuts in a van parked outside is laughing
hysterically at this footage right now.
Say something. Derek's voice has a pleading edge to it, and when Stiles looks at his face, he
looks completely and totally wrecked.
Oh, Stiles says, and then narrows his eyes, no, no, I get it. I get what this is. You weren't
selling drugs, he claps his hands, you're on drugs.
Stiles...

Are you out of your fucking mind? Now he's yelling, and in the tiny cramped space of the
foyer, it sounds incredibly loud. Do you really think did you think for even a fraction of a
second that I would believe that? Honestly? You must really think that I'm that much of a fucking
idiot if-
Laura snaps her fingers, cutting Stiles off effectively. Show him.
Derek runs two fingers along his brow; a motion Stiles recognizes as his overwhelmed move.
Since Derek is hardly, hardly ever overwhelmed, it's a rare sight.
One second it's Derek standing there, looking, for all intents and purposes, absolutely miserable,
and the next...
It's something else. It's something else, and yet, still, it's obviously Derek. Stiles blinks a few
times, like he can make it go away if he blinks hard enough, and then he takes his glasses off, and
squints and then he puts his glasses back on and squints again.
Holy...shit... Stiles mumbles, because...Derek is a fucking werewolf. Either that, or Allison
slipped some serious PCP into Stiles' cereal this morning when he wasn't looking.
He has, like, claws, and his face is all messed up, and he's grown fur out of nowhere, and...the
eyes. The eyes hazel, normally, or green on specific days, but, right now...they're red.
Stiles takes two steps back, almost unconsciously, and then Derek transforms back to normal.
You get now why I couldn't always be honest with you right?
A flashback of something Derek said to him, three months ago, right before they started their
shitty affair, comes zooming back into Stiles' brain. I'd rather have you go off and find someone
else, Stiles, than have you think of me as a...as a monster.
A monster.
Stiles takes another step back; and while Laura sighs through her nose, somewhat sadly, Derek
actually tries to move closer to him. I didn't want to keep it from you, but I didn't know how you
were going to react or what you were going to do and I-
He reaches his hand out, to lightly grab at Stiles' wrist- and Stiles recoils so hard he smacks
back into the wall with a thump.
Don't, he says, his voice warning, don't you fucking touch me.
Derek pulls back, too, as if Stiles had just reached out and slapped him clean across the face. He
has this look on his face, this absolutely devastating look on his face; like everything has just
gone up in smoke right in front of his eyes, and there's nothing he can do about it except stand
there and watch it happen. That's the look. Stiles knows it pretty well; considering it wasn't too
long ago that his own life did the exact same thing.

It was complicated. Derek supplies; as if this is all the explanation he needs to give. It was
complicated. Him being inhuman was fucking complicated.
You've had your hands all over me, Stiles says in a low voice, refusing to make eye contact
with him, when I didn't even know what was touching me.
I just thought-
I want you to leave.
Derek blinks. Because he's heard that before, hasn't he? Stiles guesses that it's no less lethal than
it was the first time around, because Derek doesn't move, doesn't speak he stands and he stares
at Stiles, who won't even take one look at him, while behind them, Laura opens the front door.
This was fun, she says, sarcasm dripping from her voice so thickly it's almost tangible in the
air, and then she clomps outside in her boots, leaving Derek behind in her wake.
Derek, Allison grabs onto his shoulder, he says he wants you to leave. So leave.
Derek pushes Allison's hand off of him, and points one finger at Stiles, almost threateningly.
Everything I ever did, I did for you.
With those final words, he stomps out of the house, slamming the door behind him, so hard that
the walls and windows of the house rattle.
Stiles lets out a breath he wasn't even aware that he was holding, and leans back against the wall
behind him for support.
What, the fuck, just happened to him? He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, and then forces
them open again to make sure he didn't just dream all of that.
When his eyes open, he just sees Allison standing there in front of him, looking concerned, while
Scott stands in the doorway between the kitchen and the foyer, holding a fork. Stiles guesses he
had just been in the kitchen the entire time, making his pot pie and listening in to that shit show.
He takes a couple more seconds to process. It's not easy to just accept that something you were
told was make believe your entire life is actually real and not just real, but among you. And
not just among you...but also, you had sex with it. A lot of sex. And, also, you were, and
possibly are, in love with it. Not. Easy. At all.
You, he points at Allison, werewolf?
She shakes her head slowly.
But you knew about them.
One deep breath in, with a glance to Scott, who nods, and then she simply says, my family are

werewolf hunters. We, you know...hunt them.

Stiles knits his eyebrows together. That actually...explains nearly every thing odd about her. For
starters, how she's bizarrely good at archery and yet doesn't go out on the weekends to go shoot
deer or anything. Huh. Stiles never really thought about that before. Or the fact that, when she
was on the phone with Derek, she mentioned shooting people. When she said people, she didn't
really mean people.
She meant werepeople. Holy shit.
Now, he looks at Scott, who immediately says, I'm human and completely normal.
But you knew-
Yeah, Allison told me after we got engaged.
Now, this. This pisses him the fuck off. Hold on everyone just press the pause button, he
starts rubbing frantically at his forehead, trying to get a clear handle on everything that's being
dumped on top of him. Did you know, when I first started dating Derek, that he was a fucking
werewolf, Allison?
She huffs, and then cocks her head in the direction of the couch, or, as it's more affectionately
called by Stiles, his bed.
They all file in, Allison perching on the edge of the coffee table, while Scott leads Stiles to sit
down onto the couch, and plops down next to him.
Yes, she says, in response to Stiles' last question, looking him directly in the eyes. I knew it
the second you said his last name. The Hales are, eh - she trails off for a second, as if she isn't
sure she should say what she's about to, looking to Scott, who shrugs. These are things that
Derek should have probably told you himself but-
He's a fuck up, Scott interjects, shrugging, so...
...so, I guess I'll just have to do it then. The Hales are a werewolf family Argents and Hales
go back a pretty big ways, historically. All the way back to-
Family? Stiles cuts her off before she can go on a historical rant. Like all of them?
She shrugs. Most of them.
..Laura?
Yup.
Uncle Peter?

Yeah. Most that died in the fire were wolves, as well.

Stiles needs a minute. He needs twenty minutes. He needs an entire day to lie on this couch, and
ponder every thing that he's just been told everything that he's just seen, because he still can't
get over the fact that he watched his ex-lover transform into a wereman right in front of his eyes.
And you knew? The both of you? Allison and Scott share a look; a guilty look.
I we it was complicated, Stiles.
Why does everyone keep fucking saying that? he takes his glasses off, drops them onto his lap,
and starts rubbing at his eyes in frustration. You lied to me for years, because it was
complicated-
It wasn't a lie, exactly-
The both of you sat there while I took that job, knowing the entire time that he was a a
fucking thing-
I never thought you'd wind up having sex with him, Stiles, I really just thought it would be like
closure! Scott doesn't look at him as he says this; he stares pointedly down at the ground with
his hands clasped together. Because...because you needed closure with him! You needed it to
be over with him, you needed to see him with someone else, see that he moved on-
Well, Stiles cuts him off, as it turns out, he hadn't. And all the two of you really did for me,
by sticking your noses into my personal life, Allison and Scott both glower guiltily at that,
avoiding eye contact, still, is push me into making the biggest mistake of my entire fucking life.
Silence, as Stiles puts his glasses back on and appraises his two best friends. They both look
like they've been waiting for this because after everything had happened, after it all came
crashing down, Stiles was too busy slowly picking up the pieces to argue with anyone. He was
too hollowed out on the inside. For months, it was just like he was sleepwalking his way through
the motions, just barely scraping by in a life that was just barely adequate.
I guess it took seeing Derek turn into a werewolf to wake him up. Now, he's just plain angry.
I'm sorry, Scott finally turns to look Stiles right in his eyes. I admit that Allison and I both
had a hand in what happened. It was...bad. We made bad choices.
Allison nods in agreement, reaching out to pat Stiles on the knee a couple of times.
Of course Stiles can't really just boil it all down to well, it's all Scott and Allison's fault
because they gave me shitty advice. Because...Stiles had a zillion opportunities to turn around.
He should've quit that first day. He should've stood up at that very first meeting after Derek
walked in, looked Tiffany in the eye, and said, I used to date this motherfucker, so I can't take
this job. That's what he should've done. He had spent so long focusing on what Allison and
Scott should've done, what the rest of his friends should've done, what Derek should've done,

what Tiffany should've done, that he'd never stopped to consider all the chances he had, himself.
But, still. I accept your apology, he says slowly, but I'm still mad.
Scott and Allison nod in understanding.
Truth be told, though, Stiles, even if we told you not to take the job, Allison pauses for a
second, closing her eyes and shaking her head, we were never going to tell you what he really
was. Or what I really am. Not unless it really, truly came down to a matter of life or death.
There are a couple of things Stiles wants to focus on in that statement. First off, they were never,
ever ever ever, going to tell him? As if he didn't deserve to know? And second off...
But you guys decided to tell me now. Because...because now...it's a life and death situation?
You kicked Derek out before he could get to that part, Allison says carefully, running her hands
through her hair nervously, ...but, yes.
There's no mafia man coming to kill you, but- Scott trails off, like he doesn't quite know how
to say it.
Someone really is trying to kill me?
They both look at him like they're sorry. Like they just told him whoops, broke your ps4, as if his
god damn life isn't on the line here. What a train wreck this entire two days has been. He's gone
from truly believing he was going to be shot down by gangsters, to being told that he's not going
to be shot down by gangsters, to seeing Derek turn into a demon from Hell, and then back to
being told he's going to be shot down. Just not by gangsters.
He takes his glasses off again.
There are certain pack dynamics among werewolves, Allison begins, and now he thinks he's
about to get his history lesson, and the Hale pack, before the fire, was one of the most powerful
packs in the United States. It's only been recently that they've started building up their presence,
again, getting stronger, adding more wolves...and the current strongest pack in California doesn't
like that very much.
Stiles doesn't understand what this has to do with him, and he's about to say as much, when
Allison continues on. Derek is the alpha of the Hale pack; the leader, for lack of a better word.
When an enemy pack wants to threaten another, they usually target the alpha.
Scott and Allison stare at him, as if waiting for him to get it but he still really, really doesn't.
Or...something important to the alpha.
Stiles looks at them both, very carefully. I'm not important to the alpha.

You greatly underestimate what Derek thinks about, Stiles.

No, because it doesn't many any sense, he leans forward, glasses dangling from one hand, and
shakes his head furiously, we haven't even been together in any kind of serious capacity, for,
like, two years. Literally. Why would some killer werewolf come after me to get at Derek when
Derek and I aren't even close?
Because werewolves aren't stupid, like you, Scott nudges Stiles in the arm and snickers at
him, which seems wildly inappropriate for the topic they're discussing, you've met these
wolves before I think at the Hale Christmas party.
They smelled it on him, Allison says with just the barest hint of disgust, what you were to
him.
What you were to him. And what, exactly, was Stiles to Derek? Even when they were together,
he was so ridiculously insecure about himself that he always felt like what they had was nothing
more than some intense fling. Never anything that would, you know lead to him being the lead
role in an action/romance flick.
Okay, but he was marrying- he freezes, mouth falling open, as realization washes over him.
Something never added up about Derek and Tiffany. Tiffany, for starters, was a half-decent
person; not Derek's type at all. He was always acting like he just barely tolerated Tiffany to
begin with, he gave not even a half of a shit about the planning of his wedding with her, he
cheated on her with Stiles, holy shit it all makes sense now, because Tiffany was the decoy?
---Stiles lies awake on his couch for most of the night, staring at the ceiling and tapping his fingers
on his chest. It's hard to shake that image of Derek from his head and not the one with the claws
and the fur and the lack of eyebrows, but the one after that. That horrible, destroyed, sad look on
his stupid beautiful face.
It bothers him. Most of all, it bothers him that it bothers him, to see Derek sad. Like Stiles hasn't
been walking around for the past three months with his heart ripped out and dangling by a thread.
Enough of that, he decides, sitting up and pulling his laptop up off the coffee table. Once it's open
and google is sitting there reflecting off the lenses of his glasses, he pauses. He wonders if he
really wants to do this; because doing this, actually doing the idiotic research, would mean that
he cared enough. It would mean that he's not necessarily running for the hills like any other sane
human being would be doing.
When was the last time Stiles made the choice that any sane human being would make?
Huffing a breath, feeling slightly ridiculous and childish, he types the word werewolves into the

search bar and hits enter.

He ends up sifting through about a dozen or so Twilight fan sites, before finally coming to a page
that looks even slightly reputable. Werewolf lore the header at the top reads, and Stiles shoves
his glasses up higher on his nose, scanning the navigational links at the top.
Myths vs Reality. That sounds right up his alley. Click.
Thus begins his journey into learning that not all werewolves turn into actual wolves when they
shift, as opposed to what Twilight would lead one to believe, and that wolves can have different
colored eyes (Derek's are red because he's an alpha, and Laura's would probably be gold
because she's an omega really fascinating stuff here).
In a flash, he remembers his father's bizarre birthday present, the one Derek seemed to fucking
hate so much, and has a revelation. He reaches down into the suitcase he's been living out of,
digging in its deepest pits, underneath piles of dirty clothes, and pulls out the silver bullet on a
chain. He had been hiding this thing away, because all it really did anymore was remind him of
that horrible night at Tiffany's rehearsal dinner.
Now he sits there, holding it in his hand, staring. He types silver into the site's search bar, and up
comes an entire page dedicated to the stuff. What's disconcerting and confusing, though, is that
the first thing this site tells him is that werewolves don't actually have a problem with silver
they have a problem with some weird purple plant called wolfsbane. Which makes sense, in the
grand scheme of things; but it doesn't make any sense to him, because he distinctly remembers all
the times Derek recoiled away from the thing as if it caused him physical pain. And, when he
was able to shove Laura off of him after she blurted out the truth to Tiffany, the only reason he
could do it is because he was holding the bullet in the hand he used to push her away.
He holds it up closer to his face, really, really inspecting it for the first time, the way that
Allison did when she first saw it on his birthday. He holds it closer to the lamp at the end of the
couch, and notices that it isn't purely silver. It is obviously real silver, but it's speckled with
something barely noticeable unless you do what Stiles is doing right now. Tiny little purple
flecks.
His father had a wolfsbane laced silver bullet made for him. His father knew about werewolves
before he did when Stiles knew how to work the wifi before he did.
He sits back into the couch, the bullet still sitting in his hand, and grimaces. What else is
everyone keeping from him? That Stiles himself is actually an abominable snowman that just
hasn't accessed his own powers yet?
He doesn't know how long he sits like that, pondering his very existence and all the people
around him, before he hears a tapping sound. Like a tree branch smacking up against the window.
Looking up, squinting out the window, he sees that it is not a tree branch. It is Derek Hale,
peering in at him with a near sheepish expression.

Stiles doesn't move for a few seconds, and the two of them wind up staring into each other's eyes
for an uncomfortable length of time.
There are a million reasons why Stiles should not open that window. It's not that Stiles thinks
that Derek is dangerous, or that he would hurt him, or do any kind of wolf-y things to him;
because he's pretty sure that if Derek were going to do any of that, he would've done it by now.
It's that he feels like there's a million things he doesn't know about him, when he used to think he
knew Derek like the back of his hand. That, on top of the fact that the sheer level of bitterness
between the two of them, the sheer amount of the things they would have to work out to have
even a normal friendship is daunting....
He should not open that window. He knows that he shouldn't. It's like being offered that apple in
the Garden of Eden, like being given the opportunity to see every thing from new eyes but at
what cost?
He drops the silver bullet around his neck, and opens the window.
Derek climbs in easily, landing down on the balls of his feet, and then straightens up to his full
height barely an inch taller than Stiles himself.
What are you doing here? Stiles asks him, fingering the bullet around his neck. I'm pretty sure
I asked you to leave.
Derek raises his eyebrows. Last time I did that, you resented me for it.
Stiles can't help but look away from Derek's eyes at that; can't help but feel weirdly guilty about
it. What would've happened, he wonders, if he had never sent Derek away that first time? If he
had demanded the truth from him, if he had found out he was a werewolf all that time ago?
Derek stands and watches Stiles play with his necklace, and his lips quirk up at the corners.
You're wearing that thing again?
Yeah. And I know what it is now, he picks it up off his neck and holds it in Derek's general
direction, so watch out, because I can use it to mildly sting you.
Silence falls between them after that, and Stiles thinks it must be because neither of them know
where to begin. There are too many things to address, too many ties left frayed, too many doors
left just slightly open, that it's almost like all they can do is just stand there paralyzed by the
number of things they've put each other through.
You sold your Jeep, Derek decides on, shrugging his shoulders awkwardly.
I needed the money, Stiles shrugs right back at him.
Derek gets a pinched expression on his face like he's tasted something really sour, and says, as
if it's the most obvious thing in the world, you could've asked me for money.

Stiles could've. Of course he thought about that, at the start, when he first started circling the
drain. Stiles could've walked right into Derek's million dollar office building in his hideous
tattered clothes, gotten wide-eyed looks from all his underlings, and demanded a check for five
thousand dollars. And Derek would've forked it over without questioning it. It wouldn't have just
been about Derek's undying desire to give love via material objects; it would've also been
Derek's little way of getting out of the dog house. Right, Stiles says with a roll of the eyes,
you could've paid me off to alleviate some of the guilt. Right? Tch.
The taller man werewolf steps farther into the living room, rubbing at his forehead. Then he
sits down on the edge of the coffee table, and murmurs, I owe you something.
I don't want your money, Stiles sneers the word like it tastes bitter on his tongue, I want the
fucking truth from you. That's all I've ever wanted from you, and you have never, never once,
given the whole thing to me.
I told you the truth tonight.
"After being forced. Only because if you didn't, I was going to, like, die, or something." Stiles
comes closer to him, so that he's hovering directly over where Derek is perched, and it's bizarre
to feel this much bigger than him, "is that what I have to do to get the truth from you? Huh? Be in
mortal danger?"
He glares down at his tan hands, lips set down in a grim line, but doesn't say anything. Stiles
continues on. "And, honestly, you being a mystical creature of the night isn't even that high on my
list of conversation topics tonight. Your archenemies coming to kill me isn't even that high on the
fucking list. I want to talk to you about three months ago, Derek," Derek winces, like it causes
him physical pain to sit here listening to this, "I want to talk about when you put me in that
situation, and you - you took eveyrthing away from me. You saw what I had going for me, Derek,
I was finally...on the road to being something . Then you came in and you, literally, ruined my
life."
Derek opens his mouth to talk, gets maybe two words out, but Stiles just keeps on talking right
over him. But see I get why you did it now I understand. I've figured you out, Derek Hale,
he comes close enough to Derek that they could touch, if they wanted to, the heat from Derek'
always-warm skin seeps through the sweater Stiles is wearing, It never made sense that you
wanted me, just for being me. I know now that it's not really about me, is it?
I..
You only ever like me when I'm sleazy and disgusting, in your eyes. You liked me back then
because I was broke and trashy and I pissed your family off,
You are completely off-
And you only became interested in me the second time because I was your slutty, nasty little
secret. Right? You like me when I fucking disgust you, and see, I get why now, I've finally

cracked the code on your fucked up little charade, Stiles leans down even closer, so close that
their lips almost touch, and Derek's eyes keep flicking between his eyes and his lips, it's
because you hate yourself. You like me when I'm just as disgusting as you feel on the inside. The
way you see yourself as a monster.
With no warning whatsoever, Derek grabs onto Stiles' shoulders and pulls him back down when
he tries to move away holding him effectively in place, staring directly into his eyes as he
says, you're wrong, Stiles. Maybe I do hate myself like that but I could never, never, hate you
like that. I love you, Stiles. I -
No, Stiles fights against Derek's hands but it's no use, I love you! You think love is buying me
whatever I want, and sex, and money but you turned me into a whore. How is that love?
Derek finally lets go of Stiles. The second those hands are off of him, Stiles is backing away,
casting his eyes down onto the ground so that he doesn't have to look at Derek.
You didn't understand the situation I was in, Stiles, Derek begins, very quietly, and very
slowly. Even though I hadn't heard from you in months I was receiving death threats on your life
from Peter's rivals. I had to make a decision. Derek has constantly been sourcing Peter as the
sole reason for all the ire in his life the fire that burned the rest of his family alive was set
because Peter pissed someone off, they lost a business deal because Peter pissed someone off,
an angry pack of wolves was coming to kill Stiles because Peter pissed someone off. I thought
if I married someone else, if it looked like I- he grimaces, if it looked like I didn't care about
you, they'd leave you be. And then...I just I just couldn't help myself. I wanted to see you one
last time, really see you, and be in the same room with you... I was in a situation, Stiles, where it
was either never ever see you again, or see you, but only under the worst possible
circumstances. I guess I made the selfish choice. The way that he says it...it's like he really does
hate himself.
Stiles doesn't know what to make of all that. He gets a feeling, deep in the pit of his stomach,
like he's been wrong about something, for a very long time. A flashback to that night at Tiffany's
house, the rehearsal dinner, when Stiles had tried to talk to Derek alone in the kitchen, and Derek
had looked at him like he'd never even seen him before. Were they...there that night?
It's funny how Stiles doesn't even have to specify which night he's referring to; even though, for
them, that night really could stretch to any number of horrible, terrible times in their
relationship. The rehearsal dinner? Yes. They were there.
Which means that they found out that Derek was actually bullshitting his way through his
marriage to Tiffany while screwing around with Stiles on the side. Maybe they had been
believing, for real, that Derek had moved on from Stiles and was in love with somebody else
maybe they were just starting to leave him alone, when that night happened and threw a wrench
in every thing. If Tiffany had never found the silver bullet scattered on her stairs, she could be
married to Derek now.
But you were just going to put Tiffany in danger, then? Stiles finally looks at Derek, his voice

accusatory. You just dangled her like a piece of meat for-

They couldn't have gotten to Tiffany, he says this simply, like it's obvious. I was around
Tiffany nearly all the time, and if I wasn't, then someone else was. I was able to be near Tiffany.
With you...I couldn't be.
Stiles lets out a breath as another dawn of realization washes over him.Until you let Tiffany
hire me as your wedding planner.
Until I let Tiffany hire you as my wedding planner. Derek agrees, sullenly.
And...showed up at my birthday party?
Derek nods.
The truth finally comes out and everything that didn't quite add up before, finally does. It's even
worse than Stiles could have ever even imagined, of course, but at least Derek and Stiles, for
once, don't have any lies floating around in between them. One thing I don't get, though, he
finally sits down on the couch, a mere foot away from where Derek is sitting, and sighs, they've
had about a thousand opportunities to kill me, and they haven't done it yet.
The werewolf's lips curve down into a deep set frown, and he starts fidgeting with his fingers;
something Stiles has never, ever seen him do. It's not just about killing you. It's...ritualistic. The
killing of a rival pack alpha's mate-
Mate? Stiles repeats the wild incredulously.
For lack of a better word, Derek assures him, ...has to be done in a very specific way. It's
almost like a tradition.
Stiles doesn't know if he wants to hear this. He probably really, really doesn't. Anything that has
the word ritual attached to it when it comes to werewolves is probably not a very good thing.
All the same, he asks, what's the tradition?
Derek stands up, and slowly walks over to the window to glare out at the fog; mostly just for
something to do, or a distraction before he has to answer, Stiles guesses. They lure you into the
woods, his voice sounds hoarse, like his throat's been torn up, drag you off into the deepest
part of their territory...and you don't need to know the rest, Sarnocinski.
Stiles pauses for a moment puffing his lips out in thought, opens his mouth, then closes it...and
then opens it again. This er luring...does this have anything to do with a pair of possibly
hypnotizing, magnetic red eyes glowing at me from the trees?
A long suffering sigh comes spilling out of Derek's throat, but he nods all the same.
That first time he saw the eyes glowing at him, when he first started planning Derek's idiotic
wedding, something rustled behind him; startling him before he could stare into them too long

and get, like, hypnotized. That was - that was you.

Derek raises his eyebrows.
Outside Allison and Scott's house, the night I moved out! You were out there to stop me from
being lured! Derek shrugs. Stiles shakes his head incredulously as he remembers another
incriminating details; Allison's voice on the phone that one day - why don't you just go sit
outside in the woods and listen for his heartbeat like you usually do, creep? Oh, my God
how often have you just been sitting out in those woods, Derek? Stiles points one finger out the
window, towards the general direction of the treeline, and Derek gets a guilty look on his face.
Were you out there after you left? Have you been out there all night?
Look, all of this other stuff, is just extraneous details, Derek says, taking a few steps away
from the window and waving his hands out, if I had it my way, you never would've found out
about any of this, and there's another person who likes to keep Stiles in the complete and utter
dark all the time, but we had to tell you because- he cuts off, like his throat just closed around
the words he has to say.
Stiles prompts him by waving his hand in the air and mouthing because...
Derek chuffs, makes a sound like a growl under his breath, and says, ...we have to use you as
bait.
---Seeing Allison, who he's known since he was sixteen years old, standing there wielding a
combat bow, talking to Derek like they're old business partners or something, her hair pulled up
in a tight pontyail, is probably one of the strangest sights that Stiles has ever seen in his life.
And, yes, he's including the time he walked in on Scott and Allison's weird, kinky sex night by
accident. She holds the thing so naturally in her hands as though she holds it every day, which
is weird only until Stiles remembers that she probably has held it every day. Stiles was just too
oblivious to notice anything that strange about her, apparently.
They're at Derek's house. The one that Tiffany and he used to live in together. Stepping inside for
the first time since that night was probably the second worst experience of his life because of
the amount of memories he'd been suppressing flooding straight back into him the first worst
experience of his life was definitely living through it the first time around.
While they hover around in the foyer, having deep conversations about the game plan and the
master plan or whatever the fuck, Stiles has to physically stop himself from looking at the
landing of the staircase where and Derek had stupid sex. Stupid awesome sex.
It's not going to be that complicated, Laura assures everyone, tapping her black manicured
nails against her crossed arms. You might get maimed and killed but, it's like, a 70/50
probability.

You're not going to get maimed and killed, Derek gets that tight lipped look he always gets
when his sister is being particularly difficult; so, very nearly every time they're in the same room
together. Worst case scenario, you get a few scratches -
I don't want scratches, Stiles says, holding his arms against himself protectively, I don't want
scratches, I don't wanna be bait, I don't wanna do this!
It's either this, Allison begins while fiddling with something on her bow, or you keep running
from them.
I like the sound of that, he nods excitedly, yes, with the second option. I would rather keep
running for the rest of my life than get hypnotized by a psyho-wolf and dragged into the woods!
The whole point of you being bait, Stiles, is so that doesn't happen. Laura emphasizes her
words with spaztic hand motions in the air. Honestly, you're being a baby.
Easy for her to say, Stiles thinks, narrowing his eyes. She has super strength and super claws and
super fangs. What does Stiles have? Bad eyesight. That about sums it up. If a psycho-wolf comes
at him, he's pretty much defenseless.
If he had grown up in Allison's household with the guns and the crossbows and the knives,
maybe he'd have fared better.
Enough of this, Derek puts his hand on Stiles' shoulder, and Stiles doesn't push it off. It's our
only option; will you do it, or not?
Stiles purses his lips. It wasn't like he had much of a choice from the beginning. He never had a
choice in any of this the only thing that's different is now he knows he's actually in mortal
danger. Man, what he wouldn't give to be ignorant of all this shit again. Learning the truth is
horrible. Funny how he ranted and raved at Derek to give it to him, and now he wishes he could
give it straight back. Fine. I'll do it. But I swear to God, Derek, if I get fucking eaten...
You'll haunt me from the grave, Derek finishes for him a joke, but he's not smiling. Stiles
doesn't smile either.
---Standing there and watching Derek kill something is a lot different than he thought it would be
when he imagined it in his head. Truthfully, because Stiles had never, ever imagined Derek
killing anyone. For all his size, and general grumpiness, and just...well, he just looks like a guy
who would kill someone, given the opportunity but he's really more bark than he ever was bite.
So Stiles thought. But when he snapped his jaws around the other alpha's neck and started
ripping her god damn throat out with his teeth...Stiles had to admit, that maybe he has a little bit
of bite to him, after all.
In the end, Stiles wound up being hypnotized for all of ten seconds before Allison shot the thing

directly between the eyes with one of her arrows, and then it was pretty much just open season.
Stiles had stumbled back, leaning up against Scott's shitty Toyota, watching as people, wolves,
were getting beat up and killed right in front of his very eyes. What else was he supposed to do?
Step in? Try to help? Right.
Luckily no one had been around to see such a blood bath, considering it was two in the morning,
but Stiles just had to wonder how often does Derek get himself into these life or death
situations? How many times just in the period that they were actually dating was one of those
mysterious late night phone calls...how many of those calls were from his sister, or Peter, or any
of his other pack members whose names Stiles can't recall, goading him out to go take care of
some great big evil? Like Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
How many times was it something that threatened Stiles' life? How many times has Derek,
unbeknownst to Stiles, saved him?
It's not Stiles' fault that he didn't know. It's Derek's. But...a pinching feeling starts up inside of
him and he can't help but regret what happened between them two years ago. If he had known, he
never would've asked Derek to leave. If he had known, these past six months of his life; with
Tiffany, and the wedding, and the cheating, and the way Stiles threw gasoline all over his entire
life, lit and match and stepped back and watched it burn holy shit, none of it would've ever
happened.
But what would have happened? Stiles doesn't know.
What's going to happen now? Stiles doesn't know that, either.
Derek comes up to him afterward, after what remained of the other pack carried off the dead
bodies and disappeared into the woods with muttered apologies and averted eyes, and he stands
there looking at Stiles for a moment. He has blood all over his face from the throat ripping, and
even more than that on his clothes and hands.
He's wearing an Armani suit and he's covered in blood. While Stiles, in his ratty black jeans and
tattered flannel and dorky glasses, just leans up against the car and appraises him, and in Derek's
eyes is a silent question does this freak you out?
You just killed someone, Stiles chooses to say, eyeballing his ex-boyfriend up and down. A
particularly large clump of blood, like a blood clot or a tiny mound of flesh or something, holy
shit, is just sitting on Derek's cheek, and as he smiles, it moves with the crinkles on his face.
A few people.
Then there's just silence between them. There's Laura bossing people around, and Allison and
Scott murmuring to each other off to the side, and Peter picking up a discarded limb and waving
it around in the air like a flag of victory, but between Derek and Stiles, it's nothing.
It should be every thing, Stiles thinks, every thing that they never said, but should have. It's like

neither one of them wants to acknowledge that there was ever anything else wrong with them
aside from the whole Stiles-being-in-danger thing; like if they can pretend that now that this is
over, all of their problems are over, maybe it'll be true.
Stiles knows things don't really work that way, though. If he tried to just up and forget everything
these two have gone through...oh, it just doesn't work that way.
So he looks Derek dead in the eye, and says, well...thanks for saving my life! And he spins on
his heel, and starts walking over to stand with Allison and Scott, who are waving him over
enthusiastically.
As he takes one last glance over his shoulder, he catches Derek staring after him.
---What are you going to do, Stiles?
Erica sounds moderately annoyed as she asks the question; like she doesn't care to know, but
feels as though she has to ask it in order to be a good friend. Isaac nods his head beside her in
agreement.
You're not going to get back together with Derek. Isaac says this like a statement as if they've
already had this conversation, and Stiles has already agreed, and there's nothing more to discuss.
In a way, it's exactly like that. If Stiles were to stack up all the times his friends have told him to
get the hell away from Derek, one on top of the other, the sheer size of the thing would be too
daunting for him to even think about climbing up to the top. At the top, he imagines, is Derek.
Waiting. What are you going to do, Stiles?
There are so many reasons, Stiles, for you to just forget about him, and then Isaac shifts closer
to him on the couch, puts his hand on Stiles' should, shakes him a bit, and enunciates each one of
his next words very clearly. It is in your best interest to forget about him.
It was in your best interest to forget about him years ago, Erica, for once in her life, appears
sincere in her words. He shit all over your life. Not just once, she holds two fingers up,
twice.
You sold your mother's car because he ruined your career. You live on a couch, you walk
around in the clothes of a homeless man-
A stylish homeless man, Allison interjects, with a thin smile trying to make Stiles feel better
at having his shitty life listed out to him like this.
The point is that I can't in good conscience sit here and let you go off and get your life trashed
in round number three, Erica shrugs her shoulders simply; end rant.
Stiles has been chewing on the ends of his glasses for ten minutes now; a nervous habit he

developed when he was a kid, around the same time as the panic attacks it's a good thing it's
about time he got another pair.
He knows that his friends are right. Only a psychopath would go back to Derek, now.
You'd have to be thirty different shades of stupid. Isaac reiterates Stiles' internal monologue
perfectly, and Stiles just sighs. He thinks about what Lydia said to him, in that famed voice mail
message; it's time. Been time. It's been time. It's well past time the hands are frozen at midnight
on the clock, waiting for Stiles to push forward into his life and begin again, so they can start
ticking the time away once more.
Oh, my God, is it time.
But the sick, sad truth, is that Stiles can't imagine a life without Derek, now. No matter what he
chooses. If he chooses Derek, well, of course, there by his side Derek will be. But even if he
chooses the alternative, he knows beyond any inkling of a doubt, that Derek's shadow will be
cast over him for the rest of his life. It's been too long, now, and too much has happened for him
to every truly forget . For him to ever truly move on. That scares him, probably more than
anything. Much more than Derek being a wolf does.
None of that gives him an answer. Even his friends looking him dead in the eyes, shaking him,
and screaming into his face do not do it, don't do it, don't do it doesn't really give him an
answer. God could come down on a flowing cloud with angels surrounding him, look down at
Stiles with a disappointed face, and say, seriously, dude? You really have to think about this?
And still. The answer wouldn't be clear. With Derek, holy shit, it has never been fucking clear.
That wasn't just because of the lies, either.
What are you going to do, Stiles?
Stiles borrows Scott's shitty Toyota, uses the last of his money to load up the tank, and drives to
Los Angeles.
The road there is eerie, haunted by ghosts of moments from three months ago, two years ago he
recognizes the spot where the Blueberry broke down and Derek pulled up behind him, and he
grits his teeth, trying to stave off the memories. He wonders if he made a mistake, doing this.
Tossing his keys over to the valet, whom he recognizes, he gets the same dirty look he got last
time as the man eyeballs the Toyota, his upper lip curling a bit. Thanks, Stiles says to him, and
into the crisp white floored building he goes.
When he reaches his desired floor, he sweeps over to the front desk the secretary clearly
doesn't recognize him, from the way she stares up at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. Either
that, or she remembers him perfectly. He's just about to open his mouth, when he catches sight of
an unmistakably familiar form standing down the hallway to his right.

He looks up, and sees Tiffany Milano hovering outside her office door, arms crossed against her
chest, tapping her heeled foot on the carpeting. She takes a long look at him. Stiles looks back.
Finally, after what feels like minutes of this but couldn't have been more than seconds, she sighs,
and crooks one elegant finger at him, come here, before disappearing back into her office.
Stiles swallows thickly, and this is his last chance to back out. The elevators are right there. He
could flee, run out of here, and he'd never see her again.
With a deep breath, he chooses to walk down the hallway.
When he slips inside of Tiffany's office, she's just sitting there at her desk, tapping one finger on
the crisp glass, lips puckered, and she stares at him again. She takes in the entire sight of him; the
real him, for the first time. All those months he spent working with her, he was always cleaned
up to the best of his abilities. Simple stuff, really the cleanest button downs he owned, and new
jeans his father had bought for him, his hair done nicely.
Now, he stands before her in the jeans he's had since high school with everyone's signatures
scrawled all over them like a yearbook, a white shirt with a hole right near the nipple, with his
hair still in bedhead mode. She raises her eyebrows. You look like a drifter.
I more or less am one. He steps further into her office, and glances around himself. On the
walls are weird, post-modern art that probably cost thousands but that he wouldn't spend even a
penny on.
You better have one hell of a good reason to be standing here, Stiles, her purple colored lips
frown, I was kind of hoping to never see you again.
Then it won't be out of line for me to say I was hoping to never see you again, he tries the joke
and it falls flat; Tiffany blinks at him, unimpressed. So he clears his throat, and tries to start over.
I I really came to... he fishes the notepad, crumpled and smelling distinctly of tequila, out of
his jean pocket. He smooths it out with shaking fingers, and discovers that he really, truly, never
got anywhere with his apology letter.
So now he has to improvise. I came to apologize. Um...
Tiffany looks at him like he has about ten heads. Four months later?
Stiles sighs this is not going well. I'm not that great of a person, so does it really surprise you
that I waited so long?
You humiliated me in front of all my closest friends and family, slept with my fiancee' behind
my back for weeks, all the while I was writing you checks for hundreds of dollars, her eyes
narrow just slightly, so yes, it surprises me.
It's time to go a different route. Definitely a different route. I don't know er how much Derek
told you...after the fact...

Not much, the words are clipped, harsh. Stiles wants to get up and jump out the windows
behind her to fall to a quick death.
Here's the shape of it, he points to one of the chairs in front of her desk, raising his eyebrows
in question, and she nods. He sits down, leans forward, putting his hands on the desk, and
begins. Derek and I were together for nearly a year, when I had just gotten out of college. We
broke up because he he almost says because he was a fucking werewolf, but catches himself at
the last second, he couldn't tell me the truth, and I guess I just got- Tiffany snorts, like hmm,
you think?, ..got tired of it. We broke up, I never heard from him again for nearly two entire
years. He looked me up, after you guys got engaged, found out I was a wedding planner, and I
guess as a last hurrah...hired me. I never intended to start having an affair with him, and he never
intended having an affair with me, but that's just it's just what happened.
I admit I never should have taken the job. I should have told you that I had a conflict of interest.
Or, at the very least, when he made advances towards me...I should have just quit. Every thing I
did, and every choice I made, back then, was wrong. And I'm...sorry. It's a small word, but it's
true.
Tiffany is tapping her nail on her desk again. I can't accept the apology, Stiles.
Stiles had been expecting that. Because what he did to Tiffany goes beyond words and
apologies. She's going to spend the rest of her life wondering what it was about her that just
simply wasn't good enough for Derek Hale. She's going to wonder why it is that he would
choose a ratty, poor, nasty community college graduate over her. Of course, in her eyes it doesn't
make sense. What's wrong with her? What did she do wrong?
Stiles had a pretty big hand in that. So he just nods his head slowly.
But, I will say, I guess if you hadn't have done what you did, I'd be married to someone who
didn't really want to be married to me. Maybe in some twisted way, I owe you.
A wane smile creeps across Stiles' face, and he shakes his head. Trust me, Tiffany. What I was
owed, the universe gave me ten times over.
Tiffany grimaces a bit, and averts eye contact with Stiles to pretend to be looking at something
on her open laptop. I did destroy your entire career, by telling everyone.
I destroyed my entire career.
As if she likes the sound of that, Tiffany gets a satisfied grin on her face. If it makes you feel any
better, she shrugs, I hate Derek about fifty thousand times more than I ever did you.
---Stiles doesn't feel great after the encounter. He had to fucking do it, otherwise it was going to
drive him insane in a way, it was the last selfish thing he would put Tiffany Milano through,

because, like he said, he knew she would never forgive him. That wasn't what bothered him.
What bothered him was him never saying that he was apologetic. The fact that he went to
apologize to her had more to do with himself than it do with the way she felt about the entire
ordeal.
Stiles doesn't deserve to feel great after the encounter, but that's not the point.
The point is, he has an entire second encounter to suffer through, and he's already fucking
exhausted and in misery because of the first one.
The reactions to his presence in this building are a lot more dramatic than in Tiffany's. Mostly
because every single person in this building recognizes him. People literally do double takes as
he walks past them in the lobby, and the harsh whispering starts up near automatically, as if
Stiles can't hear it. These people literally never, ever, change.
Lucy, the spaztic receptionist that Stiles has seen cry close to two dozen times, nearly has a heart
attack when she glances up and sees him coming over to her. She literally nearly keels the fuck
over and dies right there on the floor. Stiles? She sputters at him, jaw dropping and then she
snaps it shut, as if remembering her etiquette school training.
You still work here? He smiles at her, eyes traveling all over the familiar lobby. I thought
you'd have quit by now.
She still has that wide-eyed look on her face, as her fingers are frozen in place over her
computer keyboard. Um it's a good job.
Right.
Benefits, and, um, health insurance...dental.
Right. Stiles would know literally nothing about dental. But he nods at her like he knows all
about it.
Do you... she blinks at him, and then forces a smile on her face. You want me to
page...Derek?
Stiles nods, one arm coming up to rest on top of her huge, round desk, and her fingers stumble
over the buttons on her phone accompanied by the sound of her soft curse.
Derek?
Derek's gruff voice comes over the other end automatically. Not now, Lucy, I'm -
Stiles Stilinski, she says his last name with a bit of a press, is here to see you.
There's dead silence on the other end, and Lucy smiles awkwardly up at him through her
eyelashes.

...send him in.

He's in 894, Lucy says, pointing to the left and blinking so rapidly it looks like she's about to
start stress crying. Poor Lucy...this job was always about ten thousand times more than she could
handle. Derek was more than she could handle. And don't get him started on Peter.
Stiles nods, and as he turns around, people that had obviously been stopped dead in their tracks
to stare at him and whisper literally jump into motion frantically, all averting their eyes away
from him. He rolls his eyes as be begins the walk down to 894; last time he was in this place,
Derek was in 890. Movin' on up, apparently.
The walk past the glass walls of all the offices and meeting rooms might as well be a walk of
shame for the total number of looks and gasps he gets just from existing. It feels a lot like he's a
celebrity or something, but a celebrity that's just had a huge sex scandal and now has to hold his
chin high as the paparazzi swarm him and ask him questions about his personal life. Half of them
he recognizes, and raises his eyebrows to in greeting, met with dropped jaws and awkward
smiles back, and the other half must be privy to the office gossip pretty well, must have at bare
minimum stalked his fucking facebook to see what the kid who ruined Derek Hale's dream
wedding looks like.
As he slides past the glass of Derek's office, Derek looks up, wide-eyed, and frantically motions
for Stiles to come inside.
So, without knocking, Stiles pushes open the huge black door, grins, and says, so the whole
world knows I fucked you, huh?
Derek nearly has a seizure from how he waves his arms at Stiles and how fast he yells close the
god damn door over the sound of muffled laughter out in the halls.
As the door shuts behind him, Derek shouts, do you get off on humiliating me at all turns?
Me? Stile asks, unceremoniously settling into the chair waiting for him in front of Derek's
desk, spreading his legs out carelessly. Humiliating you? Do I need to remind you of the time
that your sister basically announced to an entire congregation that you and I-
Okay, Derek cuts him off, holding his hand up and narrowing his eyes.
Stiles looks around himself at the room he's sitting in and gives a low whistle. Nice place,
here. It really is nice. But it has that classically Derek feel to it no personal effects, no picture
frames, no nothing. Just a potted plant in the corner and a beautiful view behind him.
What are you doing here, Stiles? I really thought I was never going to see you again. He
doesn't say it the way Tiffany said it. Tiffany had said it with annoyance, and a hint of lost hope.
Derek says it just the opposite reverence, and a hint of actual hope.
Stiles looks at him for a second. He had gone over this particular conversation again and again

in his head on the drive over here, planned it out, mapped it word for word.
The thing about Derek is he has a tendency to make Stiles kinda forget his intentions altogether.
Think about what happened with that shitshow of a wedding; Stiles' intentionswere to plan his
wedding and then get the fuck out of his life with a sack of cash on his back. What wound up
actually happening was Stiles and Derek doing the worst possible thing and Stiles fucking off
with no sack of cash.
This conversation is really no different than any of that.
You mean you haven't been sitting in the woods outside Allison and Scott's house, leering at me
from the shadows?
Derek stares at him with wide eyes and parted lips that same face he'd get when caught in a
stalk. Then, he swallows quickly, and furrows his brow, like he's reading something important
on his MacBook. I was just securing the perimeter.
Stiles raises his eyebrows. Right. Because Beacon Hills is a real hotspot for mythical
creatures.
They sit in a silence for a few seconds. Stiles has one knee resting on the other, bouncing it up
and down in no real pattern or beat, glaring pointedly past Derek's head out the window. While
Derek himself taps away on his laptop keyboard; Stiles imagines he just has a word document
open, and is writing help me again and again and again.
You didn't answer my question. Derek speaks, and Stiles shifts his eyes to meet his. What are
you doing here?
Stiles begins tracing the markings on his jeans with one finger, shrugging his shoulders. I came
here to tie up the loose ends. I'm not being chased around by killer wolves anymore, I already
spoke to Tiffany- at this, Derek's lips purse guiltily he, for one, has not gone to speak to
Tiffany even though he owes her a way bigger apology, but it doesn't surprise Stiles, ...all that's
left, is you.
The werewolf leans back in his chair and traces his eyes over Stiles once, twice, and then a
third time, for good measure. You and I have about a hundred loose ends, Stiles.
I know, he agrees, smiling, that's kinda the problem.
You really think we can just sit here and work out all our issues?
Stiles' smile dissipates, and he sighs through his nose. Well, it's worth a fucking shot. I know
you'd prefer to just pretend that you and I never happened because it's easier than actually trying,
for once-
Like I never tried for us, right? Derek shakes his head and snorts sarcastically.

You didn't. You think trying means doing whatever I ask you to do and following me around
like some lost puppy, but that's not how it works, Stiles starts fidgeting with his fingers, biting
his lip. You walked away when things got too much for you, you couldn't take the fucking heat.
And you blamed everything on me just because I asked you to go.
Your problem is that you don't walk away enough, Derek accuses bitterly, leaning forward in
his chair again, if you had just walked out of that room, that first day with Tiffany-
So now that's my fault? When you're the one who looked me up to begin with?
I told you why I did that, Stiles.
Just because you were all, like, heartbroken over me, that doesn't entitle you to come in and
fuck with my life, Derek.
Derek pushes up and away from his stair, sending it rolling backwards until it bounces against
the window, and then he's just standing there with his hands in the pocket of his suit pants,
glaring out at the city with his lips pulled down into a frown. We're never going to work any of
this out, Stiles.
Stiles swallows, looking up at him from his own seat.
Too much has happened and you and I...we don't know how to talk to each other.
That's a point that has to be conceded to because Stiles and Derek have pretty much just been
having variations of the exact same fights for as long as they've known each other. Nothing's ever
been worked out between the two of them. Probably, nothing ever will be worked out.
You're as stubborn as a mule, Derek continues on, still staring out the window, and I'm I'm
an asshole. You're wrong, and I'm wrong, and you did the wrong thing, and I did the wrong
thing...
Stiles stands up, jumps up, really, and slides around the front of the desk to come and stand next
to Derek, in front of the huge windows with the sun setting on Los Angeles. As Derek turns to
face him, the faint orange glow hits his face in just the right way, that it brings the yellow flecks
in his eyes out more prominently. Do you love me?
Derek sighs through his nose. Yes.
Is every thing every thing that you've done...would you sat that that's... Stiles trails off,
unsure of how to word it.
Every thing that I did, I did either because I thought it was what was best for you, so that
would be leaving him two years ago, letting Tiffany hire him to keep a closer eye on him, ...or
because I was selfish, and stupid, and too in love with you to care about the damages. So that
would be the affair behind Tiffany's back, and suggesting to call Stiles in the first place just so
he could see him, consequences be damned.

None of that forgives any of it.

I know, Derek concedes, and his face doesn't change at all as he says it. What about you?
Why'd you do everything you did?
Stiles thinks for a moment. Of course, the answer is obvious he must've been out of his fucking
mind to do all the things that he did. Maybe, throughout the entire span of their relationship, the
only thing he really did right was when he kicked Derek out, when he tried to forget about him.
Everything else, though? Stiles doesn't have a real answer. It's easy to write everything off as
this huge, gaping mistake it makes it easier to accept if he calls it a mistake, apologizes for it,
and tries to move on. It would be easier if he finally did what Derek says he's so terrible at; if he
just walked out of this office right now, without looking back. It would be easier.
He swallows the lump in his throat, sweeps down Derek's face with his eyes once, and says,
because I love you.
Derek sighs, his hand still in his pockets. What are we going to do, Stiles?
Derek loves him, and he loves Derek, and the only thing really standing in between them is the
mound of wrongs that both of them have inflicted upon each other. Lies, secrets, backstabbing,
cruel words, backhanded insults. There's nothing either of them can do about the things they've
said and done in the past.
Stiles guesses that it's just about time they stopped trying.
I say...we say fuck it. He wraps his hands in the lapels of Derek's suit, tugs him downwards,
and kisses him. Derek doesn't try to push him off or resist the kiss, even though it's a stupid and
reckless thing to do; he just kisses back, removing his hands from his pockets to place one on the
side of Stiles' face, thumb stroking his jawline gently.
When Stiles pulls back, Derek has a dopey looking smile on his face. What's with that face?
Stiles asks, smiling back at him.
Are we really going to do this? He asks, narrowing his eyes in confusion. Stiles bites his lip
and nods. We're just going to say fuck it and start over?
It's a damned if I do, damned if I don't situation, Derek, he pecks Derek's nose lightly, and
Derek scrunches his face up in pretend annoyance, and if I'm screwed either way, I'd at least
like to take the route where I get a few orgasms out of it.
Derek's cheeks heat up, but he laughs out loud all the same before tugging Stiles close again,
sliding one warm hand underneath his ratty old t-shirt, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake
on his skin. Stiles arches into the touch a bit, wrapping his hand on the back of Derek's neck to
pull himself closer, breathing shallowly though his nose. Derek huffs out an aggravated breath
before picking Stiles up easily and now that Stiles knows it's because he had werewolf

strength, it's not nearly as incredible as it used to be and dumps him on top of his deck.
Stiles lands in such a way that his left hand slaps on top of Derek's open laptop keyboard, and
his other winds up knocking over a pile of what looked like important legal documents so they
all scatter on the floor in a plop.
Neither of them care. Stiles wraps his legs around Derek's waist, and Derek starts undoing the
buttons of his blazer. Hold on a second, Stiles says, panting a bit, we can't have sex here.
Derek raises his eyebrows. Why not?
Like Stiles seriously can't believe him, he gapes. Your office is made out of windows, Derek.
There are no solid walls, people can see in!
I don't care, and he says it like he really, truly, doesn't, diving back in to kiss a line up Stiles'
neck to his jawline.
You're such a pervert, Stiles laughs, but he doesn't try to stop him. You tell everyone I'm the
freak, when really, it's been you all along, wolfie.
I know you don't mind, Derek reaches down and unbuttons Stiles' jeans, rubbing his opposite
hand up and down one of his thighs. You let me jerk you off in my wine cellar while my finacee'
was two rooms away, a kiss, you gave me a blowjob in the bathroom at my great aunt's
funeral, another kiss, we had sex in the parking lot of the most expensive restaurant in
California-
I get it, Stiles cuts him off and shoves him away from his neck, grabbing at his ridiculous
jawline; the same one that nearly broke his hand that time on his birthday. You think I'm a sex
freak. I can do it anywhere, anytime, any position, he glances over his shoulder, just to make
sure no one's just standing in the hallway with a dropped jaw, watching. There's no one out
there, luckily, except across the hall Stiles can see into another woman's office. She's sitting with
her back turned to them, though, talking on her desk phone, twirling the cord around her fingers,
completely oblivious.
Turning back to face Derek, he says, and what's it going to be this time?
Derek grins, wolfishly, yes, and tugs Stiles' pants down off his hips as much as can in the
position he's got him in, before pulling Stiles' half-hardon out from his boxers with zero prep or
warning, spits once into his hand, and starts jerking him off.
Jesus, Stiles hisses, what do you think this looks like fuck on the outside?
Derek hmms, casually, and shrugs. Probably like I'm jerking you off.
It is ridiculously hot to think that at any second someone could walk by, and see Derek stroking
at Stiles' cock while Stiles has his head thrown back in a silent moan. All the same, it's also
ruining the mood that Stiles has to crack his eyes open every few seconds to look behind him and

make sure no one's there. Derek, and he hmm's again, this isn't the best idea.
Yeah it is, he argues, rubbing his thumb over the tip, where the tiniest bit of precum has come
leaking out. Stiles bites his lip to hold another groan in, before grabbing Derek's hand and
pushing it off his dick.
Seriously? Derek asks him, eyebrows raised. At least now I know where you draw the line.
Stiles shoves his dick back into his underwear, and pulls his pants back up all the way This is
the second time you've forced me to hide my hardon, he mutters under his breath as he tucks his
cock daintily into the waistband of his boxers.
I would be more than happy to finish you off, Stiles-
Shut up! Stiles punches him in the arm, hops off the desk, and smooths his hair out with his
hands. Then they're just standing in Derek's office, with Derek leering at him like some sort of
creature that wants to eat him, and Stiles pacing around a bit, trying to ignore his arousal. So,
like, one finger moves in between Derek and Stiles as he continues to pace and speak, what
are we?
What are we? Derek repeats the question in an even more quizzical tone.
Yeah, like are we, you know! Is this something? Or is this just you jacking me off in public
places every now and then?
A slow, easy smile creeps across Derek's face. We're whatever you want us to be,
Sarnocinski.
Stiles eyeballs him. So if I just want to call you every night at midnight and demand you come
to Allison and Scott's house so we can have quiet, secret sex in the bathroom-
Then I'll come and have quiet, secret sex in the bathroom.
And if I want you to take me out to dinner, and take me to movies, and drive me around...
I'll do that.
What if I want to have an affair with an almost married man," Stiles stops pacing, and fixes
Derek with a stupid smile. "Will you get engaged to someone else just to fulfill my fantasies?
And then will you let me plan the wedding, too?
Derek raises his eyebrows. Depends on the person.
---I feel ridiculous, Stiles says, while one of Derek's huge hands is wrapped in front of his eyes,
and the other is gently nudging him forwards.

You look it, too, Derek assures him in his ear, snickering softly.
As they shuffle forwards, the only thing Stiles can tell is that they're definitely in Derek's huge
garage. It has that garage-y smell that they all have; gasoline, mildew, rubber, all blended
together in one weird cocktail.
You're not taking me out here to finally kill me, are you? he says in a low voice. Because
after I told Isaac and Erica that you were a wolf, they, like, almost convinced me that you were
going to kill me someday.
Just shut up, Derek flicks him on the ear and Stiles hisses in annoyance he fucking hates
when Derek does that shit.
This is my surprise, Stiles reminds him in a petulant tone.
Correction, Derek sounds like he's having way too much fun with this, it's my surprise for
you. I have complete and total control over the situation.
After a few more shuffles of feet, Derek stops, and runs his free hand up Stiles' arm slowly. Are
you ready? Stiles nods excitedly.
When Derek pulls his hand off of Stiles' eyes, and slowly slides his glasses back up onto his
face, Stiles blinks for a few seconds. In complete and utter disbelief, he opens his mouth, and
then closes it again. Opens it, and closes it. Derek...
Sitting there, straight out of Stiles' memories, is the Blueberry. Glittering and shining in the low
lights of the garage, like it's recently been through a car wash and a waxing.
Is it...? Stiles trails off, and Derek nods. He walks over to the driver's side door, opens it up,
and points to the proof. There, in a nine year old boy's scrawl, is Stiles carved into the paint on
the inside of the door.
Stiles approaches it cautiously, as though it might pop like a bubble if he gets too close to it, and
then runs one hand down the side of the hood, reverently. This is the Blueberry, and it deserves
respect. How did you...?
Find it? Derek finishes for him, slamming the door closed and grinning like a bobcat at him.
It was surprisingly easy. I went on craigslist and found a guy trying to sell it for under a six
hundred dollars. He said it just up and stopped running one day.
Oh, Stiles says in a sullen tone, frowning down at his mother's car. So it's totally broken,
now?
Derek laughs at him, shaking his head. I replaced the engine. It runs probably better than it did
when your mother first bought it.
Without thinking about it, Stiles practically leaps on top of Derek, wrapping his arms around his

neck. I can't believe you did this!

Of course I did, Derek says back, running slow circles on Stiles' back, laughing in his ear. I
told you. I owed you.

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