Chapter Text
Turns out surviving near-death three times and nearly putting down the bad guy makes you kind of a big deal, and if you were already kind of a big deal, the whole world wants to know every detail in slow motion, preferably in the form of a motion picture. Maybe that's why every hack with a camera and nothing better to do is directing their own unauthorized documentary, mostly by filming lots and lots of B-roll of LA and Beacon Hills, and grainy footage of just about everywhere Stiles, Derek, and everyone even slightly associated with them has ever set foot in. Erica's already managed to find the porn version, fittingly called Hard Dicks 9: The Cum Shot Heard 'Round the World. She's been getting a kick out of sending Stiles copies of every movie she can find that even vaguely references his life, claiming they're at least as accurate as the tabloid stories Stiles has her collecting. Stiles has to admit she's got a point. His Wikipedia page is a jumble of rapidly edited half-truths and conspiracy theories, and Victoria practically has to beat back reporters with a stick. Best of all, Stiles grouches to Lydia, paparazzi have camped out in the hospital parking lot, which none of the doctors are happy about. Stiles really isn't interested in throwing anyone a snappy quote or a quick photo. If he never sees another guy with a camera again, it'll still be too fucking soon.
This is maybe not wonderful, considering Hard Truths season 6 starts shooting in two weeks. Table read in eleven days. The small part of Stiles that isn't completely terrified every time he remembers this is just relieved that Boyd and Shantal (and to a lesser extent, the rest of the cast) will be there to help him reacclimate. Stiles isn't stretching the truth at all when he says the cast and crew are like family. Even Jay is like a snarky uncle when he's not being totally unreasonable.
So far, Stiles has managed to avoid the media by turning off his phone, not checking his email, and confining his movements to Derek's hospital room and the vending machine down the hall. Like every other half-baked celebrity trying for incognito, he's got a baggy hoodie, a Mets cap, and even a pair of those douchey sunglasses that cover half your face. Erica has been the best assistant ever, unless, of course, you ask Lydia, who thinks Erica is enabling him and allowing him to become a shut-in like poor Robert Pattinson, who, rumor has it, now lives in a bomb shelter with only a guitar and a lifetime supply of pot and PBR for company.
"You're a not just an actor, Stiles," she says, eying at the chest of drawers beside Derek's bed like it wore last year's Jimmy Choos to this year's Oscars. "You're a brand. Eating stale Cheetos and watching Days of Our Lives reruns for two days while this story spins out of control is not your brand."
"Well it should be." Stiles shrugs. "Makes more sense than me being some kind of hero."
He knows he can't hide from his nightmares much longer; Derek's getting discharged soon, and in between huddling close to him here and huddling close to him at home, Stiles will have to face the sea of stalkers. What makes Daehler different from the rest, really? Stiles isn't sure anything does. You start treating people like animals in a zoo, soon enough you get the urge to poke them with a stick. Sure, Daehler was crazy, but who says any of the photographers camped outside are any more sane? There's no test, no vetting system, no anything. And Derek's not going to learn anything from this, he won't stop running in front of bullets if he thinks it'll help someone, he'll never stop sacrificing himself, the suicidal idiot—
"Breathe," Lydia says bossily when Stiles starts to hyperventilate. "You'll be fine. Based on the law of averages, it's statistically unlikely that something like this will happen to you again."
Good, he thinks, watching Derek's chest rise and fall as he drifts in a Percocet fog. Let Patrick Adley deal with the next creep. Stiles has had just about as much as he can take.
Stiles fires Duke A. Leon as quickly as Victoria rehires him, and it's a tug of war until Stiles swears that the next time he sees that asshole's face, he will stab it with the nearest blunt object, which will definitely contradict the "Mr. All American Hero, Defender of Truth, Justice, and the American Way" brand that's Victoria's worked so hard to fabricate. Stiles still blames Duke for getting Derek's hackles up, making him think he had something to prove, making him reckless. The new bodyguard, Alan Deaton, is a friend of Scott's and somehow manages to do his job without shoving how great he is at his job down everyone's throat. If Duke is so great, Stiles rants ad nauseum, where the hell was he when Derek went for a walk with the gun?
“He was your bodyguard.” Derek leans heavily against his pillow. He looks terrible, drawn and pale and worn out, but he's awake. He's talking. He's keeping the oxygen in the air. “He was glad to see me go.”
Stiles swears for a solid minute. “He was a giant douche canoe, is what he was. He just fucking took off in the middle of the worst of it. I almost didn't—I almost—Thank god for Boyd and Danny, that's all I'm saying. And Allison and Erica. And Lydia. Fucking lifesavers. Literally.”
“Everyone's saying you're a hero,” Derek says. Stiles snorts.
“Everyone's saying a lot of things. Jay emailed me an article from the Beacon Hills Beacon. Some hack named Greenberg thinks this was all a PR stunt for Hard Truths.”
“I mean,” Derek says, frustrated. “You are a hero.”
“I'm not a hero, Derek,” Stiles says. Every time he closes his eyes, every time he opens them, all he can see is Derek, shivering, barely gasping, his blood cooling on Stiles' hands... or worse, the horrible deafening silence of Derek not breathing, not moving, not anything.
“You were two nights ago,” Derek says, and Stiles thinks, You almost died two nights ago. You almost died, you almost....
“Dude, I knocked over a vending machine trying to shake a Reese's cup loose two nights ago,” Stiles says, forcing the nightmare away. “Good thing I'm famous, and I can charm them with a check and some autographs and this killer smile.” Stiles demonstrates. It doesn't reach his eyes. “Hah! I just said the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The most idiotic thing I've ever said, considering,” Stiles says. “'Good thing I'm famous.'”
“Dude!” Scott says when Stiles finally reaches him. Time zones and long days of shooting have had Scott incommunicado, and Stiles has been dying to talk to him.
Uh.
Bad choice of words.
“Is it over? Are you okay? I swear to god, I'd be on a plane back in a second if I could. Tell me everything. Allison said you went after the guy?”
“I'm okay, man, we're good.” Stiles repositions himself in his chair when his legs start to fall asleep. “He's in a crap cell somewhere and Victoria's lawyer is going to fucking end him. That's all I know. I'm not about to pay him a visit.”
“I saw the papers. You're on the front page of, like, everything.” Scott says. “In fucking Venice.”
“I know, it's insane,” Stiles agrees. “Throw one crazy pap in jail, five hundred replace him like that.” He snaps demonstratively. “I don't know, man. It's like everyone's calling me a hero, but I basically spent three days crying and not getting shot.”
“Dude, have you ever seen Supernatural? It's all crying and not getting shot. You totally qualify. And you pulled Derek out of a burning house. That's superhero shit, dude.”
“Yeah, I'm awesome,” Stiles jokes. The smile comes just a little bit easier this time. “I am so bad-ass, you have no idea.”
“I have some idea,” Scott says reasonably. “And Derek's okay?”
“Yeah,” Stiles says with some relief. “Yeah, he scared the shit out of me, but he'll be fine. The bullet was through-and-through, so—”
“Whoa, wait,” Scott says. “Derek got shot? What happened?”
“Jessica tried to kill me.” Stiles thinks back to what Derek told him, Daehler's convoluted motive, and corrects himself. “Actually, he tried to turn me into Justin Bieber, and then he tried to kill me, and then he tried to kill Derek because Derek wouldn't let him kill me or turn me into a teenage trainwreck.”
“She, you mean.”
Stiles sighs. “It's a long story, dude, but basically, Jessica's actually an psychotic paparazzo named Matt Daehler.”
“What, like in drag?”
The mental picture is so bizarre, Stiles has to laugh. “There's no Jessica, dude. Jessica was a decoy for an asshole with a gun.”
“But Lydia—”
“Got knocked out and took my word for it,” Stiles says. “And I lied.”
Stiles can practically hear Scott's brows coming together. “You Manti Te'o'd me!”
“I Manti Te'o'd everyone.” Stiles stops. “Are we sure Manti Te'o Manti Te'o'd anyone? Wonder what he's doing these days, by the way.”
“See?" Scott says, like Stiles is making his point for him. "We have no idea. That stuff dies down, no matter how big it gets. This will too.”
“Guess I'll just wait ten years for people to forget about me and only use me as a dated, possibly completely inaccurate metaphor,” Stiles says, almost feeling human again.
See, this is why Scott is awesome.
“So,” Stiles says. The past couple of times he played this over in his head, he started with “You're a suicidal idiot” and graduated to “I love you anyway.”
But he doesn't do that now. Instead, he says all the things he hopes Derek already knows. How Derek is smart, and funny, and sexy as hell, and how Stiles loves him, why Stiles loves him. Why Stiles will always love him. Why Stiles understands Derek’s need to protect him. How he doesn’t want a stranger being the one with him every day, keeping him safe. He wants someone he trusts. Someone he loves.
“So hey, if you still want the job...” he says.
Derek doesn’t even hesitate.
“Of course,” he says.
He’s pouring relief. He’s practically glowing.
“With certain conditions, of course,” Stiles clarifies. “You’re keeping Deaton as backup.” The man's not actually a bodyguard per say, but kind of a security adviser. Stiles is hoping Derek will see it as a team effort rather than a demotion, stop him feeling insecure and start him feeling safe. Derek doesn’t immediately love the idea, especially after Duke's brief but frustrating time as bodyguard and dictator, but Stiles is quick to point out the benefits. “You’d actually get to sleep without worrying about me dying horribly because you weren’t awake,” Stiles starts.
“Fine,” Derek says, convinced.
“Plus, you’d finally—Wait, what?”
“Fine,” Derek repeats. “Yes. Just don’t talk like that. About dying, like you’re talking about the weather. Or with Scott. About who gets your stuff. It’s not—That’s not funny to me.”
“Oh,” Stiles says, startled. “Sorry. I had this whole list of reasons prepared, I didn’t think that would be enough.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Derek says. “Of course the thought of you dying is enough. And you’re right. I screwed up so many times over the past week… I got distracted. You distract me. And when I thought the bullet was some kind of warning, I couldn’t even think of the next step. I was just sixteen all over again. When I think about how many close calls—I’m still gonna do everything I can to protect you—”
“And me you,” Stiles says, because not to brag, but he did bring Derek back from the brink of death, so. When he isn't trapped in a nightmare about it, it has to be said.
Derek nods, kisses him raw.
“There’s something else,” Stiles says, checking his jacket pocket and clearing his throat nervously. “Um. Okay. I was going to do this whole elaborate setup with a, with this huge scrapbook full of pictures and articles and stories about us, but then I realized- We don’t need other people to define us, you know? We don’t need their pictures and their stories. They don’t get a say in us, in what we are or what you mean to me. It’s just speculation, it’s just rumors and assumptions and like forty percent of it is straight-up bullshit. I’ve got what I know, what I’ve seen and how I’ve felt for the past seven years. I’ve got more than enough of my own proofs. I don’t need anyone else’s. What I’m saying is,” Stiles says, “I’ve been in love with you for seven years, Derek. And I really don’t think that’s ever going to change. And every time I look at you, or think of you, or talk to you, or touch you, I know it won’t. There’s no hope for a cure,” Stiles says. “And I don’t want one. I guess what I’m saying is…” He pauses, pulls a small black box from his pocket.
“Hey, Derek,” Stiles says, getting down on one knee, “What do you say we make this official?”
And Derek is—is strangely stuck. Stiles is pretty sure that's the same face he was making before Stiles started his speech.
“Uh, Derek,” he says nervously, “It’s okay, you don’t have to—We don’t have to get married, man. If that’s not something you want.”
Derek's face does a magnificent impression of Michelangelo's David.
“This doesn’t change anything between us,” Stiles says hurriedly. “I wasn’t just bluffing, when I said all that stuff about other people defining us. I mean it. It’s just a piece of paper. I don’t need it. I know how you feel, this isn’t a freaking soap opera, I don’t need any of that.”
He gets up off, brushes off his knee.
And Derek comes alive again. “What’re you—No, don’t get up.”
Stiles grins, a little stiffly, shoves the little box back in his pocket. He’s not lying—he really doesn’t need it—but the rejection stings a little anyway. He shrugs it off, smirks up at Derek.
“Almost-engaged blow job, huh? Yeah, let’s do that.”
Derek freezes again, but comes back to himself quickly this time.
“No, no,” he says, and Stiles really starts to worry. Derek’s never turned down a blow job before.
“Okay,” he says, confused and slightly hurt. “Derek, what’s wrong?”
Derek laughs.
Ouch.
Stiles really, really wasn’t expecting that. In all the possible ways Stiles imagined this going down, he never thought of Derek laughing at him.
“Derek,” he says desperately, “What’s going on?”
Derek stops laughing, looks suddenly horrified. “No, I wasn’t—I wasn’t laughing at you!” he says. “I was just—Remember how I told you not to open your birthday gifts in front of Duke?”
Stiles lets out an agreeable noise, still not getting it, still vaguely heartbroken.
Still on one knee.
Derek walks over to the pile of gifts now.
Picks up a smallish box, neatly wrapped. Stiles had assumed it was cuff-links or something.
Except Derek half-kneels in front of Stiles, careful of his dressing, and says, “Open it.”
It’s a small black box.
“So I hear you've been having kind of a crazy week,” Jimmy Kimmel says as the deafening cheers finally die down and Stiles takes his seat. “In case you were living under a rock this past week,” Kimmel explains to the cameras, “what happened was a paparazzi, a member of the paparazzi—Which one is it? I'm still not sure. Well either way, this guy, Matt Daehler,” he says, holding up a mugshot, “actually shot into through Stiles' window.” The audience Awwws in unison, mixed with a couple of boos for Daehler.
“Exactly, boooo,” Stiles agrees, looking away from Daehler's ugly mug and shaking off the chill that still comes every time Stiles thinks about him, thinks about how Derek almost—No, no no no, not here. Not now. He forces himself to focus on the fans in the audience, ignore the sudden pounding of blood in his ears. “Thank you guys. I love you guys.” The room erupts into cheers again. It takes a while for the shrieking to die down.
“You know what I think happened?” Kimmel asks. “I think he must have misunderstood his job. That's the wrong kind of shooting. Easy mistake to make, I know, but... Right? That's my theory.” Ripples of halfhearted laughter spill through the audience.
“I've been working on that setup since I found out who he was,” Stiles admits. “You got it, though. It's been exhausted now.”
“Well, I try,” Kimmel says humbly. “You actually went to Daehler's apartment to confront him, is that right?”
“Well he shot at me, burned down my father's house, and abducted my boyfriend,” Stiles reminds him. “I kind of figured I'd come to him for once. And I couldn't have done it without Boyd backing me up. He's great. He's one of my best friends. I love him.”
The cheers for that are ridiculous, but Stiles walked right into that one. He can see the Stixon fanfic writing itself. Probably Bilinski RPS, too, which Stiles is kind of simultaneously horrified and fascinated by. His fans can be really, really imaginative. And kinky. And detailed. Skip the bromance and go straight to romance, because apparently saying nice things about your friends is actually secret code for how much you want to fuck them bareback.
It's funny though. It's fun.
(Derek might not think so just yet, which is why Stiles isn't showing him the wealth of Sterek fic he's found anytime soon. It doesn't come close to the real thing, anyway.)
“So it was like a real-life episode of Hard Truths for a second there.”
“A little bit, yeah.”
“I've got a picture here, what I think is a pretty famous picture by now.” Jimmy holds it up. “Can you see that? It's a picture of you actually pulling Derek, pulling your bodyguard-turned-boyfriend, from a burning building. Smoke everywhere, fire spreading, you're half naked—” Whistles sound from the audience; Stiles facepalms, hard. “I think what we all wanna know is, what was going through your head at that moment?”
“Honestly, it was more panic than anything else. Just trying not to pee my pants, basically.”
“Maybe you could've used that to put out the fire.”
“You think? Maybe. I should have thought of that.”
“You'd be all anyone ever talked about. 'Oh, Jackson Whittemore won an Emmy? Stiles Stilinski put out a fire with his super-pee.'”
“Missed opportunity,” Stiles jokes. “Next time.”
“But in all seriousness, that's pretty impressive.” The cheers start up again. Stiles' ears are ringing at this point. “Would you do that for just anyone, do you think, or does he—Is that a ring I see?”
Stiles grins, finds Derek in the audience. “It is, yeah.” The fans are absolutely deafening, and Derek's ears go as pink as they'll ever be, but he's smiling like an idiot, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
“And is this from Derek, or did somebody else rush in and sweep you off your feet?”
“Someone else, totally.” Stiles laughs. “Actually, it was a fan outside. No, no, it's from Derek.”
“I think he’s here in the audience tonight, isn’t he?” Kimmel says.
“Of course,” Stiles says, and then, because being a famous, twenty-seven year old, Oscar-award winning actor doesn’t mean he isn’t still a hyper, childish kid at heart, he looks Derek right in the eyes, says, “Hi, honey,” and blows him a kiss. The fans lose their freakin' minds. Derek ducks his head, embarrassed, but his grin is still wide enough to park a limousine in.
“Well congratulations,” Kimmel says when the audience finally settles down. “Now, I hear you have a clip for us from your new movie, My Girl Stacy. What are we about to see?”
“Okay, yeah,” Stiles says, sobering slightly. “I play Ben, who finds out his girlfriend, played by my crazy-talented friend Allison Argent—“
“That's the same Allison who helped you find Derek,” Jimmy clarifies.
“Yeah,” Stiles confirms. “She’s awesome, I owe her big time. So in this scene I find my girlfriend Stacy on a date with my best friend Jared, played by the hilarious Isaac Lahey.”
“Sounds interesting. Let’s take a look,” says Jimmy, and the clip rolls.
The Kimmel clip gets over a million hits on YouTube by the next morning, and Stiles’ name trends on twitter, along with Derek’s, and a number of congratulatory hashtags. Scanning through the well-wishes and Stixon/Bilinski fans hyperventilating about the “mixed messages,” Stiles spots some really horrible things being said about Derek. Luckily, Derek doesn’t handle social media anymore. Danny is officially his internet security man, so Derek never has to see that shit again.
Stiles still fires off some angry anonymous responses, though. No one gets to talk about his husband-to-be like that.
Even when Deaton's not all silent and bodyguardly, he's actually helpful. He's the one who suggests therapy, in a calm, totally non-judgmental tone Duke could never have pulled off. Maya Morell has a Ph.D and the same even, reasonable logic as Deaton, and she gets Stiles and Derek to spill their guts in truly uncharacteristic displays. Maybe a little bit too much, but like any good love story, it all works out in the end.
The tape sits in evidence for a few weeks before Stiles gets to watch it. He doesn’t know what he’s looking at, at first, and then he can’t stop replaying it.
Derek finds him panicking in front of the TV in the rec room and recognizes it immediately. “Stiles,” he says, rushing to stand close to his fiance, but letting Stiles be the one to pull him in, “It’s okay. We’re okay.”
"I'm not okay," Stiles says, swaying slightly against Derek's jacket. He can still make out the slight bulge of the bandage underneath. "I'm not. I'm not okay with how that night went down. I can blame Duke for winding you up, but you still got the gun and went looking for trouble. I can't pretend—"
“I thought I could take care of it." Derek explains. "And you wouldn’t have to know—"
“Take care of it?” Stiles repeats incredulously. “What, have you upgraded to hit-man now? ‘Oh, no biggie, just taking a nice peaceful walk with my gun! Hopefully I won’t die on this kamikaze mission, or get arrested for murder, wouldn’t that be awesome? Won’t that be a great thing for my boyfriend to wake up to? My twenty-year prison sentence, my body—'” Stiles breaks off, glaring, eyes bright.
Derek nods, swallows hard. “You’re right. I wasn’t thinking. I was just—What he did to you—“
“He didn’t do anything to me,” Stiles snaps. “I told you that like a million times. I’m fine.”
“That's not what I meant,” Derek says, frustrated. “You’ve been having nightmares for ten years about this creep. He scared you to death. He still made you feel powerless. When I think about him doing that to you—” Derek’s already intense stare turns almost feral. “I couldn’t just let him get away with that. I couldn’t just let him be another guy with a camera shouting at you in the street, trying to get a reaction. I thought I could handle it. I was wrong.”
Stiles sniffs. “Maybe I should be your bodyguard,” he jokes humorlessly. “If you ever try something this stupid again, Derek, I swear—You almost died.”
"I won't," Derek swears. "I won't. I just... I wanted to do my job. I just wanted to be able to tell you it was over."
"So tell me," Stiles says.
"I can't," Derek says. "I didn't stop him. I spent ten years imagining what I'd do, if I just found whoever did that to you. How I'd make them sorry. Keep you safe. And then I just made it worse." He scoffs a little bitterly. "Who would've guessed."
"No," Stiles says. He didn't mean it like that, he'd never. Never want Derek thinking he's a failure, just because of one mistake. "Derek, hey, that's not... You kept me safe for ten years. Kept me sane. You don't think that counts for anything?"
Stiles reaches out, brushes Derek's knuckles, circles his wrist and steps just a little bit closer.
"In case you haven't noticed,” he says quietly, “and maybe you haven't, I don't know, but you're my life vest. Not just close protection, but... All those guys, all those guys who shadowed me before you, I couldn't trust them. You know? Not really. I couldn't talk to them, or, or connect, they were just... authorized stalkers, basically. Hovery strangers, just... watching me all the time."
"They didn't," Derek asks, eyes already intense.
It's stupid, pushing back at that protectiveness. After everything that happened to them... To Derek, even. After Kate alone, his family, who wouldn't be?
"Not like... Not in any," Stiles tries. "You know, that's how it is, usually. Not a friend, not family, just... this guy. And it's his job to follow me, and keep away the creeps. Not... I don't know. Actually be there. When I'm feeling like I'm gonna crawl out of my skin, or like I'm permanently fucked. There's, you know, there's a difference. Being technically safe, and feeling it. And not feeling alone."
"Yeah," Derek says, soft. Looking at Stiles, like... Right back at you.
"You know," Stiles rushes on. "I was already on edge, without feeling shadowed all the time. If Scott didn't think to switch bodyguards, if you wouldn't've agreed, and been there for me... I was on the fast track to a breakdown, man, it would've happened. His whole plan, all of it, I would've spun out. You're the reason I didn't."
"That's not true," Derek says. "You're the one who got through it. Other people wouldn't've either way."
"Yeah, maybe," Stiles says, "but I counted on you. I knew you always had my back. Through everything."
Derek hums slightly, ears pinking, and tips close to press his forehead to Stiles', who lifts his chin and kisses him.
The room still goes airless when Derek pulls away from a kiss looking like this, like he's scared and relieved and desperate and amazed all at once, like he's a million questions and Stiles is the one perfect answer.
Derek is turning Stiles into a total cheeseball, but it's Derek, so he can't force himself to mind.
“I meant it, you know,” Stiles says, breaking from Derek long enough to loop an arm around his shoulders and guide him out of the rec room and down the hall, “I mean it now. What I said in the car, after the fire.”
Just thinking about Derek closing up like that makes Stiles' chest hurt.
"You know that, right?" He leans against him just a little, takes Derek's weight as he sways closer. "You know I've got your back."
"I know," Derek says.
Like he's learning.
The tape goes deep in a closet, buried under a mess of Erica's Hard Truths porn adaptations. Stiles can’t bring himself to throw it out.
It’s not all happy songs over rolling credits. There are nightmares, and misunderstandings, and issues with the new security system. Allison and Scott break up just before the wedding and insist on being seated at separate tables, even though that fucks with Stiles’ hugely elaborate seating plan. Daehler’s lawyer tries to paint Derek as a dangerous vigilante/home invader who Daehler had every right to shoot under California law. But they help each other through the aftershocks, and the misunderstandings always clear up eventually, and they work out the kinks to the bodyguard plan until Derek is comfortable with all of it and Stiles is almost certainly safe. Like the drama queens that they are, Allison and Scott get back together the day before the wedding, so the seating plan reverts back to Draft 36, where they sit together with tears in their eyes all the way through it. Boyd and Erica are soon Hollywood’s newest it couple, and Isaac and Scott get super-close super-fast after meeting at the bachelor party. Stiles' lawyers absolutely demolish Daehler’s case against Derek. The story burns fast and furious, and then Patrick Adley's driver accidentally hits and kills a paparazzo with his Bentley, and that's all anyone is talking about until Selena Gomez has a nip slip at the Grammys. And so things go back to normal, or B-list celebrity normal, anyway.
Eventually, Stiles and Derek go back to Beacon Hills to sort through the remains of Stiles’ dad’s house. Stiles visits his parent’s graves, and Derek is similarly teary around nearly half-a-dozen Hale graves; he kneels by Laura Hale, Beloved Daughter, Sister, and Friend, and doesn’t speak for a very long while. Stiles just stays with him, stands by him, kisses him on his shoulder, up his neck, the corner of his jaw in the plane back, knitting his fingers through his husband’s, wedding bands clinking in union. They shake off the angst at home, where Derek and Stiles weigh prospective scripts by reading each other lines in hilarious voices, dissecting the fluff pieces as if they're Great American Novels, cracking each other up. They fuck in the shower, and Derek cooks dinner because he’s versatile, damn it. It’s good.
It’s very, very good.
My Girl Stacy tops at the box office, and the whole lot of them gather in the theater to watch it together. Lydia calls it cute, praises the acting, but says it contributes to a misogynistic society by villainizing Stacy for something a male character would be cheered for. Isaac agrees, actually, now that she’s pointed it out. He’s charming, honest, smart and just strange enough to have her look twice. It’s maybe, possibly, tentatively, the beginning of something. They're happy and Jackson isn't, so Stiles is thrilled.
Boyd has his own demons from that night; he goes still at prop-gunpoint, staring down the barrel like he doesn't dare blink. They break for lunch with Jay subtly sighing into his hands, Boyd and Stiles skipping Craft services and heading to Stiles' trailer to not talk, just—get out of their heads. They're two crime procedural actors scared of guns and cameras, and maybe it's the absurdity of that that gets them through it, or maybe it's the way Boyd gets it, bone deep, doesn't look at Stiles like he's crazy for the way his breath sticks in his throat the first twenty takes, the way he can't remember a single line even with someone feeding them to him. They don't talk, and then they talk about nothing, and then Boyd says, "How's Derek?" and Stiles says, "Good, he's—really good."
"Great," Boyd says, and Stiles says, "All those hero headlines, it's crap. You did all the heavy lifting. People should know that."
"No offense," Boyd says wryly, "but I think I'll stay out of the spotlight for a while, thanks."
"I get that," Stiles says. "I just mean—Thank you. It was so, so completely insane of me to pull you into my shit when it had literally nothing to do with you."
"Don't beat yourself up," Boyd says. "I could've said no."
"And I could've just called the police like a normal person," Stiles says. "Or never pointed Daehler out to Derek at all. I gave him exactly what he—" He shakes his head, rubs his eyes. "Anyway, thanks."
"Don't mention it," Boyd says.
Back on set they start to get their rhythm back, and soon Stiles is firing off one liners like all he's ever been is a hardened, inappropriately witty cop, staring down at a gruesomely defaced body, waiting for just the right line to make his world-weary partner Stanley Luther sigh and wonder, once again, how the hell he got stuck with this pain in the ass.
The season six premiere of Hard Truths has the highest ratings yet, so maybe Greenberg was on to something.
Stiles waits for it, watches for it, but the shoe doesn’t drop, dynamic equilibrium doesn’t kick in, and then Deaton finds Kate. Turns out, if you can believe it, she had a crisis of conscience about ten years ago and turned herself in. She got life for arson and five counts of murder; Derek can visit her in jail, if he wants. He says he doesn’t, at first, but then he starts having nightmares, often, and when Stiles wakes to Derek wrapped all around him, shuddering so hard he shakes himself awake, he wraps them both in a blanket and gets the cocoa and the Doctor Who DVDs, and once Derek's breathing evenly and the the Ponds are off to have a million amazing adventures, (Stiles refuses to accept that season seven exists; he will sometimes admit to season six, but that's where he draws the line) he convinces Derek that he needs to see her, to know she's powerless now.
Derek changes his mind about fifteen times in the car ride over, but he steels himself as they walk through security. Deaton's behind them, calm as ever, and that helps, even if Derek won't admit it.
She’s not the girl he remembers; in the orange jumpsuit, hair tinged with gray, face thin and sallow, she looks starved and tired and pathetic. She doesn’t recognize him at first; Derek jogs her memory, and she half-smiles in approval, makes some kind of creepy comment about him “filling out in all the right places.” Stiles keeps Derek’s hand tight in his, gives a reassuring squeeze at this. “Don’t be so timid, Sourwolf,” she says, and Derek growls, “Shut up, you psychotic bitch. You killed my entire family. You think I give a shit what you think?”
“You’re here,” she says, smirking slightly. “You really came all this way to shove your new boyfriend in my face? What is this, the prom?”
“Husband, actually,” Stiles corrects, moving his fingers so the silver bands are cool promises against Derek’s sweaty palm. “And this isn’t about you at all, actually. This is about facts.
“You’re gonna die in here, Kate. Alone. That’s what you have to look forward to. But Derek? You tried to ruin his life, and you got pretty damn close. But he’s got family now, and friends, and it's just starting to get good. And you’ve got this. So I guess what I’m saying is, whose life did you destroy that night? ‘Cause if you ask me? I think it was yours.
“C’mon,” he tells Derek, squeezing his hand again. “Let’s go home.”
“Nice speech. Give the man an Oscar,” Kate laughs from behind the glass, but they’re already gone, leaving the phone still swinging from its metal cord.
Deaton just ahead, they swim through the blinding pops of flashbulbs, the deafening shouts of paparazzi angling for a quote, and find the Camaro. Scott’s up front, admiring the leather seats.
“You know, man, you could just buy one yourself,” Stiles tells him. “I’m sure it wouldn’t wipe you out.”
“Yeah, I know,” Scott says. “It’s just not practical. What with the baby and all.”
“Since when have you ever been prac—Wait, what?!” Stiles shouts. “You’re having a baby?”
“I’m having a baby!” Scott shouts back, stars in his eyes. “We’re having a baby! Allison and me!”
“Victoria’s gonna lose her mind,” Stiles says, just imagining it.
“Yeah, she is,” Scott says, grinning.
“Stop this car right now and give me a hug, dude,” Stiles commands. Scott laughs. “And if Derek and I are not godfathers, I will assume you are not Scott, but an alien hive mind.”
“Dude, of course you are. Both of you. I practically matched you up, you owe me. I’ll accept payments in babysitting and diaper changing—“
“And spoiling your kid rotten,” Stiles adds. “Whether you like it or not. Oh my god, how long have you known? Is Allison showing yet? Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl? Because the spoiling starts today, people. Oh my god, you’re gonna be a dad. Derek, Scott’s gonna be a dad.” The grin on Stiles’ face shrinks as he says, “Are you okay? You’ve been quiet this whole ride home.”
“I’m fine,” Derek says. “Really,” he adds, at Stiles’ skeptical look. “I was just thinking about what you said. To Kate, you know.”
“Should I have just shut up?” Stiles says worriedly. “Oh my god, I totally steamrolled your closure, didn’t I. God, I’m sorry—“
“No,” Derek says. “No, it was good. You were right.” He smiles, small but true. “I just—I never would’ve thought of it like that. I just kept seeing her stupid smirking face and hearing her laugh and—But you’re right. She’s got nothing. And I’ve got you. And I’m gonna be a godfather. And—” his eyes are bright, but they’re happy tears, for once. “It’s just—I never would’ve thought—Sixteen year old me never would’ve thought—” He breaks off, pulls Stiles in and kisses him, long and deep.
“You’re right, Scott,” Stiles agrees, later. “This car is definitely not practical. It’s got no backseat.”
Scott groans. “I feel like I’ve said this before,” he says, “but the sharing. Don’t. Unless, of course,” he adds, when Stiles opens his mouth to protest, “you want every beautiful detail of how my little girl was conceived.”
“God no,” Stiles says, scandalized. “Wait, did you say little girl? You’re having a little girl? This is fucking beautiful, man, I’m gonna start crying in a minute, I’m not even joking. Someone get me and my credit cards to a baby store. Does anyone even know any baby stores? Do you have a registry or something? This is the best day ever outside of my wedding, man, I swear. Do you…”
Stiles motors on, grinning like a crazy person, as Scott mouths to Derek, Is he on something?
“Just the natural high of genuine happiness, man,” Stiles says, because Stiles sees all. “Get used to it.” He turns back to Derek, kisses a line across his jaw. “You too,” he says. “Now more than ever.”
Derek looks at Stiles almost reverently. “‘M working on it,” he says, and hooks him in again. Scott rolls his eyes and drives, trying not to get scarred for life by catching the rear-view mirror.
“Mind speeding this ride up, driver?” Derek snarks, rubbing his sore back. “There’s something at home that really can’t wait.”
“M-hm,” Stiles agrees, massaging his elbow. “And I am buying a car with an actual backseat. Immediately.”
“Not immediately,” Derek says. Stiles smirks. “Okay, no. Not immediately. Maybe a couple hours after immediately. A nice hot shower sounds good, don’t you think, Derek?”
“You're evil.” Scott groans, shoving a CD in the player and turning up the volume.
Almost before the bullet punches through the double-plated glass living room window, shattering it spectacularly—
Stiles snaps awake, gasping, and opens his eyes. Derek's up like a shadow, laying a palm on Stiles' quick-shuddering chest, keeping the other wrapped around his back. "Jessica?”
Stiles groans and tugs the blanket back up around them both. “Fucking Jessica.”
“He got 25 years,” Derek says. He's getting better at reassurances.
“Yeah, tell that to the unholy thing that runs my brain,” Stiles says, curling into Derek. “Maybe you'll get it to stop coming up with horror scenarios where you never start breathing again.”
“I'm breathing,” Derek says. He takes Stiles hand, guides it over his stubbly neck. “Thanks to you.”
Derek's pulse is warm under Stiles' fingers. Under Stiles' ear, Derek's heartbeat thumps, steady and clear.
They breathe, and breathe, and breathe.
“Okay,” Stiles says. “Okay.”
They go back to sleep.