Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Tequila, Stiles has determined through numerous trials and errors, mainly of the college party variety, is his greatest weakness. His arch enemy. The Joker to his Batman. The Shredder to his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. 

Stiles' latest error has left him tangled in the blankets of his hotel bed in Las Vegas, sticky eyes blinking open to the sight of a stranger sleeping beside him.

A stranger who is male.

And naked.

Stiles promptly falls out of bed.

He hits the carpet with a dull thump and groans, his stomach scolding him with a sharp cramp. As he curls in on himself, thinking, what the hell, he realizes his memory of last night is full of black spots, starting with him and Scott at a bar, followed by him raising a beer to his mouth, falling from his stool, a hand helping him up, ending with—nothing. Darkness.

His mouth tastes bitter; he and Scott had been in Vegas for less than twenty-four hours, and he’s already managed to embarrass the holy hell out of himself. What did he even do? Black out and sleep with some—some guy? Is that even the worst of it? Could it get any worse?

Stiles presses his forehead against the floor and takes a deep breath. The space behind his left eye is pulsing, stabbing away like a swinging pick axe, but his stomach is mostly settled. He peeks his head over the side of the mattress and—fuck it all, this really isn’t a dream or some hungover hallucination.

There is definitely a heavily stubbled, ablicious guy sleeping in Stiles’ hotel bed.

And he is so very, very naked.

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut. He’s a rational adult, a grown-up who does his own taxes and bathes regularly without prompting. He does big, responsible things on a daily basis. He can handle one more.

“Hey, guy.” Stiles reaches over to poke one finger at the man’s unfairly rounded bicep. The guy groans and shoves his face further into his pillow. “No, no,” Stiles says with another poke. “Time to wake up and realize the severity of our situation.”

There’s more grumbling, until Mr. Stubble finally rolls over like he’s getting nice and comfy to shoot his full frontal for some porn mag. Stiles shoots his eyes up to the ceiling. There’s a weird, yellowing stain right above his head.

Mr. Stubble squints at Stiles. “You’re...still here?”

“Yes,” Stiles grits, the headache from his hangover swelling into something vicious. “As per custom, a person tends to reside in their own hotel room.”

Stiles spots his boxers in a far corner, by the door. Did they get thrown over there? Jesus.

“Shit,” Mr. Stubble says, rubbing a hand down his face. “Then I’m still here.”

“And a massive dick, apparently,” Stiles mumbles, slowly crawling over to his underwear, sheets wrapped around him, his makeshift toga of modesty.

Mr. Stubble snorts, mattress squeaking as he begins to sit up. “You weren’t complaining last night.”

Stiles flushes so quickly he’s sure there’s no blood left in his toes. “I’m not—would you just—put on some clothes, please? Underwear, maybe. Socks. A parka.”

Mr. Stubble tilts his head. “We didn’t have sex. If you can’t remember.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, picking up his boxers. He slowly pushes himself up from the floor, clutching the blankets tightly around his waist. “You can call it ‘making love’ as much as you want, buddy. I’m not doing you any favors.”

“No, no,” Mr. Stubble says, pressing his lips together like he’s trying not to laugh. “When we got into the hotel room you started doing this—this weird dance. I think you called it the ‘Mating of the Songbirds’? Then you threw your clothes all over the place. But you passed out right when you hit the bed.”

Oh, Jesus Lord All Mighty. Stiles’ face grows even hotter. Not his mating dance. That was perfected in college. And then left there, hidden in the underbelly of Sigma Mu Delta’s frat house.

“Wait. Then why are you naked?” Stiles asks, now concerned with the level of skeeviness of the guy he’s currently trapped in his room with. “Just felt like you needed to join the party?”

Mr. Stubble doesn’t look embarrassed at all; Stiles probably wouldn't either if his body looked like it was made of marble. “You made me strip, too. You were... very insistent.”

“But we didn’t have sex?” Stiles clarifies.

Mr. Stubble shakes his head. “I fell asleep right along with you.”

The knot in Stiles chest, which had been growing tighter and tighter since he’d woken, begins to unravel. He can breath a little bit easier, now.

“Even if I had stayed awake, we were both way too drunk to do anything,” Mr. Stubble says.

Stiles gives a silent thanks to his drunk self for still managing to avoid attracting a real creep, even in his addled state. “Do you remember anything about last night?” He stares down at his boxers, fiddling with the waistband. “Because I gotta tell you, man, I’m drawing a total blank. On all of it.”

"Just drinking at the bar, some flashes of the end of the night. That’s it, really.”

Stiles sighs. He’s not surprised at all. “So, just all the parts where I embarrassed myself?”

Mr. Stubble doesn’t reply. Stiles looks up and sees that he’s staring at his hand, a panicked expression on his face.

That’s when Stiles catches the glint of a silver band on Mr. Stubble’s finger, thinks oh shit three times in a row, and looks down at his own hand. He either stripped and pretended to shake his tail feather at a married man, or—

“I think we might have gotten married,” Mr. Stubble says, eyes wide, just as Stiles sees the matching ring on his own finger.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Stiles breathes, holding his hand up closer to his face. “I didn’t even know this was a thing that actually happened.”

He drops the bed sheets. He’d waved his dick around plenty last night and now they’re married—they’re married—so there’s no more room for modesty, is there?

“Would you get dressed?” Stiles cries. It’s like he’s just found the best cure for a hangover ever, seeing as he doesn't feel sick anymore. Now it’s just pure, blind panic swelling through him. He jumps into each leg of his boxers as quickly as he can. “We got drunk-married in Vegas last night! Show a little concern!”

But Mr. Stubble only rolls over onto his back on the bed and holds his ring up closely in front of his face. He squints at it and mutters, “Silver. So tacky. Where did this even come from?”

“Who cares!” Stiles flaps his arms, searching the room for his shirt, finding it on one of the arms of the ceiling fan. Come on. “Would you do something? Our lives have turned into that episode of Friends! The one where Ross and Rachel draw all over their faces in permanent marker? And then get married? Oh God, do I have, like, a grossly detailed but weirdly accurate drawing of a dick on my face?”

“Pancakes,” Mr. Stubble mumbles, slipping the ring back on his finger.

Stiles presses his hand to his cheek. “Pancakes? I have pancakes on my face?”

“No. I want to eat pancakes.”

“Food?” Stiles says as soon as he pushes his head through the hole of his shirt. “You want food? I want a divorce!”

Mr. Stubble rolls his eyes. “I’m not dealing with any of this—” He waves a hand at Stiles, who crosses his arms over his chest. We can’t all be GQ models, thank you very much. “—until I have a cup of coffee. At least.”

Stiles’ eye twitches. “I’ll hold your head up and help you drink a hundred cups of coffee if you would just cover yourself up!”

“Jesus, all right,” Mr. Stubble says, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. Stiles’ pants are in a pile by the bathroom door and he moves to pick them up. “You didn’t seem this uncomfortable with the idea last night.”

Stiles swallows, twisting his jeans in his hands. Because here’s the real truth of it, more embarrassing than getting trashed in Vegas, or waking up naked next to a stranger, or even realizing you married them and probably sealed the deal with a big, slobbery kiss in front of some guy dressed as Elvis getting paid eight bucks an hour.

“I’m not even gay, all right?” Stiles admits. “Or bi, or curious, or bored. I’m not—I’ve never—I have no idea what got into me last night.”

Mr. Stubble sighs, resting his forehead against his hands. “Awesome,” he mutters, like the gravity of this whole shitfest has finally, finally hit him. He moves a little bit quicker getting his briefs on, at least.

“Those fucking tequila shots,” Mr. Stubble suddenly groans. “Fucking Laura. Jesus. Wait. Where’s my phone?”

Stiles does up the belt on his jeans. “Check the nightstand, maybe. Or your pants?” Mr. Stubble grabs his jeans from where they’re shoved at bottom of the bed and slips his hand into the front pocket, pulling out his cell.

Stiles takes his wallet out from his front pocket, which is—

Totally empty. Awesome.

“Shit,” Mr. Stubble says, frowning hard at his phone screen.

"What? What’s wrong?” Stiles asks.

“My sister, Laura, who was my ride out of here, seems to have gone off on an early honeymoon.” Mr. Stubble throws his phone onto the bed, putting on his jeans with stiff, jerky movements.

“You were here for her wedding?”

Stiles tosses him his shirt. Slipping it on, Mr. Stubble says, “Honeymoons are usually what happen after weddings, yes.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Oh, why don’t you and your stubble fall off your high, sarcastic horses. You can probably hitch a ride with one of the other guests, then, right?”

Mr. Stubble frowns, face suddenly growing heavy. "No, it wasn’t—it was just us. Me and my sister and her new husband.”

“A shotgun wedding in Vegas. Very classy.” Stiles finds his phone in one of the potted, fake ferns in the corner of the room. He brushes the dirt off, pressing down on the power button.

“At least they were two sober, consenting adults,” Mr. Stubble huffs, uncrumpling the yellow piece of paper he just pulled from out of his pocket. “I can’t even read this,” he says, tilting his head.

Stiles' phone is dead; he tucks it into his back pocket and goes over to look at what Mr. Stubble is holding. It’s a carbon copy of their marriage license, a thin piece of paper that looks more like a cheap receipt than anything else.

Stiles feels nauseous all over again. “So we’re really married, huh?” He says, voice tight.

Mr. Stubble frowns. “I guess so. What does your signature say?”

“I like to be called Stiles,” he says, glad that his signature is just one big, illegible scribble.

Mr. Stubble squints at the license. “Your name is definitely way longer than that—”

Stiles snatches the paper from him, eyes scanning it over. “And you’re… Derk?"

Mr. Stubble’s eyebrows lower contemptfully. Stiles wonders if he was born with such expressive eyebrows. Maybe he had to train them for years, giving them treats as rewards for good behavior.

“It’s Derek,” he grumbles.

“No, this definitely says ‘Derk’.” Stiles dances away as Derek makes a reach for him. “Derk Hale. Maybe it’s a subconscious thing, like when you’re drunk you tell people you want to be called Derk because you can’t say it any other time?”

“Once we’re divorced, I’m burning that,” Derek says, like he’s trying to be menacing, but Stiles can see a smile tugging at his lips.

“Whatever you need, Derk.” Stiles folds up the license, tucking it in his back pocket. “Is my face okay? Do I look like shining example for kids everywhere?”

“We’re in Las Vegas, Stiles. Any children here have no hope.” Derek’s eyes scan over Stiles’ face. “And your face is...fine. It’s good.”

Stiles grins and scoops his keycard off the side table by the door. “Then let’s go get pancakes, my friend.”

“And coffee,” Derek groans, following Stiles out of the room.

**

When they reach the dining room, Stiles borrows Derek’s phone and calls Scott.

He picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Scott! Thank God. It’s Stiles. I need you to get down to the dining room as fast as you can. We need to abandon ship. I repeat, abandon ship. Forget about the women and the children. We need to save ourselves. The boat is sinking, and they’re running out of life rafts.”

“Just slow down, all right, man. What’s wrong? You looked like you were having a good time last night.”

“I can’t remember anything about last night, Scott, but I’ve got some clues as to what happened.” He tucks himself further into the corner where he’s standing and whispers, “Like the wedding band on my finger and the marriage license in my pocket!”

“You got married?” Scott yells, and thank God—thank God—that someone else is as concerned as Stiles is about the mess that has become his life. “I thought that only happened in movies!”

“Exactly!” Stiles looks over his shoulder, sees Derek still in line at the buffet cart. “But that’s not all. He’s a guy, Scott. A musclely, bearded guy. Who was naked in my bed this morning.”

Scott is silent for a moment before he asks, “Were you naked?”

"Yes, I was naked," Stiles hisses. "We were both bare as our souls in the night, Scott. Which is why we need to duck out of here as soon as fucking possible.”

“Stiles,” Scott says, very slowly. “You’re not going to be happy.”

Stiles heart sinks. “Please don’t say that.”

“Last night when I left you at the bar you were only on, like, your second beer, okay?”

“And what? Where did you go?”

Scott sighs. “I met this awesome chick, Stiles. Her name is Allison and we stayed up all night and all we did was talk, but it was good. It was so good.”

“I’m happy for you, Scott, I really am. But you’re gonna have to grab her number and skedaddle your ass down here.”

“And you know I would totally do that for you man, but—”

Stiles presses the phone closer to his ear. In the background he can hear the distant sound of a horn honking. “Scott. Where are you right now?”

“I couldn’t just let her go, Stiles! But she had to go back to California this morning, and she was going to take the bus! I couldn’t let her sit on some hot, smelly bus for six hours—”

“You took the jeep,” Stiles squeezes his eyes tightly shut. “I got married to some guy with a twelve pack last night, and you’re driving down the highway right now.”

There's a pause. “A twelve pack, really?”

“In my jeep,” Stiles grits.

“I know, man. I’m sorry.”

“So, what?” Stiles says, rubbing a hand down his face. “How the hell did you expect me to get home?”

“I’m coming straight back to pick you up once I drop Allison off. Don’t worry. And I know they say bros before hos, but she’s not a ho. She’s a like a perfect—”

Stiles hangs up on him. He briefly considers banging his head against the wall. He wishes he at least had the satisfaction of slamming the phone down onto a receiver.

Goddamn cell phones and their portability.

**

“We have reached a code 48,” Stiles says when he walks over to Derek’s table where he is devouring a frighteningly tall stack of pancakes.

He tilts his head at Stiles, chewing thoughtfully.

Stiles tosses Derek’s cell down on the table before he pulls out a chair, falling into it. “The friend I was here with took off with my car and a girl in a wild pursuit of love.”

Derek swallows. “So we’re both stranded."

"Seems like it."

"At least have some pancakes, then.” Derek nods down at the plate.

Stiles slumps over the table and puts his head down on his arms. “I don’t like pancakes.”

Derek scoffs. “I should not have married you, then.”

“If pancakes are that big of a deciding factor to you, once we’re divorced maybe you can go and marry them.”

Derek keeps chewing. Stiles drops his head to the table; the wood smells like lemon disinfectant and he wants to cry a little. He’s trapped in Las Vegas with his very new, very male husband, hung over and strapped for cash. He runs through his very limited options: he can’t sit around and wait for Scott to come pick him up because he can’t afford another night in his hotel room, and he also can’t leave the city because he doesn’t have a car. He considers calling his dad, only to scrap that idea. Immediately.

It’s easy to see why people become prostitutes.

“I’m going to sell my body to the night,” Stiles mumbles.

“I won’t share you with another boy, Stiles,” Derek says with way more conviction than any person should when quoting a song by The Police with a mouth full of pancakes.

“Jesus, what’s happening?” Stiles throws out an arm and his hand hits the edge of Derek’s plate, rattling it. “Do not answer that.”

Stiles lifts his head and watches Derek sip his coffee, before swallowing to ask, “Where do you live?”

“Beacon Hills. It’s in northern California, close to Oregon.”

Derek looks surprised. “I know where that is,” he says. “I grew up there.”

Stiles shakes his head. This day couldn’t get any weirder, could it? He’s getting closer and closer to belting out It’s a Small World and hitching a ride on the first boat he spots, creepy children or not.

“But you moved?” Stiles asks.

Derek nods. “A couple years ago. To Sacramento.”

“Well, that’s all fine and dandy,” Stiles says, his voice stupidly small, “but I spent all my cash gambling like a drunk idiot last night, and I don’t have enough money in my bank account to afford a pack of ramen right now, so I’m screwed.”

Derek stares very carefully at Stiles. After a moment, he says, “Well, I’ve got a credit card.”

Stiles huffs out a laugh, looking away from Derek’s stupidly symmetrical face. There’s a guy at the table next to them wearing a button-up pineapple shirt. He looks lonely. Stiles hates his life. “At least you can pay your way out of here, then.”

“I could. But I was thinking—I could rent a car. We could drive back together.”

Stiles snaps his head forward so quickly he probably gives himself whiplash. He squints at Derek. It doesn't look like he's joking. “Are you serious, man? You'd do that for me?”

The corner of Derek’s mouth twitches. "I feel like it’s within the bounds of my husbandly duty.”

Stiles glares as Derek smirks.

**

Stiles throws his duffel bag into the trunk of their new rental Volvo, next to Derek’s suitcases, slamming the lid shut and leaning against the bumper. He watches Derek talk with the doorman of the hotel, gesturing enthusiastically about who knows what.

Stiles can suddenly feel the marriage license tucked away in his back pocket like it’s gone and grown into a fifty pound weight. He isn’t exactly sure how annulments work, but he figures they can’t be too complicated, right? The only thing he and Derek will need to split ownership of is one horrific sense of embarrassment. As long as Stiles’ dad never hears a word about it, there’s really nothing he needs to worry about.

He fiddles with the ring on his finger, tugging it off and slipping it into his pocket when Derek begins walking over.

“You ready?” he asks, circling the car to the driver’s side door.

“Let’s make this baby purr.” Stiles taps the roof of the car before slipping into the passenger seat. “It took me and Scott almost half a day to get down here. We can each do a couple shifts, for as long as we can drive before we start to think about swerving into traffic.”

“I’m always thinking about swerving into traffic,” Derek says, slipping on a flashy pair of aviators. Stiles can’t decide if Derek is really kidding. Stiles tugs on his seatbelt to make sure it’s locked. Just in case.

As the car begins to slowly make its way down the road, Stiles studies Derek’s profile. Derek, his husband, with a chiseled jaw and impressive layer of stubble. Objectively, Stiles knows Derek is attractive. Anyone with eyes could see that. Hell, someone without eyes could probably feel Derek’s attractiveness radiating onto them.

But there’s a difference between knowing someone is attractive and being attracted to them, right? Stiles thought he knew how to separate the two. There are men, most of which Stiles has not taken the time to appreciate the varied features of, and then there are girls, with their soft faces and gentle curves and nice laughs. But his drunk-self seemed to think otherwise. Could he be attracted to Derek? What would it be like to walk hand-in-hand, to have Derek’s stubble scratch against his neck? His biceps were so—so bulgy. How easy would it be for those arms to pin Stiles down? To hold him up against a wall, or—

“Stiles? You’re staring.”

Stiles blinks and shifts his gaze back out the window. “Sorry,” he says, face growing hot, embarrassed to have been caught. “Do you know where you’re going? I could pull up the GPS on your phone, if you want.”

Derek shakes his head. Stiles watches Derek’s lips move as he says, “I just need to get onto the freeway. It’s only a couple streets over.”

What would it be like to kiss a guy? Derek’s lips looked normal. Pink. Soft, maybe.

The car falls quiet in a way that makes Stiles feel uncomfortable and just a little bit twitchy. When he can’t take it anymore, he blurts, “You a silence is golden kind of guy? Need to reflect on your manpain in peace and solitude?”

“I don’t have manpain,” Derek scoffs.

“Your eyebrows beg to differ,” Stiles mumbles.

“What was that?”

“I said, do you have a favorite color?”

Derek sighs, like answering the question is painful for him. “Red,” he says.

“Favorite song?”

Derek shakes his head. “My turn. Back and forth is only fair, right?”

“Sure,” Stiles says, happy that Derek is going along with his little game. “Go for it.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-three. How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven," Derek says. "Are you still in school?”

“Grad school, baby. Do you have a job?”

“Yes. What school?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “That was like, half an answer.”

“Maybe you should have been more clear on the rules.”

Fucker, Stiles thinks, and then says, “Fine, I see how it is. I go to Berkley. Where do you work?”

“I'm a firefighter." Not surprising, Stiles thinks, considering how ridiculously in shape Derek is. "What are you in graduate school for?”

“Criminal psych. I want to be a cop, you know, but I also want to do—more. Stop crime before it happens. Give people a second chance. Let me know if you feel any murderous inclinations brewing,” Stiles ribs. “Maybe we can work it out.”

“Do I look like that kind of guy to you?” Derek asks flatly, turning to face Stiles with a frown, sunglasses shielding his eyes. Stiles is unsure, yet again, if Derek is joking or not. 

Stiles shrugs. “You seem like a dark horse, if you ask me.”

Derek smirks and turns back to the road, but doesn’t reply.

“So—why firefighting?” Stiles asks, eager to poke at Derek’s hidden mysteries.

“For the danger,” he deadpans. “And the great pay.”

“Ha,” Stiles barks. “Look at that. Big guy’s got jokes. Come on, man, we’ve got like, similar lines of work going on. Tell me why.”

Derek’s fingers untighten and retighten against the steering wheel. “It’s a way to help people," he says stiffly. "It is what it is.”

Disappointing, Stiles thinks, but lets it go, feeling a weird sort of tension rising up between them. It’s way too early for that, so he nods and stays quiet as Derek merges onto the highway. The car grows quiet again, and Stiles quickly grows sick of the tires rumbling against the asphalt. “So what is your favorite song, anyway?”

It takes Derek a while to answer, so long Stiles has resigned himself to a long drive of silence, but he eventually says, “Can’t Help Falling in Love. By—” 

“—Elvis. Yeah, I know. That’s not the kind of musical taste I would peg on a guy like you.”

Derek frowns. “A guy like me?”

“Yeah, you know.” Stiles waves his hand up and down at Derek. “All grumpy, two-percent body fat, doesn’t-use-his-blinker-when-changing-lanes kind of guy.”

“I’m not grumpy,” Derek says, then abruptly jerks the car into the left hand lane, tossing Stiles against the passenger-side door.

“Yeah, you’re hilarious.” Stiles rubs at his arm, egging to knock the smirk right off Derek’s face. “Highway rollovers are hysterical.”

“So what kind of music does a guy like me listen to, then?”

Stiles hums, considering. “Definitely nothing mainstream. No pop music. Definitely no boybands. Your eyebrows scream ‘repressed teenage angst,’ but you like to make calculated risks, since you were willing to get in the car with me—”

“—a mistake, obviously—”

“—a total stranger. So, drum roll, please.” Stiles claps his hands against his lap. “You, my friend, are a total Bob Dylan fanboy.”

Derek’s brow furrows. Jackpot. “That’s—right. Minus the fanboy part. But I have no idea how you figured that out.”

“This noggin’s a wild place.” Stiles taps his temple with a finger. “You don’t get far in the psych world without picking up a few things.”

Stiles watches Derek’s face grow worried and laughs quietly to himself. It’s not like Derek needs to know that Stiles skimmed through his phone after calling Scott, just to make sure Derek wasn’t a serial rapist or compulsive cat hoarder or anything weird like that.

And he did seem normal enough. He mostly had pictures of himself grouped together with a bunch of friendly looking guys—probably his co-workers, now that Stiles thinks about it—a couple of him and a brunette, maybe his sister, and a bunch of a calico cat doing silly, cat things. Stiles also went through Derek’s text messages long enough to confirm he wasn’t a loner or twisted up in any gangs or organized crime, and then went through his music until he accidently clicked the lock button and brought up the password protected homepage.

Derek also probably doesn’t need to know Stiles is plenty aware of Derek’s fondness of 90’s boy bands. He has more Backstreet Boy albums in his music library than Stiles knew existed.

“What kind of music do you listen to?” Derek asks.

Stiles shrugs. “Whatever’s on the radio. Maroon 5. Taylor Swift. Nicki Minaj.”

Derek grunts like he’s in pain.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Like Starships doesn’t get you crazy pumped every time you listen to it? Come on."

Derek shakes his head. “I haven’t heard it.”

“I just do so much studying nowadays I don’t really have time to listen to music, you know?" Stiles explains, unsure why he feels the need to defend himself. "Contrary to popular belief, getting your doctorate is incredibly hard work."

Derek nods but doesn’t offer a response. Stiles turns on the radio to avoid another bout of silence. He doesn’t know the stations so he flicks through them, trying to find something that isn’t a commercial or some heavy electric guitar riff. He eventually settles on a classical music station.

Still feeling the lingering effects of his hangover, Stiles lets the steady vibration of the car and the lilt and fall of the instruments lull him into an easy sleep.

Stiles’ dream plants him back at the bar of the casino, an almost-empty glass of beer in front him. Scott’s hand is just slipping off his shoulder, his voice floating through the space between Stiles’ ears as he says, “I’m just gonna go talk to her” before walking away.

Stiles turns and there’s a stranger sitting on the stool next to him, nursing something bright pink with one of those toothpick umbrellas. Stiles thinks, hello, and maybe he says it too, because the stranger turns and smiles, and his teeth are so bright. Stiles’ mouth goes dry like he’s just swallowed the sun.

A voice croons in his ear that sounds like the word yes, wrapped up and around the steady hum of a thousand violins. Stiles stretches out his hand to agree but touches nothing, a brush of air catching his fingertips as he's tugged from his seat. The stranger scrambles after him, his face collapsing into fear, light to dark, but he’s too late. Stiles falls, the crash of dissonance swelling around him, the slam of a piano’s keys and the pounding of his heart.

A trumpet squalls the no, no that’s heavy against Stiles’ lips, but it drowns in the gold of a cymbal screaming its way across the wash of white that has sucked Stiles in. He pitches forward into his abyss of sound—

—a hand grabs him tightly by the wrist, tugging him through a sudden, gaping doorway. He breaks the surface of silence and opens his mouth to speak—

Only to jolt awake on the tail end of a gasp, seatbelt catching him as he jerks forward.

Derek startles. “Woah. You all right?”

Stiles swallows, stares at the slope of Derek’s nose and the brush of his eyelashes against his cheek as he blinks, and thinks, holy shit. He’d really wanted Derek last night. His drunk-self had been all over that.

“Yeah.” Stiles clears his throat. “Just a weird dream, I guess.”

The radio is off and the clock on the dash says that Stiles has been asleep for almost an hour.

Derek hums. “Well, at least it was only that.”

“Right,” Stiles breathes, finding it impossible, yet again, to look away from Derek’s face, the overwhelming feeling of want from the dream still fluttering low in his stomach. “So you really don’t remember anything from last night? At the bar? Or after?”

Derek shakes his head. “I know when I got to the bar, you were by yourself. I said hello and we talked for a while, but I don’t remember what any of it was about. I think I was sobering up by the time we were in the hotel room, which is why I can remember your—your dance. But that’s it.” He pauses, tone going firm. “I’m sure nothing happened between us. I can promise you that.”

Stiles smiles. “I know. I believe you.” Under his breath, he mutters, “That’s not the problem.”

Derek catches the words. “What is?”

What had he found so appealing about Derek last night? What was so special about him he threw off all his clothes and tried to have sex with him? A guy. A very masculine, manly guy. Was it just the tequila? Was he into guys? Could that happen? Just like that, after only one night?

Stiles doesn’t know where to start.

He forces a laugh instead. “I just really can’t believe I did that dance, that’s all.” He glances out the window, watching a sign whip past. “Where are we, anyway?”

“We crossed into California while you were asleep. I’d say we’re making good time.”

“Only what, ten hours to go?” Stiles says. Ten hours confined to a car with the guy he’d married while drunk last night. Whose bones he may or may not want to jump. The air begins to grow hot and stifling. 

“Do you think you could pull off at the next exit?” Stiles asks, feigning a groan of pain. “I need to stretch my legs.”

“It’s only been an hour,” Derek mutters, but takes the car down the next ramp anyways.

They drive around until they find the center of whatever city they’re in and pull into the parking lot of a shopping center. Stiles kicks open his door and shakes himself out, leaning against the side of the Volvo. The fresh air makes his head feel a lot clearer. And his knees were getting a little sore, as it turns out.

Stiles glances around at the strip of stores: a tattoo parlor, a pizza shop, a couple clothing boutiques, a Starbucks, and an iffy-looking flea market.

“Hey,” Stiles says to Derek, leaning over the roof of the car. “You into antiquing?”

Derek’s mouth pinches. “Not really.” He glances over at the storefront. “But now that I think about it, I never got Laura a wedding present, so…” He shrugs. “Why not?”

Inside, the store is one wide, open room with countless shelves full of various odds-and-ends.

“Did you tell Laura we got hitched?” Stiles asks, looking around.

“Of course not,” Derek says, like it should be common knowledge. “She’d accuse me of trying to steal her thunder, and then once she got over that she would never, ever let it go. She’d probably carve it on my gravestone. ‘Derek Hale: drunk-married in Vegas.’”

Stiles laughs. “She sounds awesome.”

“She’s something.” Derek snorts, wandering off to disappear down one of the many aisles.

Ten minutes later, Stiles is by a CD rack, trying to pick out good road trip music from a very terrible selection. He's reading the back of an All That CD—because who knew this show even had a soundtrack?—when Derek taps him on the shoulder.

Stiles spins around and immediately doubles over with laughter, dropping all the CDs he’s holding to the floor in a big clatter, because Derek is wearing a devil horn headband while delicately wielding the tiniest, most dainty pitchfork Stiles has ever seen.

Derek tries to go for menacing, but when Stiles’ pulls himself together, he sees Derek’s faux-angry look has transformed into a smile, big and wide and with plenty of teeth. Stiles realizes he hasn’t seen Derek smile much, if at all, hidden away behind all his sarcastic smirks and scowls. But it fits him, so well that Stiles wants to keep that happiness on Derek’s face for as long as he can. Stiles is swept with the sudden urge to reach up and cup Derek’s stubble-soft cheeks. He wants to see Derek’s eyelashes flutter just as their mouths begin to press together—

—and wow, that is definitely new.

Stiles face begins to burn red hot. He leans down to pick up the CDs from the floor and sees his hands are shaking, just a little bit. He hopes Derek won’t notice.

But Derek only looks expectant when Stiles straightens back up. He asks, “What do you think?”

“I was under the impression that Laura is the more devilish character, while you are the innocent, abused angel,” Stiles says.

Derek looks thoughtful. “It’s an impersonation. But Satan was cast out of heaven by God…so I guess it works either way.”

Stiles snorts. “Because Satan was kind of a dick.”

“Don’t make me stab you with my pitchfork,” Derek growls, poking the air threateningly. Stiles holds his hands up in a show of surrender and Derek’s eyes track the CDs in his hand. “What are you getting?”

“Mm, nope,” Stiles says, taking a step back when Derek reaches for them. “It’s gonna be a surprise.”

Derek squints his eyes suspiciously. “I’m trusting you,” he finally says.

“If anyone knows road trip music, it’s me. I am the road trip music master. You won’t be disappointed.”  

“And if I am…?” Derek trails off, simply raising his eyebrows, which might have been more threatening if it weren’t for the red, sparkly horns atop his head.

“All right, Satan,” Stiles says, flicking one of the horns. “Go terrorize some children.”

Derek walks away, and Stiles surreptitiously slides the All That CD back onto the shelf.

And then pulls it back out again two seconds later.

He’s a little curious, so what?

**

Stiles ends up finding an awesomely cheap but totally functional, totally snazzy watch for his dad, a Front Bottoms vinyl Scott’s been looking to add to his collection for months, and a ten-dollar cotton candy maker that Stiles gets for himself, just because.

Happy with what he’s found, he starts searching for Derek, peering down the aisles, when he finds the best, most awesome thing ever on a bottom shelf, tucked just out of sight. It’s lucky Stiles has the eyes of a tiger. He scoops it up and tucks it under his arm.

He eventually finds Derek—still wearing the headband, perfect—staring down a yellow tea set in the antiques section. Stiles treads very carefully down the aisle, weary of all the glassware around him just waiting to be broken by an errant arm or leg.

“Hey,” Stiles greets, setting down all his stuff. “You have your phone on you, right?”

“Sure.” Derek pulls it out of his back pocket.

“Pull up the camera,” Stiles instructs.

While Derek’s distracted, Stiles whips out what he found: an old-timey, wispy wedding veil. He presses it down onto his head. 

“My gift to Laura,” Stiles says when Derek looks up from his phone.

And there’s that smile again. Perfect.

Derek holds the phone up and Stiles squeezes into the frame, pressing up tight against Derek’s side.

“On three,” Derek says; just after Derek gets to two, Stiles tilts up slightly on his toes. He hears the shutter sound right as he presses a kiss to Derek’s bristly cheek.

It’s possibly the greatest picture in the history of ever, Derek the perfect image of a dazed and confused Satan, his eyes a little wide, while Stiles looks like the epitome of a content bride, the veil falling gently around his face.

“You have to send that to me,” Stiles says once he’s finished laughing, wiping the tears from under his eyes.

“Definitely.” Derek pokes at his phone, looks up. “What’s your number?”

Stiles’ pauses.

For a second, it had slipped from Stiles’ mind that he and Derek had only met this morning. They were so comfortable with each other, it feel like they’d known each other for months. Technically, they were strangers, but the word sounded wrong in Stiles’ head. They were friends, at least. Friends possibly heading down some very serious roads.

Stiles rattles off his number. “Scott is going to love that. He’ll probably throw up from laughing so hard,” he says as they head to the check out.

“Don’t look at the CDs,” Stiles warns, placing down all of his things on the track of the register. Derek tugs off his headband, his hair sticking up in all directions. Stiles’ hand is half way to smoothing it out, but he drops it when Derek reaches up and does it himself.

Stiles tries not to feel too disappointed about it.

**

Stiles realizes how hungry he is after they finish shopping, his hangover quickly fading away. Derek complains that he should have eaten at the hotel, but after some thorough insisting that Stiles refuses to classify as whining, they end up at small diner down the road from the flea market named Peggy Sue’s, with red-and-white linoleum tiles and waitresses in bright, neon outfits.     

Stiles orders half the menu and sticks his tongue out at Derek when he only orders a coffee.

“Way to make me look like I’m just a big sack of lard,” Stiles grumbles.

“You’re skin and bones,” Derek says, rubbing dramatically at his arm. “I think I have a bruise from where you elbowed me earlier.”

 Stiles lifts his chin. “I prefer the term lithe, actually.”

“We’ll have to pick you a dictionary on the way home,” Derek snorts.

“I’ll have you know,” Stiles gestures up and down at himself, “this body is a wonderland of suppleness and grace.”

Derek’s eyes trail down Stiles in response, in a way that makes his ears go hot. When Derek’s gaze flicks back up to meet Stiles’, he says, “I’m suddenly seeing John Mayer in a whole new light.”

Stiles licks his lips. “I—”

He’s interrupted by their waitress bringing over their drinks. Stiles rips the paper off his straw, dropping it into his apple juice, while Derek wraps his hands around his coffee mug, inhaling with a small smile on his face that prompts Stiles to smile, too.

“You what?” Derek asks, restarting their conversation.

“You’re still wearing your ring,” Stiles says, catching a quick flash of silver on Derek’s finger.

Derek freezes, and then drops his hand beneath the table like Stiles will just forget if he can’t see it. Not happening. “You’re not?”

“No.” Stiles frowns, tilting his head at Derek, who is clearly nervous but trying to hide it. “What do you think this is?”

Derek’s throat bobs. “What do you want it to be?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You can’t answer a question with a question.”

“What this is—” Derek gestures between them “—depends on what you want.”

“I don’t want to be married to some guy I just met!” Stiles says, knowing he’s getting too defensive too fast. But he’s not sure what he wants. It makes him edgy to have to really think about it, and even more uncomfortable to have to explain it to Derek, the guy he might want everything with.

“There.” Derek takes a sip of coffee, averting his eyes. “That was easy enough.”

Stiles stares hard at Derek’s face, sees the barely hidden disappointment there. “Do you want to be married? To me?”

Derek doesn’t reply.

“We don’t even know each other!” Stiles sputters, taking Derek’s silence to mean yes. “And I’m straight!” Or he thought he was, up until this morning. But he couldn’t be… something else, could he? He and Derek had only met this morning. And if he wasn’t straight, what would that mean for them? Where could they go from here?

“You’re not enjoying this?” Derek asks. “At all?”

“It’s not that easy.” Stiles throws his arms out. “I can’t just suddenly wake up and think ‘oh, I want to stick a dick in my mouth today,’ and have that be that.”

He’s not ready to acknowledge that his words are almost the exact opposite of what happened this morning. Does he want Derek’s dick in his mouth? Christ. That’s—a lot. Too much to think about. He shakes his head to quickly rattle that thought away.

Derek’s mouth twists like he’s just tasted something bitter, angering Stiles, who is really just trying to learn a thing or two here without being judged for it. “That’s what you think being gay is?”

“Well—” Stiles shrugs. “That’s a big part of it, isn’t it?”

“I’m sure your first thought when you meet a girl isn’t how quickly you’re going to put your mouth on her,” Derek says, just as the waitress rattles several plates down onto their table. Derek startles, a flush rising high in his cheeks.

“Enjoy,” she says, a bit too sardonic for Stiles’ taste, and walks away.

Derek leans in across the table, voice lower. “It’s not all physical. There’s the emotional connection. Good conversation. Having fun doing mundane things. The typical parts of a relationship.”

Stiles squints. “This is fun for you? Bickering?”

Derek leans back and shrugs, eyes darting back down to his coffee.

“God,” Stiles croaks. “This is like—foreplay for you, isn’t it?”

“Fine,” Derek says, hard, and Stiles knows he’s won; he twisted the conversation his way and now they didn’t have to talk about any of this—their marriage or Stiles’ sudden change of taste or—or dicks. In anyone’s mouth. It’s what he wanted. If only he didn’t feel so awful the defeated expression on Derek’s face.

“I’m taking the ring off.” Derek tugs it off his finger and throws it down off the table. It bounces twice and then settles, resting between them on the middle of the table. “Happy?”

“Dandy,” Stiles grits and grabs the ketchup bottle, squeezing it hard and feeling satisfied when it lets out a particularly violent farting noise.

Stiles stares down at his plate while he eats. His eggs taste bland and gross and get worse with eat bite. He can’t decide if it’s the cooking or the guilt slowly creeping over him. When he looks up to grab a square of jelly for his toast, Derek is staring down at the table with a frown.

“Look—” Stiles sighs. Derek’s eyes slowly lift. “I’m sorry, all right? You were just trying to help, and I wasn’t letting you. Maybe—maybe you’re right. Maybe I am enjoying this more than I expected. And maybe it’s freaking me out.” He falls back against the booth. “Like, a lot.”  

Derek presses his lips together, considering. After a long pause, he says, “When I first thought I was gay, I was thirteen. But I grew up with Laura, who was always bringing her boyfriends home, and Cora had pictures of boybands plastered all over her bedroom wall. And my parents, they—they really love each other. I didn’t want to be different. I wanted to be like them.” He looks down at his coffee. “I forced myself to date girls for years, until things went south. Really south. That’s when I realized I was making myself unhappy and it wasn’t worth it. Things were a lot better once I came out.”

Derek lowers his coffee mug to the table. “Look, all I’m saying is you don’t have to force yourself into any sort of box. Gay or straight or bi. Whatever.” He shakes his head. “Just let yourself be happy.”

“Wow.” Stiles blows out a long breath. “Straight out of a Lifetime movie, huh?”

Derek gives Stiles’ a hard look. “See, you say we don’t know each other at all, but I know that was really your way of saying ‘thank you, Derek. I appreciate your thoughtful words and I’ll take them into consideration.’”

Stiles rolls his eyes but smiles despite himself. “Yeah, yeah. Just take your ring back.” He slides it across the table and Derek scoops it up, shoving it into his pocket.

Stiles chews his toast and considers Derek, the broad slope of his shoulders and the largeness of his hands, his face open as he looks around the diner. They might not know each other just yet, but Stiles is willing to learn a thing or two.

Stiles ears perk up. “Hey, listen,” he says, tapping a finger against the tabletop. “They’re playing Elvis. Wanna dance?”

Derek raises his eyebrows in reply.

“Come on, daddy-o.” Stiles nudges his foot against Derek’s under the table. “Let’s go for a swing.”

Derek shoves Stiles’ last plate back toward him. “Eat your tater tots.”

**

Stiles takes over the next driving shift, leading them onto greater pastures.

Which, for south eastern California, means dry and dusty desert. Flat nothingness that stretches on and on.

And on.

It’s scarily easy to zone out. CDs shoved under the backseat somewhere, Stiles has the radio up high, on some station where people keep calling in to tell their conspiracy theories about aliens abducting their family members, but control of the car keeps falling to the back of Stiles’ mind.

“Hey, Derek?” He says, great idea suddenly blooming. He could be straight or he could be into guys—and Derek, specifically—but he’ll never find out if they both go home and never see each other again, will he?

Derek hums in response, his head resting against the passenger-side window.

“How soon do you need to be back home?”

Derek sits up straighter. “I have the week off. Why?”

“Well, I’m on break for the next two weeks, so why don’t we take our time getting home? Do some eatin’ and prayin’ and lovin’?”

Derek grunts. “That was a terrible book. She abandoned her family—”

“Dude, are you in?”

“As long as we try to stay on route, sure.”

Stiles smacks the steering wheel in excitement. “Boo-yah! This is gonna rock, man.” He flicks on his blinker and veers the car onto the exit ramp.

“We could plan a little, first,” Derek says, hanging onto the oh-shit handle like a lifeline. Please.

“We just passed a sign for a drive-in. You like movies, right?” Stiles snorts. “Of course you do, who doesn’t like movies?”

Derek shakes his head, frowning. “The only movie I’ve ever seen is The Brave Little Toaster. That was when I was six. It scared me so much all other movies were banned from my house.”

“Oh. Oh my God, dude. That’s awful.” Stiles pauses. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Who jokes about their childhood trauma?” Derek scoffs.

Stiles opens his mouth to apologize when Derek breaks, smiles stretching wide over his face.

“You asshole!” Stiles cries. “That is a totally sick way to mess with a person! I thought I was forcing you to relive some of your darkest, repressed memories.”

They pass a sign that reads, ‘Skyline Drive-In. Next Right’ and Stiles swings the car onto a wide, dirt road.

“The Brave Little Toaster did give me nightmares for months,” Derek says. “I refused to touch our air conditioner until I was twelve.”

“Do you also harbor an irrational fear of toast? ‘Cause that would be so totally reasonable.”

“The toaster was the good guy, Stiles,” Derek says, sounding so put-off Stiles isn’t sure how sarcastic he's being this time. “It’s called The Brave Little Toaster. Of course I’m not scared of toast.”

Stiles stops the car at a gated booth, where they pay the teenager manning it. As he hands Stiles the tickets, he says “Tonight’s movie is Airplane!, second screen on your right.”

“Yes!” Stiles yells, hitting the steering wheel again.

Derek winces. “Stop doing that to the poor car.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Airplane! is a classic, man."

"Is damaging the interior of this car 'a classic?’”

"It's a rental. Meaning not yours to deal with in a week."

"And yet, I still have to pay for it."

Stiles ignores him. “So what is your favorite movie, then?”

Derek doesn’t even have to think about it, immediately spitting out, “Taxi Driver.”

“No, dude, your real favorite movie. Everyone always has this go-to answer that's some universally liked movie they use because they know they won’t be judged, when in really their favorite movie is something totally embarrassing that they’ll never admit to.”

“But Taxi Driver really is my favorite movie.”

“Come on!" Stiles insists. "You can trust me. Who am I gonna tell?”

“Fine,” Derek says, blowing a hard breath out of his nose. “It’s Ghost. Laura made me watch it all the time, but—”

Stiles feels his heart grows three times bigger. “But you were totally into it! That’s like, insanely cute, dude. I bet you’re a really awesome big brother.”

Derek shakes his head and says, “Little brother. Laura’s three years older than me.”

They finally reach the closest row clear of cars in the large, grassy field. They’re early to the movie, so they’ve got a parking spot nice and close to the screen.

“Are you the youngest in your family, then?” Stiles asks as he shuts the car off. “How old are your other siblings?”

“Laura is the oldest and I was born after her, but my other sister and my brothers are all younger.”

“Wow.” Stiles whistles. “Big family. How’s that middle child syndrome feelin’?”

“It’s a little concerning you’re a therapist and you subscribe to those kind of stereotypes.”

“And there’s that aggression just bubbling out,” Stiles teases.

Derek rolls his eyes and changes the subject. “What’s your favorite movie?”

“Fight Club, obviously.”

“Really? That’s what you’re going to give me?" He crosses his arms over his chest. "After your whole spiel about honesty and trust?”

“Duh,” Stiles says, glancing out the window. “Hey, look, I think we can buy snacks at the top of the hill. Come on.”

He throws open his door and takes off.

It’s when Derek is handing over a twenty to the girl running the snack shack that Stiles realizes how much money Derek has been putting into their little excursion.

“You know I’m going to pay you back for everything, right?” Stiles says as they’re walking back to the car, hugging a massive tub of popcorn and a cup of orange soda to his chest. “Even the wedding rings.”

Derek shrugs, shaking a Milk Dud—yeah, gross—out of the box into his hand. “I have a lot of money. I can spare some.”

“You’re a firefighter man. That’s totally awesome and super noble, but I know it’s not a career that brings in the dough.”

“I inherited some. Enough to drop a twenty on some snacks. It’s fine.” Derek smiles at Stiles, but it’s thin-lipped and looks uncomfortable. Maybe he has a Milk Dud stuck in his teeth. Maybe he's lying and really hates spending his money on other people.

“We’ll talk about it later,” Stiles says and Derek nods, looking relieved, but Stiles is serious about this. The rental car was probably expensive as hell. Not to mention all the gas going into it. There’s no way Stiles is going to let anyone throw away hundreds of dollars on him. Even if they are suspiciously wealthy—or believe that it’s their fake husbandly duty. It’s just not happening.

But Stiles knows now is not the time to force it; ruining anyone’s enjoyment of Airplane! would be nothing less than a huge, unrepentable sin, and Derek’s already coined the role of Satan.

Stiles is glad he didn't push the issue when a half hour later he and Derek are sitting in the open back of the Volvo, legs swinging over the bumper and the movie blaring loud from the radio behind them. Wrapped in a plaid flannel blanket Derek pulled from one of his suitcases, it's the most comfortable Stiles has been in as long as he can remember.

The sky is a dusty gray above their heads and Derek is sitting warm by his side, only inches away. Stiles watches the light of the movie dance shadowed rainbows across his face. When he tilts his head back and laughs, eyes crinkling up in the corners, a feeling starts to swell up in Stiles’ chest that he can’t quite place. He’s content and he’s happy, really, genuinely happy here, on the dusty border of California with Derek, who is very much a stranger but still a little perfect all the same.

Stiles feels ridiculous to think such a thing so soon, but he bridges the gap between them anyways, taking hold of Derek’s hand. He freezes, but after a moment he twines their fingers together. They stay that way even when Stiles' hand eventually goes numb, then his wrist, past the last frame of the movie as it flickers and sputters out on the screen standing wide and tall before them.

**

Stiles is not freaking out.

He’s just sitting on the edge of the double bed in the little motel room he and Derek rented, head in his hands.

Not freaking out.

But what the fuck is he doing?

Stiles can Derek cutting off the water in the bathroom behind the wall. Derek, who likes Stiles, who smiled the entire drive to the motel just because Stiles held his hand. Derek, with that stupidly smooth hollow in his neck that Stiles wants to press his mouth to. Derek and the gentle slope of his nose and a forehead that wrinkles up when he smiles. Derek, with so many parts that Stiles wants to touch and touch and touch.

Stiles takes a deep breath and thinks about their conversation in the diner. He thinks about Derek’s smile and about boxes. Convention and fluidity. He can be fluid. He’s made of like, sixty percent water, right?

His forehead feels too hot. Maybe he’s running a fever.

Derek comes out of the bathroom, scrubbing a towel through his hair. “That water pressure is awful,” he says, and then pauses. “Stiles?”

Stiles looks up, looks at Derek with his wet hair and God, he’s wearing a pair of flannel pajama pants and a threadbare Rolling Stones t-shirt that hides nothing.

“I think I’m freaking out,” Stiles groans.

Derek drops the towel to his side. “Do you want to rent another room? Or I can ask for a cot—”

Stiles drops his head back into his hands, muttering into his palms, "No—it’s not—it’s not you. It’s me.”

There’s a pause. “Stiles, are you breaking up with me?”

Stiles chokes out a small laugh, lifting his head to see Derek smiling, careful. “Come on, man—we’re married. I’m in this for life, remember?”

Derek moves to sit next to Stiles on the bed, his weight dipping down the mattress. The length of their thighs press warmly together. Derek clears his throat. “Do you want to, you know—talk about it?”

Stiles snorts. “I would, if you didn’t make it sound like I’m about to put your dog down.”

Derek stares down at his lap where his hands are tangled together. “I know I’m not good at this. But I want to listen to what you have to say, Stiles. Without the sarcasm, just this once.”

Stiles knows if they don’t talk now, things will probably be weird until they get home, and he doesn’t want whatever this is to end up ruined. Because there’s definitely something tangled up in the space between them. Possibly something that could end up being incredible.  

But it almost feels wrong to be sitting side by side, only able to stare around the room at the ugly floor lamp and the old-school television on the bureau.

“Without the sarcasm, all right,” Stiles says, rubbing his sweaty palms on his thighs. “We should try lying down.” Derek nods. “I just need to get out of my jeans.”

In the bathroom, Stiles changes into his pajama pants (they’ve got Oscar the Grouch all over them, which is totally awesome, he knows, perfect for late night heart to hearts) and stares at himself in mirror. He pokes at his cheeks, which are slightly flushed. He doesn’t look any different. He’s good. He’s okay.

When he comes back out, Derek is standing by the far side of the bed, sheets folded down. “I don’t know how you want to do this,” he says, waving at the bed.

Stiles throws his arms up, letting his hands slap down on his thighs. “Big spoon or little spoon?”

Derek stares down at the bed, flicks his eyes back up to Stiles, says, “Little.”

It takes them a couple minutes to get comfortable, figuring out the right way to slot their legs together, where to put their hands. Derek ends up curled into the curve of Stiles’ body, his head resting on Stiles’ arm, Stiles’ other hand lightly pressed against Derek’s hip.

Stiles hooks his chin over Derek’s shoulder and ends up squinting at the lamp on the nightstand.

“Shut off the light,” he says. Derek does, and the room goes almost completely dark, aglow only in the neon blue light shining dim through the shutters on the window. The outline of Derek’s body becomes a shadow, soft and blurry.

“I like you,” Stiles starts, quiet in that way voices go in the dark.

Stiles can’t see Derek’s face, but he hears the smile in his voice when he says, “Like, like me, or like me like me?”

“You’re such an asshole," Stiles laughs into Derek’s shoulder blade. “Who said we weren’t allowed to be sarcastic?”

“I can be as sarcastic as I want.” Derek places his hand over the one Stiles has against his hip. “Okay," he says, growing serious. "You know I like you too, Stiles.”

Stiles swallows. Here it goes. “But you know I’ve never had feelings for a guy before. And I’m worried I’m making this all up in my head, or something. I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and realize I can’t reciprocate your feelings.” Stiles sighs. “I don’t want to let you down.”

Derek tenses up, turns his head as far as he can before saying, "This isn’t working. Can I turn over?”

“Sure.”

They shift around the bed, eventually lying face to face, no longer touching, knees curved towards each other like question marks. Stiles can’t see Derek’s eyes but he can feel them as they fall heavy against him face.

“I would understand,” Derek says. “If the way you feel changes. It wouldn’t be your fault if you had to end things.”

“That’s not the point,” Stiles says, frustrated that Derek is so willing to disregard himself.

Derek reaches out and twines his fingers together with Stiles’, resting their hands in the space between them on the bed. “Don’t overthink it. Just try to let everything go. What do you want? Right now?”

Stiles snorts, face a little hot. “I think you’re turning into my gay guru.”

“Stiles.”

“I just want to stay like this,” Stiles murmurs. Through the static of darkness he traces his eyes over the planes of Derek’s face, the slightness of his cheekbones and the strength of his jaw. So different from all the faces Stiles has admired, but still beautiful in its own right. “I want to keep touching you. I want—”

Stiles shift forward, relishing in the quiet breath Derek exhales just before their mouths press together.

It’s short and it’s sweet, Derek’s stubble tickling Stiles’ fingertips, Derek’s right hand splayed against Stiles’ back, resting gently but still a burning touch. It’s not much different than kissing a girl. Derek’s lips are soft and full and he tastes minty, like toothpaste and mouthwash, a nice change from the usual sticky sweetness of lip gloss.

Not bad, Stiles thinks as they pull away from one another. Not bad at all.

“Good?” Derek whispers.

“Yeah,” Stiles whispers back, leaning in again, gentle until he gets the hang of it, of kissing a guy, of kissing Derek. Stiles lets his mouth fall open, each kiss growing wetter and harder. Derek tugs Stiles forward until their chests press together; there’s no fullness that Stiles is accustomed to feeling against him, just firm muscle, but he doesn’t mind. Not when Derek is sighing into his mouth like this is the best thing on earth, when Derek’s hand is sweeping wide arcs up his down his back, when his beard is scraping up against Stiles' skin, leaving the best kind of sting in its wake. 

Stiles shoves his fingers through Derek’s hair, softness giving way to the strength of his back as his hand continues to travel. He rakes his nails down the thin fabric of Derek’s shirt and feels the returning groan vibrate against his mouth.

Derek shifts, lips trailing a path across Stiles’ jaw and then down to his neck, sucking hard at the tendon there, until Stiles feels hopeless to do anything but let his eyes fall shut with a rough hum, hands falling further to cup Derek’s ass and squeeze.

“Shit,” Derek pants, each breath a warm puff caught in the curve between Stiles’ neck and shoulder. “We should—”

“We should,” Stiles grunts, hardly hearing himself, letting his hips rock against Derek’s, sighing at the catch of friction—finally—against his dick.

Derek shifts down against him until the bulge in his pajama pants catches against Stiles’, but it’s not enough, the want buzzing under Stiles’ skin growing louder. He brings Derek’s face back to his, aligning their mouths as best he can, losing it, biting down on Derek’s bottom lip when he grips at Stiles’ thigh, tugging it up and over his hip, and everything turns from good to totally fucking great.

Stiles’ drops his forehead to Derek’s shoulder, ducking his head to watch them move together. “Fuck—”

Derek mouths at the top of Stiles’ ear, bites. “Stiles—” His hand drags across Stiles’ lower back and around his hip, fingers pausing at the front of his waistband. “Do you want—”

“Wait—” Stiles rasps, a sudden moment of clarity breaking through the fog of touch and warmth and need. “Wait. We should—we should not.” He pushes himself away, flopping down onto his back to catch his breath. His body feels lit up everywhere it’s been touched. He groans. “I hate myself.”

“You shouldn’t—” Derek’s voice is ragged at the edges. He clears his throat. “That was—”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes, rubbing at his face. When he drops his hand and turns to look at Derek, he can’t help but laugh.

“What?” Derek asks, frowning.

It’s his hair, wildly fluffed on the top of his head, and his shirt, all rumpled, not to mention his eyes, half-lidded like he’s seconds from falling asleep.

“Just come here, you big dork,” Stiles says, tugging at the fabric at Derek’s shoulder. He slides over, tucking his head up against Stiles’ chest. “Quickfire: what’s my last name?”

Derek’s forehead wrinkles. “It’s—it’s—”

“—it’s a good thing we stopped, is what.” Stiles cards his fingers through the hair at the back of Derek’s neck, smiling when he feels him shiver. “And it’s Stilinkski.”

“Well then, Stiles Stilinkski,” Derek says. “Do you think you’re going to change your mind tomorrow morning?”

Stiles snorts. His dick is still obnoxiously hard; if it could talk, it would probably be screaming something akin to ‘fuck you.’ But Stiles hasn’t had that much fun or felt that good just making out with someone since—high school, probably, so he can ignore it. Instead he focuses on how nice it feels to have Derek simply pressed up against him.

“I’m sure you can figure that one out on your own,” he says. 

“Good,” Derek grunts, thumb brushing back and forth against the sliver of skin between Stiles’ shirt and his pajama bottoms. Stiles smiles and closes his eyes; Derek fits against him almost perfectly, his breath soft, ribcage slowly expanding. He’s bigger than any girl Stiles has ever held, much less soft, and it’s different, but in a good way. It’s like biting into an apple and tasting an orange and being okay with it because Stiles like oranges, too. He really, really does.

“You know how sometimes you’re watching a movie and you see an actor and you know who it is, but you can’t remember their name?” Stiles says. “And it bothers you all day? And then you’re eating dinner and it just hits you? I kind of feel like that right now.”

Derek hums. “Which celebrity am I?”

“How about Leonardo DiCaprio?”

“Can’t even give me the Oscar.”

Stiles snorts but doesn’t reply, melting back into the bed. He’s almost asleep, thoughts slow and heavy, when Derek’s voice breaks the silence.

“Elvis,” he mumbles. “His song—it’s the one my parents danced to at their wedding.”

“That’s nice.” Stiles breathes. “We should go to the beach tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Derek says, and if Stiles were more awake maybe he’d have picked up on the tininess of Derek’s voice, the way it sounded like one thousand secrets all wrapped up into one. But it’s gone before Stiles can blink as Derek says, “Goodnight, Stiles.”

Stiles presses a kiss to the top of Derek’s head. “Night.”

He slips off into nothingness.