Work Text:
Derek is standing in the hall on his lunch break, talking to Boyd and Boyd's unfortunate friend Chris (Kate's brother, ugh) when Stiles slinks past, and it suddenly hits Derek how wrong this is. It's so unlike Stiles to be so meek, and so backwards and fucked to hell that he's falling for Stiles, but Stiles feels the need to pretend not to know him at school. Chris sees Derek watching Stiles, the shuffle of his feet, the points of his knuckles, the four different layers of clothing he's wearing, and looks, as well. "That the nerd you got stuck with in history?" Chris asks Derek.
Derek jerks his gaze away from Stiles fumbling with his locker. "Uh? Uh, yeah. That's Stiles."
"Stiles is Stilinski?" Erica asks, voice ringing with incredulity, like she knows him. Erica dates Boyd on and off; right now they're off. She seems to be hanging around Chris—perhaps to piss off Boyd. "Isn't he a freshman?"
"Uh, no. He's—" Derek frowns, unsure. "He should be a sophomore. But he's taking mostly junior-level classes, so."
"Wow," says Erica, exchanging a smirk with Chris. "No wonder he doesn't have any friends."
"Aside from his mom," clarifies Chris.
"His mom's dead," Derek says gruffly, squinting.
"His hand, then."
Derek plays dumb, but feels his jaw clench. "He's got a lot of friends." Including Derek.
"Isn't he dating that McCall kid?" Boyd wonders. "They're both in lacrosse, I think Isaac said they were going out or something."
"McCall," Chris says. "Scott McCall. Always knew he was a homo."
Derek's hands clench into fists in his jacket pockets. "Really, Chris?" Boyd says sharply.
"Can we just go to class," Derek snaps.
"No, hang on. I want to ask him some questions." Chris reaches out, grabs Stiles' bicep as he's trying to move past them with a stack of books in his hands. "Hey, Stilinski, c'mere a sec."
"Seriously, Argent, just let it go," Derek says.
"Come on, buddy," Chris says, singsong, leading Stiles into their little circle, putting an arm across his shoulders. Stiles looks at Chris' arm like he could get a disease from it. He's taller than Chris, but it's still clear who's in control.
"Uh," Stiles says, "Hi, Chris."
"Hello, friend." Chris smiles saccharinely, and Stiles glances at Matt, Derek, Boyd, Erica. "So is it true you're fucking Scott McCall?" asks Chris, and Erica titters.
"Or is he fucking you?" she asks.
Stiles narrows his eyes, looking straight at Derek. "You guys are really unique and original," he says, tone blithe, not matching his face. "Never heard that one. Never, ever. Do you write your own jokes or do you have a comedy team behind the scenes?"
"You're a funny guy," Chris says, shaking Stiles by the shoulders roughly enough that Stiles' head bobs, his glasses slide down his nose. He glowers at Chris. "Why don't you just answer the question?"
"We just want to know," Matt offers.
Boyd starts texting.
"Sure, inquisitive minds, curiosity and the cat, etcetera." Stiles squirms under the weight of Chris' arm. "Can you let me go now? I have shit to do."
"He has shit to do," Chris tells the group, grinning. "Very busy, very popular. Can't even answer a simple question, he's too good for that. I hope he knows what we do to kids who're too good to talk to us."
Stiles pales slightly. "Seriously? Christ, guys, I just want to go study."
"Chris," Derek warns.
Chris ignores him. "Just want to study, okay. Just answer the question! I'm talking to you for a reason, I didn't just feel like hanging out with Stilinski again." Stiles rolls his eyes animatedly and adjusts the books in his arms instead of responding. Suddenly irritated, Chris tugs on Stiles' hair, jiggles his head. "Just answer and you can go, nerd!" Stiles winces.
"Scott —is—straight," he says through grit teeth.
Chris and Erica look at each other, shocked, for a moment. Then they start laughing. "But you're not?" asks Erica.
Stiles sags with a heavy sigh. Shuts his eyes.
"Oh my god, you are a homo," Chris says. "So is it unrequited love? Is that—that's so romantic."
Stiles opens his eyes and looks at Derek, and Derek snaps. "Okay, stop," he says, loudly, and the whole group looks at him with wide eyes.
Chris lets go of Stiles' hair.
Derek glares at Chris. "Let him go."
"Dude, Derek, calm down," he laughs. Throws his palms out, like what?.
Derek pushes Chris' arm off of Stiles' shoulders. "You'll leave him alone," he says. Grabs Stiles' hand, lacing their fingers together, and leads him away. Surprised giggling fading away behind them.
Stiles plunks along after him wordlessly, even when they straight-up leave the school building, sit down at a picnic table outside. It's way too chilly for being outside, but neither of them says anything. Stiles pushes his books onto the table, rubs his hands together between his knees. He and Derek sit there silently for a few minutes.
"I'm sorry," Derek says eventually. Staring at the table, to avoid Stiles' eye. To avoid seeing whatever hateful expression Stiles will rightfully have on his face.
"Nothing I haven't dealt with before," Stiles replies evenly.
"I'm sorry," repeats Derek. He shakes his head.
"I don't blame you for it," Stiles says. "Chris Argent and Erica Reyes are assholes, and Boyd just doesn't give a fuck. I've been putting up with their shit for years. One of the reasons I had a crush on you was you never did that shit. You never participated. Of course, you also didn't even notice it was happening."
"I objected to it once a couple years ago, and a few of them stopped doing it around me. Chris just blows me off. I had no idea they were doing it to you."
"I'm their favourite." Stiles smirks at him grimly. "You seriously never noticed me not talking to you at school."
"Of course I noticed that, I just figured you didn't like them or something; you wouldn't be alone. It didn't occur to me they'd grab you in the hallway and hold you fucking captive, that's insane."
"Well, at least most of us are too big to fit into the lockers now," Stiles suggests. "I can usually deal with it okay myself, but, like. They're your friends, and you were right there, so I was trying to be, um. Politer?"
"Chris Argent is not my friend," Derek says vehemently. "You should never be concerned with being polite to Chris Argent."
"Yeah." Stiles sighs, flushes a little. "Thanks for, um. Saving me, then."
"I did the bare minimum." Derek drops his face into his hands. "I should have rearranged his fucking face for calling you that."
"Jackson Whittemore used to call me that on a regular basis," Stiles says. "But then his best friend came out and he doesn't use that word anymore. He calls me worse things now." He looks at Derek, and Derek must have something going on on his face because he frowns. "Nuh-uh," he says. "You're not going to go around beating up anyone who crosses me."
"But," Derek says feebly.
"No. Just because you kinda like me doesn't automatically make you my designated protector."
"I'm in love with you," Derek tells him—and then claps a hand over his mouth, like he'll be able to reverse his own confession, take it back and make things okay. What if--what if Derek ran away? Joined the circus? Or better yet, dug a hole, and then lived in it? Forever?
Stiles blinks at him, his breath visible in the air, cheeks burning a saturated scarlet, and then jerks Derek's face towards him, kisses him hard. And that is how Boyd finds them ten minutes later, kissing fervently, Derek's arms around him. Boyd clears his throat, and Derek legitimately yelps and jumps in his seat, clutches Stiles closer in some kind of weird, instinctive defense mechanism. Stiles just sits and blinks through foggy glasses.
Derek opens and closes his mouth twice before Boyd speaks first. "So you and McCall aren't dating," he says to Stiles.
Stiles hesitates, and Derek is about to open his mouth to tell Boyd to go take a walk on the ocean floor when Stiles returns, "I told you he was straight."
"I'm gonna kick the shit out of Chris Argent," Derek warns Boyd, abruptly enough that Stiles jerks his head to the side to look at him in shock.
Boyd grimaces, sits at the picnic table across from them. "Good luck with that," he says. "I'll back you up, but don't expect there not to be any negative feedback for both of us."
He'd back him up. Derek exhales. "Thanks, dude," he says.
"Don't worry about it," says Boyd. "How come you didn't tell me about you gettin' it with the fabled history nerd?"
"The fabled history nerd is right here," Stiles grumbles, and Derek looks at him, his face, his lips, distracted. "I'm willing to wager he didn't mention it because of exactly what happened in the hallway."
Boyd glowers at Stiles. "Thanks for your input," he says sarcastically, "but I'm not a homophobe like Argent." He turns back to Derek. "You should've told me, man."
"I know," Derek says. "I had a lot of reasons, and all of them were stupid."
Boyd says, "You should always tell me when you're fucking underclassmen."
"I'm fucking an underclassman," Derek tells him drily.
Stiles huffs. "You're both idiots. I'm mostly a junior and I'm fucking him." Derek blushes vibrantly, looks at him with horror, but Stiles just shrugs.
"Call me an idiot one more time," Boyd says flatly.