Derek must be dreaming, because there's no way in hell a woman with curly red hair and a fluffy pink dress just appeared in front of him in a shower of glitter. He blinks, rubs his eyes, and pinches himself, but the vision doesn't go away.

In fact, the vision looks mildly annoyed, tapping its red-heeled toe on the pavers that were swept this morning. Derek clears his throat and tries to ignore the sudden urge he feels to smooth back his hair and tuck his shirt into his trousers.

"Can I help you?" he asks.

The strange woman tuts and tsks and taps her toe. "You're Derek," she says flatly, giving him a disappointed once-over. "Well, I can certainly see why they sent me." She takes a step forward – prowls forward, almost, and Derek stumbles backwards, feeling awfully like a tiger's prey – hands on hips.

"Sent you?" he manages to say. "Who're they? And why did they send you?" He backs up into the wall. "Who are you?"

The woman smiles wickedly. "Your fairy godmother, of course. The name's Lydia. I see your sisters have given me quite the task."

"My –" Derek bites back a groan. "Don't listen to anything Cora and Laura say; I don't need a fairy godmother, and I certainly don't want one."

"Well, you've got one," Lydia snaps back, whipping a wand out from the folds of her dress. "And as long as I'm here, Derek of house Hale, you'll do as I say. And I say that you shall go to the ball."

Everything suddenly clicks in Derek's mind. "The ball? That's what this is about?"

Lydia tilts her head quizzically. "You do want to go to the ball, do you not?"

Derek flushes as a memory rises to the surface of his mind; a memory of the prince, riding past on his great black steed, those doe-like eyes looking almost golden in the sun, the light catching on the soft sheen of his lips and the galaxy of moles across his face. It's been almost a month since that day, and still Derek lies awake at night thinking of it, of the prince, of Stiles. "Of course I want to go to the ball," he sighs, looking away from Lydia's dazzling perfection and down at his own shabby clothes and bare feet. "But it's impossible – and even if I did go, he wouldn't spare me a second glance."

Slender fingers with sharp nails dig into his chin and force it up. Lydia meets his gaze, her own eyes fiery and blazing. "He won't spare you a second glance," she says fiercely, "because he won't be able to look away from the first."

"The Stilinskis are of royal blood, Lydia, and the Hales –"

"– are piss-poor peasants after having disgraced themselves in battle centuries ago?"

Derek looks away again. "Yes," he says miserably. "I'll never be good enough for him." He feels more than hears Lydia sigh and step away.

"We'll just have to make him forget about politics, then," she says softly. "He won't care what house you're from the moment he sets eyes on you."

"In these clothes?"

"Don't be idiotic." Lydia raises her wand and bites her lip contemplatively. "I'm your fairy godmother, Derek. I think I can work a little magic. But first – we'll need a pumpkin and some mice."

Derek walks into the ballroom at the sound of the fake name he'd given the palace officials. Inside is dazzling – crystal chandeliers, silk curtains, buffet tables groaning under the weight of more food than Derek's seen in his lifetime – and the people milling about even more so. He feels suddenly inadequate, like the velvet suit Lydia had conjured from just a wave of her wand can't hide the fact that he's a peasant, he's a Hale, and he'll never belong at places and with people like these.

Derek clears his throat and descends the stairs, gaze desperately seeking that beautiful smile he'd glimpsed all those weeks ago. He doesn't find it.

The band strikes up a tune as Derek finds a seat against the wall of the ballroom. Couples wade out onto the dance floor like gaudy butterflies, wings of silk and gold trailing behind them. Derek loses himself in witnessing he smooth steps of the waltz; distracted so much so by their hypnotising rhythm that he doesn't notice anyone approaching him until a shadow falls across his lap.

He looks up and forgets how to breathe.

Stiles is wearing his military dress, all golden tassels and red sashes and criminally slim-fitting trousers. His hair is gelled up, just like it was when Derek watched as he rode across town last month, and his smile is brighter than all the stars in the night sky.

They should name a constellation after him, Derek thinks. A galaxy.

"May I ask this dance?" the prince says then, cautious but hopeful, as if Derek has the option of turning him down.

There was never any option. Not now, not ever. "Of course," Derek says, taking the outstretched hand and following Stiles into the middle of the waltzing couples. People part for them; they create a space in the middle, a circle of light meant only for Derek and Stiles.

The waltz slows down; the lights dim. Stiles' eyes and his smile shine softly through the dark.

"How is it that I've never seen you before?" the prince says quietly, swaying close. He smells like falling rain, like dusk roses and meadows in the springtime. It's a scent Derek could be intoxicated by.

"Maybe you weren't looking," he answers, heart ticking a small and sudden upbeat at the not-quite-lie.

"Even if I hadn't been looking," Stiles says, "I would have found you all the same. You're hard to miss, you know."

"Even in this crowd?"

Stiles hums and shuffles closer, until they're chest to chest. "Especially in this crowd," he murmurs, leaning even closer in, eyes fluttering closed, and Derek would bemoan the loss of those luminous orbs if not for the sight of Stiles' parted lips, edging closer, closer, closer. He closes his own eyes, and –

The clock begins to chime midnight. Derek's eyes snap open and he jerks away from the prince, shocked and dismayed at how quickly the time has passed him by. Stiles opens his eyes, too, wide and confused, tilting his head to the side and smiling in that way of his that makes Derek's knees go weak.

"What's wrong?" he asks, a perfect, gloved hand reaching out that Derek dodges.

"I – I'm sorry," he manages to say, as the clock chimes twice, thrice. "I have to go." Five, six.

Derek pulls away from Stiles and makes a dash for the doors. He can almost feel Lydia's spell beginning to wear off – his velvet suit feels flimsy, liquid even; ready to evaporate. He reaches the stairs at the ninth chime; rushes up them on the tenth. In his hurry, with Stiles' voice echoing behind him, shouting at him to wait, please, he stumbles. One of the shiny leather shoes he so admired slips off and is forgotten.

On the twelfth and final chime, Derek bursts through the doors and launches himself onto the nearest horse. He digs his heels into the mare's side and gallops away, feeling sick to his stomach. Derek's tuxedo has been replaced by his old working gear, the gel disappearing from his hair and leaving it a bird's nest. He's wearing only one shoe, and his bare toes curl at the cool breeze. As he rides away, insides churning with the night's events, he suddenly realises something horrible: he didn't even tell Stiles his name.

Derek wants to curl into the foetal position and stay there forever. The night had promised to be spectacular – he even had a fairy godmother who said so – but it had turned into an absolute disaster. He'll never see Stiles again, because houses like Stilinski and Hale never mix. Cora and Laura won't get their fancy dresses, or even enough food to keep their bellies full during winter. Lydia will turn up in her shower of glitter and berate him for messing everything up.

And Stiles? Stiles will find himself a fancy foreign prince and forget all about Derek, the strange and nameless man he met only once and never saw again.

The wind lashes through Derek's cotton clothing as he rides the long and dusty road home, but it's not just the cold that's making him shiver.

Cora and Laura wake him the next morning with their ecstatic shrieks. "The prince is coming, the prince is coming!" they yell in his ear, shaking his shoulders and sitting on his stomach. Derek takes a long moment to register their words; when he does, he sits bolt upright, jostling his sisters from his bed.

"What? When?"

"His procession's coming down the drive!" Cora squeals excitedly. "You must've made quite the impression on him, Der-Bear."

Derek doesn't even protest at the nickname he usually abhors; he's too busy pulling on his best pair of trousers (they've been patched up a mere four times), lacing up his best pair of boots (the sole has worn right through, but if he wears thick socks, it doesn't really matter), and trying to force a comb through his ridiculous hair – all at the same time.

Laura sighs in exasperation. "Come here," she snaps, tugging the comb from his grasp and dragging it across his skull. Derek yelps but stays put; he's long since learned his sisters have the authority over him on most matters, but especially those concerning his appearance. He doesn't even blink when Cora asks for him to put his arms out so she can slide a vest over his shoulders, and lets her button it up and brush it down without comment.

After a long, strenuous moment when it looks like the comb is about to break right off and stay firmly rooted in Derek's hair, Laura and Cora step back and give simultaneous sounds of approval.

"I'm afraid it's all we've got time for," one of them says, but Derek isn't paying attention anymore, because someone has just knocked on the door.

"Go get 'em, tiger," Cora laughs, pushing him towards the stairs. Derek clears his throat, brushes down his vest again and descends slowly, careful not to trip this time. He reaches the door and takes a deep breath. Time stops for a single, elongated moment in which Derek's fingers brush the handle; it seems to take an age for him to build up the strength to grasp the brass firmly, twist and pull.

Stiles is on the doorstep. Lips, eyes, moles, hair. Derek catalogues the details, all the ones he noticed last night and others he missed. He notes, distantly, that Stiles is clutching a shoe in his hand, but the thought doesn't register as important the moment the two of them lock eyes.

"Oh," the prince breathes out, throwing the shoe over his shoulder and taking a step forward, over the threshold, until he's so close Derek could count his eyelashes. "I found you."

Derek can't find the words he needs, so he settles with kissing Stiles instead, leaning forward and a little bit up until their lips meet in the stutter of a butterfly's wings. "Oh," Stiles says again, into their almost-kiss, breath ghosting across Derek's nose, cheeks, chin. It's all the incentive he needs to push forward and open.

Stiles' mouth is hot and wet, his fingers sinful as they clutch to Derek's hair, and it feels like Derek's set himself on fire but is drowning all at once.

They break apart, slowly, softly. Stiles blinks, his doe-eyes big and brown and worth dying for. "I don't even know your name," he says, he laughs, and God, if it isn't the most beautiful sound in the world. He lifts a hand and brushes a thumb across Derek's lips, before sliding his hand around to cup Derek's jaw. "Tell me your name," he asks, quietly and simply, blinking again like Derek's the sun and is shining into his face.

"It's Derek," Derek says, pushing against Stiles' palm affectionately. "Derek of house Hale."

Stiles' eyes glint mischievously. "Not for much longer," he grins, curling his other arm around Derek's waist. "How would you feel about joining house Stilinski?"

"Well," Derek smiles, playing along, "I hear its prince is quite the catch."

"Is he now?"

"Mm hmm." Derek steps forward so his chest is flush with Stiles'. "People say he's kind, and smart, and funny – and quite the looker, if you believe the rumours are true."

"Do you?" Stiles swallows, looking genuinely nervous, and Derek's heart swells.

"Yes," he says simply, speaking around the sudden obstruction in his throat. "I do." Then he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and leans in.

Later, Derek of house Stilinski will have as much time as he needs to count Stiles' eyelashes. He'll trace the constellations of moles on his husband's back while he's sleeping, and kiss the downy hairs that grow across his chest. They'll live in the palace, where Cora and Laura will have their own rooms and, in time, may meet their own princes (or princesses). Stiles' father will grow old, and eventually Stiles will take up his crown. One day, he and Derek will adopt children of their own, and will tell them the fairy tale of how they met.

Later, Derek will kiss Stiles wherever and whenever he wants, and it won't matter that house Hale was once poor, and disgraced, and struck by tragedy; all that will count will be the sleepy smile on Stiles' face when he wakes up in the morning, the desperate words he'll whisper as they're making love, the rich glint of a gold band around the ring finger of his left hand.

Later, Derek will marry Stiles, Derek will live with Stiles, Derek will die with Stiles, but for now, he simply reels the prince in for a kiss, because for everything else?

They have all the time in the world.

Author's Note: For Britt, whose birthday it is today, and who loves Sterek just as much as I do.

Apologies for shittiness: this was written over a couple of nights, and honestly, the idea sort of just exploded from me, and the story muddled on from there. ALSO excuse the shameless fluff that crept into the story halfway through, and the gratuitously cheesy ending. Sorry not sorry.

Title from Cinderella's song of the same name.