None of it's mine, you know the drill.

I hope you enjoy it!

You Called, I Answered

"Look," Stiles began, huddled safely in his Jeep, watching heavy streams of rain wavering in squiggles down the windscreen, blurring his vision, "I'm kind of stuck in the middle of nowhere right now, and I've popped a tire."

Derek's sigh was heavy with dismay. "Where are you?" he asked, though it was less of a question and more of an order, and usually Stiles would have objected to that – after all, he demanded respect and common courtesy, thank you very much – but he wasn't exactly in a position to start criticising the one person who actually answered his phone when called.

"I just left Scott's house," he replied sourly, already sensing the judgement that was forthcoming. "I, uh... I took the short route home."

"By 'short route'," Derek growled, "please tell me you don't mean the forest road."

Stiles winced. "I can lie, if it makes it easier for you?"

"Damn it, Stiles," Derek muttered, and Stiles could hear him picking up his keys. "You know it's going to take me half an hour to get there in this weather, right?"

Stiles had suspected that, but had been trying to stay hopeful. All hopes were dashed, now. "Don't say that," Stiles whimpered, "don't jinx it. You might surprise yourself and arrive in ten minutes. Dream big, Derek."

"Don't get your hopes up," Derek told him, and Stiles heard him getting into his car. "Okay, I'm on my way. I'll be there soon. Don't – ugh – don't wander off, or something."

"Jeez, what do you take me for, an idiot?" Stiles grumbled. "I'm not about to go hiking in the middle of a storm, Derek. I might be a weak little human but I'm not completely useless."

"Good," Derek grunted, as verbose as ever. "Are you still on the road?"

Stiles squinted through the blurred windows of his car and sighed. "Yeah, smack bang in the middle of it, actually."

Derek grunted again, and then the line went dead. Of course that would be how Derek ended a conversation. Of course. Why had Stiles expected otherwise?

"Rude," Stiles muttered as he dropped his phone back into his lap. "Rude werewolf with communication issues."

He turned on his car radio hoping for something entertaining to listen to, but all he got was static and frost, so he flicked it off again. With a frown and a grumble he slumped down in his seat and started a game of Temple Run on his phone.

"Stupid universe," he muttered, waiting for Derek to arrive.

It was twenty minutes later that the glare of headlights interrupted Stiles's new high score.

"Finally," he groused, shielding his eyes against the light as Derek approached, an arm raised to cover his face from the rain. Stiles wound down the window and called out, "Told you it wouldn't take you half an hour." He grinned brightly. "You're my knight in shining armour."

"We're both lucky your father doesn't patrol this road, because I'm pretty sure I broke multiple road rules in getting here," Derek grumbled, hiking his jacket up to cover the back of his head. "Which tire?"

"Back left," he replied, and with a sad little sound of resignation he put his window up again and promptly left the car, stepping out into the storm. Mud was thick around his sneakers, and it squelched when he walked around to the back of the car to join Derek. Water ran down his collar and made him shiver.

"When was the last time you had your tires checked?" Derek asked, though from his tone Stiles could tell that Derek already knew the answer was 'not in a very long time'.

"Hey, I've been busy, alright?" Stiles said defensively. "In case you haven't noticed, I've been spending a lot of my time helping out this seriously unfriendly werewolf and his pack, and then when I have the time I occasionally do this thing called school – you might've heard of it."

Derek made a huffy sound of acceptance, but he didn't press any further. Stiles watched rain run down Derek's cheek, down the curve of his jaw and the long line of his throat.

"So," Stiles continued, dragging his eyes away from Derek and rocking back on his squelchy heels, "can you fix it?"

Derek frowned a little as he looked down at the deflated tire, and Stiles started to panic.

"You can fix it, can't you? I mean, you've done this plenty of times, right?" He looked frantically from Derek's coarse expression to the muddy mess of his car. "It's not – it's not wrecked, is it? I'm not going to have to buy a new car, am I? Because let me tell you, I can't afford a replacement, not in this economy."

"It's just a flat tire," Derek said offhandedly, settling Stiles a little. "The real problem here is our surroundings. I don't know if you've noticed, but you're kind of bogged down."

Stiles glanced at his car again, taking in the ashy brown mud that had somehow risen to the middle of his tires. "Wow," he said, "mud has happened."

"Yeah," Derek said, "that's what usually happens when, you know, rain and dirt combine."

"Hey, don't start getting all sarcastic on me, mister," Stiles said with a slight smirk. "I'm the one with the jokes around here, and you'd best remember that."

"Stiles, I don't think we should try to replace the tire when it's raining like this," Derek went on. "Especially considering we're up to our knees in mud."

Stiles pouted and shifted a little in the mud, feeling it wet and slick between his toes. "Will it sink if I leave it here?"

Derek stared at him. "No, Stiles," he said, "your car won't sink."

"Hey," he muttered, "it's a valid concern. You clearly didn't watch The NeverEnding Story as a child, did you? Talk about quicksand trauma." He pretended to wipe away a tear. "Rest in peace, Artax."

Derek continued to stare, rain glistening over his skin.

"Okay, whatever, I'll leave it here," Stiles relented. "But if I come back tomorrow and I find it's been taken by the mud, you're paying for my therapy, because I guarantee you I'll be distraught."

"Sure," Derek agreed, "let's just get in my car, okay? It's too wet for this."

Stiles huffed, went back to his Jeep, and gathered all his things before locking it and following Derek to his car.

"Daddy will be back really soon," he murmured, looking out at his car through the window as Derek turned and started back towards town. "Be brave!"

"It's a car, Stiles," Derek reminded him. "It's going to be fine."

"You say that, but think of all the things that might happen while I'm gone." He shivered delicately and muttered darkly, "Raccoons could move in." He glanced at Derek, whose eyes were firmly on the road. "Do you think it would be cruel of me to displace a family of raccoons from my Jeep if it was my own fault that they moved in?"

"I don't think you have to worry about raccoons infesting your car," Derek told him, and Stiles could almost make out the hint of a smile in the lift of his mouth.

"You know," Stiles said, settling down in the leather seat so he was angled towards Derek, "just when I think I've figured you out, you go and surprise me by smiling like that."

Derek glanced at him, a slight frown on his brow. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"You're not what I'm used to," Stiles admitted. "You're quiet and reserved, you never laugh, and when you make jokes it's almost cause for a national holiday."

Derek frowned further. "I laugh sometimes," he grumbled.

Stiles stared at him. "Yeah, see, when you say it like that? All scowly and hostile? That doesn't exactly portray you as the laughing type."

"Maybe you're just not funny, have you thought of that?" Derek suggested bitterly.

"Ha-ha," Stiles drawled. "We both know I'm the king of comedy around these parts. Someone has to make up for your lack of humour, and I've stepped up."

An awkward silence fell between them. Stiles watched the windscreen wipers rhythmically shift back and forth as he tried to think of a way to explain what he meant without adding further insult to injury.

"I'm not used to quiet people," he said eventually, and his voice crackled in the silence of the car. "You're really reserved, and that – that unnerves me. I mean, you know me, you know how much I talk. It scares me when I meet someone who isn't like that."

Derek lifted one of his eyebrows, but kept his eyes on the road. "You're saying you're scared of me... because I don't constantly talk?"

Stiles huffed an unhappy sigh and said, "It's more to do with the fact that you don't share anything with any of us. I actually have to work to understand you, did you know that? I have to read between the lines."

"And you don't have to do that with the others?"

"The others are easy to understand," Stiles told him, and he thought of his friends. "Scott's an open book. He's a terrible liar, and he's always been an over-sharer. And then with people like Lydia and Jackson it's easy to get a feel of them from what they put forward. What they brag about, what they say to people... But you..." He frowned, biting his lip in thought. "You don't share anything." He turned his head and gazed at Derek's profile. "There's nothing to work off of but the fact that you don't share anything in the first place."

"And that's a bad thing?" Derek asked, his voice neutral.

"Not bad," Stiles disagreed, "just different. Unusual." He smiled a little. "It suits you. Different and unusual."

"But you don't understand me," Derek surmised.

"Not in the slightest," Stiles agreed. "It's like you speak in code."

Derek glanced at him before his eyes flickered back to the dark road. "Huh."

Stiles stared after him, open mouthed. "See?" he cried. "What did that even mean?"

Derek dared to grin.

When Derek turned into Stile's driveway, Stiles was caught by surprise. He'd been sure they'd only been travelling for five minutes at the most.

"Pack meeting tomorrow, remember," Derek said as Stiles gathered his things.

"I'll be there with bells on," Stiles promised him. "Actual bells. Dozens of them, in various shapes and sizes."

Derek's lips threatened to smile yet again, and Stiles beamed in response.

"Goodnight, Stiles," Derek sighed, and Stiles took that as a sign to go. "After the meeting we can go and get your Jeep, if you want."

"That'd be handy," Stiles said. "Thanks. I'll see you tomorrow." He opened the door, felt the blast of cold air rush up to meet him, and he shivered. "Night."

"These meetings are really disappointing, you know," Lydia sighed, carefully prying a slice of pizza from the others, stringing cheese messily all over herself. "I was expecting Fight Club: The Werewolf Edition."

"Instead it's like we're at a twelve year old's slumber party," Erica grumbled, licking the corner of her lips and throwing a balled up napkin at Isaac's head. "Honestly, I'm surprised we haven't started playing video games and gossiping about boys yet."

Stiles glanced over at Derek, who was sitting grumpily between Jackson and Boyd. He hadn't contributed to the conversation in almost half an hour, and with each complaint about the evening he seemed to glower more and more. It didn't take a genius to figure out that he was feeling insulted. He was the Alpha, after all. An insult about a pack meeting was an insult to him. Stiles could get that.

"You're thinking about this all wrong," Stiles told them, drawing eyes to him. He could feel Derek watching. "It's not a training session. It's more of a... bonding experience, really." He looked at Derek, hoping he'd see encouragement (or, hell, maybe even gratitude) there. He was met with an empty stare, but it beat the alternative scowl. "We're a pack, we're meant to be close. Pizza and small talk is how we do that." He reached forward and pointedly took the last slice of the Hawaiian pizza.

"Stiles is right," Scott agreed, and Stiles grinned at his best friend, "we're not here to learn how to fight, we're here to grow stronger as a team. We're meant to be bonding." He turned to face Derek. "Right?"

Derek looked uncomfortable under their gazes, like he'd rather they left him out of the conversation all together. His lip twitched a little before he managed to say, "Yeah. Fine."

"Verbose, as always," Stiles muttered, and Derek narrowed his eyes at him. Oh yeah, Stiles belatedly realised, werewolf hearing. Oops.

Conversation slowly returned, and Stiles sat back and nursed his glass of Coke and tried not to look like he was eavesdropping when he totally was.

Derek was awkward under pressure, Stiles had figured that much out already. He didn't like his actions and choices being judged or questioned. He lacked confidence in his decisions, and that presented itself as unwillingness. Stiles knew he was a good leader – or he would be, eventually – but for now it was all too new for him. He was on shaky feet.

Stiles was still watching him when Derek gathered the empty pizza boxes and glasses and, with perfect skill and ease, balanced them on top of each other and carried them into the kitchen. As soon as Derek was gone, Erica appeared in Stiles's vision, her bright red lips pursed in a knowing smirk.

"You want to let me in on what you're thinking about?" she asked, tilting her head expectantly and folding her arms over her chest.

"Oh, you know," Stiles drawled. "Just wondering about the origins of the universe. Nothing much."

Erica snickered and leaned forward conspiratorially. "Liar," she whispered. "You've been suspiciously quiet all evening, and you haven't looked away from a certain somebody since the moment you arrived."

"Hey," Stiles muttered, leaning backwards to escape her, "you mind giving a guy some breathing space?"

She grinned widely, her sharp teeth prominently on display, and she murmured, "If I've noticed, it won't be long before he does, too." With a final smirk she turned and left, returning to her seat by Lydia.

Stiles sat flustered and shaken, trying to rearrange his thoughts back into the order they'd been in previously. He swept the room with his eyes, but Derek was still in the kitchen. Without even thinking about it, Stiles left his seat and trailed after him.

Derek was standing in front of the sink, both of his hands propped on his hips with disapproval. He was eyeing the sink as though it had grievously offended him and his entire family and was about to pay the price for its insult.

"Uh," Stiles hesitantly began, edging into the room, "am I – uh – interrupting something, here? Do you want me to leave you and the sink alone?"

Derek grumbled, "It's stopped working."

Stiles blinked. "The sink? Yeah, well, what it is it? One hundred years old?"

Derek didn't answer, and that was answer enough for Stiles.

"Honestly," he said, "why haven't you moved out already? This place is decaying around us, and half of it is burned to ash."

Derek didn't take his scowl away from the sink. "This place is fine."

"Now that is a blatant lie," Stiles guffawed. "This place is a–" He paused, the word 'death trap' ready on his lips. "It's a hazard," he said instead.

Derek grunted, as though that was a valid response.

Stiles sighed and leaned against the kitchen wall. "We could call a plumber?" he suggested tiredly. "I'm pretty sure I have the number of the guy dad and I use in my phone."

"Later," Derek allowed, and with a short huff he turned and started forcing the pizza boxes into the bin. "We'll go and get your car after this," he said, glancing over at Stiles. "Whenever you're ready."

"Do you think I should bring some kind of cage? Just in case raccoons have decided to take my Jeep as their new home, and they need to be shifted? I'm sure they make nice pets. I could probably take them in. One or two, I mean. Not a whole family. Though maybe that's a little cruel? Separating a family like that."

"Stiles," Derek said, just his name, and Stiles smiled and went to help him with the boxes.

"So," Stiles began, feeling slightly awkward, "tonight's meeting was good."

Derek raised an eyebrow.

"Hey, it was!" Stiles insisted. "Free pizza is always a good thing! I was taught not to look gift pizza in the mouth."

"Lydia and Erica seem to disagree with you," Derek pointed out, and yeah, Stiles had been right, Derek was definitely hurt.

"They'll get over it," he assured him. "Lydia sounded like she had her expectations too high – I mean, come on, there's no way anything we ever do will beat the awesomeness of Fight Club – and Erica... well, you know Erica. She always has something provocative to say."

Derek hummed with thought and steered into the back road that Stiles's car was waiting on.

"You can't take it personally," he continued, hesitantly glancing over at Derek to make sure he wasn't insulted. "It's not your fault they don't appreciate a good Hawaiian pizza and Vanilla Coke."

"I'm not taking it personally," Derek grumbled.

"Yeah, because thattotally didn't sound like you're upset," Stiles pointed out, watching him from the corner of his eye. "Just face it, man. You have emotions. I always suspected it."

Derek sighed with exasperation, like Stiles was a marathon that he just couldn't finish. "I don't want to talk about feelings," he groaned. "Why can't we just enjoy the silence?"

"Because, in case you haven't already noticed, I'm incapable of that." He picked at a loose thread that was coming out of the sleeve of his plaid shirt. "I'm like a shark. If I stop talking, I die."

"No, you just like the sound of your own voice," Derek grumbled.

"I like the sound of yours, actually," Stiles said, his mouth travelling ahead of his brain, "but because you never talk unless prompted, I have to do the prompting."

Derek turned to stare at Stiles long enough that Stiles worried they'd drive into a tree.

Aware that he'd said something a little too revealing, Stiles quickly latched on to a subject change.

"So," he breathed, "the house."

Derek scrunched up his nose and grumbled, "Not this again."

"You gotta see how unsafe it is, man," Stiles whined. "It's so structurally unsound I bet even wild animals can tell it's a poor choice for a home."

"It's fine," Derek protested, living in denial. "It's not like it's entirely ruined."

"The fact that it's even partially ruined is reason enough to move out," Stiles advised him. "And besides, don't you get sick of the smell?"

Derek stiffened a little. "It's nothing."

"I just don't understand why you want to stay there," he sighed, gazing out at the forest around them. "Aren't there – don't you remember – what about all the bad memories?"

Derek shrugged, tension crackling in the shift of his shoulders.

"It's a bit morbid," Stiles told him. "Just a little bit." He demonstrated by holding his thumb and forefinger apart by less than an inch.

"It's where I grew up," Derek replied, biting it out like it hurt him to admit. "There are – it's not all bad memories."

Stiles paused. He tried to imagine Derek as a child, Derek with a large family, Derek happy.

"Do you think – maybe – you're... punishing yourself, a little?" Stiles asked, his voice soft and quiet and full of trepidation. This was a subject that required what Stiles referred to as his Therapist Voice.

Derek's knuckles tightened around the steering wheel, a slight indication of what he was feeling inside – and hey, that was a good sign, wasn't it? He was showing emotion, at least. "Stiles," he tried, voice tight and curt.

"No, seriously, I'm genuinely concerned here," Stiles interrupted. "It's pretty unhealthy, you know, living in the ruins of the place where your family died."

Derek's knuckles tightened even further around the leather steering wheel, the skin of his hands turning pale white with the pressure. "I don't want to have a conversation about this."

Stiles frowned and sighed, disappointed. He slumped back into the leather seat and almost huffed with frustration. "I'm just trying to help," he muttered.

"I know," Derek replied, his voice short and cool, "but I don't need help with this."

"You are so emotionally constipated," Stiles huffed, glaring at Derek's profile.

Derek simply shrugged.

"You're so infuriating," Stiles grumbled, because he'd never been one for letting things go. "Why don't you just talk like everyone else does? Instead it's just grunting and shrugging and 'Stiles, don't do this, don't do that'." He shook his head with irritation and said, "Honestly, it's like talking to a grumpy brick wall with limited facial expressions and poor communication skills."

"I don't – why are you even doing this?" Derek demanded, turning to glare at him. "I didn't ask for you to try to get me to open up about my life. I didn't ask for you to Dr Phil me."

Stiles opened his mouth to reply, but shut it again when nothing came out. He clenched his fingers around nothing and muttered, "That's the problem here... I have no idea why I'm doing this – why I'm so desperate to understand you. You're just – you – you're a puzzle, you know?"

"A puzzle," Derek repeated. "I'm a puzzle."

"I just want..." Stiles ran his hands over his face, scrubbing at his exhaustion. "I want to understand you."

They sat quietly, the car the only sound. Stiles felt like he'd given away too much, like he'd shown too much of himself. He wanted to make a joke, to lessen the tension and take away the heat that was pooling in his face, but nothing came out.

"I don't want to move house," Derek said, his voice rough. The silence shattered, and Stiles blinked furiously, shocked that he'd spoken. "I don't want to leave it behind."

"Leave it," Stiles hesitantly questioned, "or them?"

"What do you think?" Derek asked sourly.

"You're allowed to move on, you know," Stiles told him. He felt like he was handling something fragile, something so dangerously breakable that he was afraid to even breathe for fear of hurting it. "You didn't die with them."

Derek opened his mouth, started, "I–", and then stopped.

"You don't have to move," Stiles told him gently. "You don't have to."

"But I should," Derek said. "We both know I should."

"Yeah," Stiles sighed. "Yeah."

The car slowed, and Stiles saw his Jeep waiting ahead of them, still lodged in dry mud and, surprisingly, raccoon free.

"My baby," he breathed, and he was out of the car before it had even come to a stop.

It took them a rough five minutes to dig the remaining dried mud out from the wheels, and then Stiles watched intently as Derek changed the tire with surprising skill and finesse.

"Good as new," Derek said, thumping a hand against the new tire. He shot Stiles a stern look and said, "Next time, don't take the forest road when it's storming. You're just asking for trouble that way."

"But daaaaad," Stiles whined, "it's so much quicker."

"It wasn't this time," Derek pointed out, and yeah, okay, he had a point.

Stiles grinned at him. "Thanks, by the way," he said. "For your help."

Derek grunted, though it was a particularly gentle grunt this time. He turned, his boots crunching against the dried mud, and Stiles stared after him for a moment before he took a breath and called after him.

"Hey, wait," he called, and Derek looked back at him. "Uh, just..." He began to panic – why had he thought this was a good idea? Derek didn't care. "When my mom died–"

"Stiles," Derek started, raising a hand like he wanted him to stop.

"No, listen," Stiles gritted out, because fuck it, this was important. "When my mom died I started feeling guilty for not – for not talking about her all the time, or – or thinking about her constantly. Sometimes I'd realise it'd been an entire day and I hadn't – hadn't thought about her at all. It was like I'd… betrayed her, somehow. Like I was forgetting." He was shaking a little as he spoke; he hadn't talked about these things with anyone, not Scott, not his dad, no one. "I felt like I – I owed her my attention because – because she died. But I don't, and I shouldn't live in the past, or – or live my life around her. She wouldn't want that." He took a deep breath. "And I know your family wouldn't want you to live like this."

Stiles couldn't look at Derek, but he could feel Derek's eyes on him. They were hot against his skin, and Stiles was embarrassed by how red his face had turned, and how his throat felt so tight, and his eyes so wet.

"Stiles," Derek said, his voice a quiet sound that belonged in the forest, in the quiet calm of the late afternoon. "I – Stiles..."

"It's okay," Stiles said, and he managed a glance at the man. Derek looked pale and out of place. Stiles nearly laughed when he imagined how awkward Derek must feel – the emotionally constipated werewolf was completely out of his depth. "I'd better get home, anyway," he continued, and he took a breath and smiled easily at Derek, who still looked unsettled. "Dad'll be getting worried."

Derek stared at him for a moment before saying, "Yeah, okay."

Stiles nodded. "Okay. Seeya – uh – when I see you next." He started towards his Jeep, feeling unbelievably grateful for the escape. "Thanks again."

"No problem," Derek replied, his voice hoarse and far-away. "Anytime."

On the way home Stiles listened to the radio at top volume and tried not to think about Derek Hale.

Two nights later Stiles returned to his bedroom after dinner only to find Derek sitting at his desk, browsing through Stiles's laptop.

"Oh my god," Stiles hissed, quickly shutting his door after him, "how did you get in here?"

Derek nodded his head in the direction of the open window. "Wasn't hard," he said. "You ought to invest in a lock."

"I'm on the second floor," Stiles croaked.

Derek shrugged.

"Why – why are you even here?" Stiles asked, coming further into his own bedroom, which he currently felt like an intruder in. "And why are you on my laptop? That's such a breach of personal privacy, oh my god. I could've – there could've been porn on there. You could've just scarred yourself for life. You don't know what kind of kinky shit I might be into, dude. It could've been, like, feet or something."

Derek merely looked at him.

"Don't tell me something bad has happened," Stiles groaned, already imagining a dozen different scenarios where someone was bleeding and broken and in need of help. "Has Scott been kidnapped? Please tell me he hasn't been kidnapped."

"Scott hasn't been kidnapped," Derek readily answered. "I'm here because of something you said."

Stiles blinked. "I say a lot of things, so you're going to have to be a little more specific than that."

Derek turned Stile's laptop towards him, showing him what he was looking at.

"You're – you're on a real estate website," Stiles managed. "You're..." He paused, letting everything click into place. "You're moving?" His eyes were as wide as saucers, and his mouth was open in astonishment.

"You made a good argument," Derek told him, like it wasn't a huge deal. "Also, the fact that I haven't got internet at home kind of says a lot."

Stiles stared at him, speechless. "I'm speechless," he said.

"That's a first," Derek muttered, and he went back to the laptop.

Stiles wavered on his feet for a moment. "Are you – do you want my help?"

"Are you offering?" Derek asked, glancing over at him and eyeing him cautiously.

"Yes," Stiles gasped, jumping at the opportunity. "Yes, of course I am, yes!"

Derek's lip twitched, forming a half-smile, and Stiles beamed in return.

"Wait," Scott said the next day, having only just stepped foot inside Stiles's bedroom. "Something's different in here."

"I vacuumed?" Stiles guessed.

Scott shook his head. "No, it's not that." He sniffed the air, which was always weird to Stiles.

"Quit it, Scooby Doo," Stiles grumbled, elbowing him out of the way to dump his backpack down on his bed and toe off his sneakers.

"Derek's been here," Scott said finally, gasping it like it was a massive revelation, like they didn't see Derek almost every day. He looked at Stiles with narrowed eyes. "Why was Derek here?"

Stiles shrugged. "He's thinking of buying a new house. One that's not, you know, 90% ash."

"So he came over here to inspect your house?" Scott asked dryly.

"I'm helping him," Stiles answered. "I kind of planted the idea in his head, anyway. Did you know his sink doesn't work? And he hasn't got internet?" He shuddered dramatically. "Talk about living in third world conditions!"

Scott rolled his eyes and took his homework from his backpack before settling on the floor to study. "I didn't even know you were friends."

"We're... we're not, really," Stiles said, slow and hesitant. "We just... He helped me the other day, with my Jeep. The tire." He rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck as he tried to find the right words to describe what he and Derek were, but all that eventuated was a twitchy shrug. "He helped me, so I'm helping him." Stiles didn't mention how he enjoyed spending time with Derek, or how he got a thrill out of learning new things about the man. Scott wouldn't understand that.

Scott, however, had been distracted by the mention of Stiles's tire. "Sorry I didn't answer when you rang me that night, by the way," he said, a flush covering his face.

"You were with Allison," Stiles said, sighing a little, "it's fine, I understand. You said you were headed there, anyway."

"At least Derek was there to help," Scott said, smiling through his embarrassment.

"Yeah," Stiles agreed. "Thank god for Derek Hale."

Stiles was microwaving leftovers when his phone rang, and he eyed it suspiciously for a moment before answering.

"I'm looking at houses today," Derek said immediately, not bothering to exchange pleasantries. "You want to come?"

Stiles pressed CANCEL on the microwave. His pizza could wait. "Pick me up in ten?" he asked.

"I'll be there in five."

"You don't think it's a little..." Stiles grimaced, trying to think of the right word. He spun around, taking in the large dining room. "Pretentious?"

Derek cocked an eyebrow at him. "Explain," he said.

"Well, it's very high-class, isn't it?" Stiles said, waving a hand at the high ceilings and the chandelier. "And honestly, white floorboards? Polished white floorboards?" He shook his head. "Pretentious." He looked over his shoulder at Derek and added, "Also, how long do you think it'll take everyone to turn the floors black with filth? I'm guessing two weeks. One, if Scott's around a lot."

Derek pursed his lips thoughtfully and ran his eyes over the white walls, the high ceiling, the shimmering pristine floorboards. He returned his gaze to Stiles, and Stiles knew he'd convinced him.

"Alright," Derek sighed, "too pretentious. But it's the perfect size."

"True," Stiles allowed.

"Sorry," the real estate agent interrupted, poking her head through the door and smiling sweetly at them both, "if it's space you're after, we have plenty more large homes on the market right now."

Derek looked like he'd like to bite her head off for eavesdropping, so Stiles quickly rushed to say, "Really? In the area? We'd love to see them."

She smiled again, all teeth and false cheer, and she said, "If you'll follow me, gentlemen?"

"You like big houses," Stiles said on the trip to the next house, the real estate agent driving ahead of them.

"Space is important," Derek told him.

"Why?" Stiles asked, though he was sure he already knew.

Derek looked uncomfortable, like the question had knocked him off course. "I like having people around," he said, each word coming from him slowly, like it hurt to say it. "You need space when there are lots of people."

"You had a big family," Stiles said.

Derek nodded.

"You have a pack now," Stiles told him, smiling a little. "We're as good as family, right?"

Derek didn't answer, but Stiles didn't need him to.

They hadn't even gone inside the next house, but Stiles already knew Derek hated it. He seemed stiff and tense, and his mouth was set in a line.

"It's a little cramped, isn't it?" Stiles said, speaking for him. Both Derek and the estate agent looked at him in surprise. "I mean, look how close the neighbours are." He waved a hand at the houses on either side. "We're after a place with space, both inside and out."

The realtor clicked her tongue and sighed. "You certainly know what you're after, I'll give you that," she said, and there was a hint of displeasure in her voice. She clearly wasn't happy with their high standards.

"Are there any properties available near the forest?" Stiles asked as sweetly as he could, though he was sure Derek could hear the chill in his voice and see the tension in his jaw.

She frowned a little and checked with the documents she carried in a folder. "We have a few." She glanced at them, and Stiles was certain she was measuring them up, seeing how far she could push them before they'd just accept what they were given. "They're in the higher price range, however."

"Really?" Stiles managed through gritted teeth, but Derek placed a hand on his shoulder, holding him back.

"Price doesn't matter," he said, and Stiles let out a breath.

"She's a cow," Stiles grumbled, arms folded in the passenger seat of Derek's car. "Did you see the way she looked at me when I said it was too cramped? Like I was being too fussy, or something. Excuse me if I don't want to spend my life savings on something second rate." He shook his head and huffed out a frustrated breath.

"Stiles," Derek said, slow and calming, "you're not paying for the house, remember."

"I know that," Stiles assured him, "but she doesn't. For all she knows I've been working full time and attending night school in my spare time so I can get a good education and make enough money to support myself and my four children."

Derek laughed, and Stiles watched him.

The next house had a large fireplace, and Stiles felt Derek stiffen beside him at the sight of it.

"Imagine the whole family gathered around the fire on a cold winter night," the real estate agent said, adopting a dramatic shiver. "Hot chocolate and marshmallows..."

"We don't want a fireplace," Stiles said, his eyes on Derek.

They followed her out towards the edge of town, towards the forest. Derek's knuckles were white around the steering wheel, and Stiles was losing hope.

"After this," Stiles began, "we ought to take a break."

Derek nodded.

When the real estate agent pulled into a gravel driveway, Stiles could practically feel Derek's spirits rise.

"Six bedrooms," Derek murmured. He started ticking off names on his fingers. "Me, Isaac, Erica, Boyd, two guest rooms..."

"Have you seen the size of the bathtub?" Stiles asked, voice hushed in case the realtor was eavesdropping again. "I'm pretty sure they could host Olympic swimming events in this bathroom. You could keep a hippo in that tub, dude."

Derek glanced around the room, taking in the length and width. "Nice size."

"Great size," Stiles agreed. "Imagine all the pizza nights we could have in here."

"There's a basement," Derek said, glancing down at the floor.

"With exposed steel beams," Stiles added. "Strong steel beams."

The corner of Derek's mouth was lifting.

"Is this it?" Stiles asked, his heart hammering excitedly. "Have we – is this it, Derek?"

Derek smiled at him, truly smiled, and Stiles fought the urge to hug him. Instead he playfully socked him in the arm and grinned.

The woman entered, confirming Stiles's suspicion that she'd been eavesdropping on them. "How are we feeling, guys?" she asked, though her smile was confident and pleased.

"Where do I sign?" Derek asked, and of course that would be how Derek said it, all action and forcefulness.

"I have the contracts with me now," she said, beaming, sensing a big commission. She began rummaging through a folder she was carrying, searching for the contracts. "You'll be signing it under both of your names?"

Stiles blinked at her and then turned and blinked at Derek, who was doing the same.

"Uh," Stiles said, "I'm just – I'm only here to help. We're not – uh – No. We're not."

The realtor turned a flushed pink and cleared her throat awkwardly. "I'm sorry," she said, "I just assumed..."

"Th-that's okay!" Stiles croaked. "Easy mistake to make! Two handsome men house hunting together – you'd be crazy not to think it!" He laughed awkwardly, breathlessly, and managed to wheeze, "Okay, I'm going to wait outside!"

It was cold outside, though perhaps it only felt it compared to the boiling temperature of Stiles's skin. He was sure he'd never been so red in the face, or quite so embarrassed.

"Shit," he muttered, twigs crunching under his sneakers as he stomped away from the house and back out to Derek's car, "shit, shit, shit."

He started pacing the length of the car, walking up and down, up and down. Derek had the keys, and even if Stiles could get into the car he wasn't sure he'd want to. It smelled of Derek in there, like ash and foliage and citrus –

Wait.

Hold on.

Stiles froze and silence descended around him. His heart pulsed maddeningly behind his ears, and he was sure he was about to suffocate because his throat was just so damn tight.

With trembling fingers he pulled his phone from his pocket, and then after several failed attempts he managed to call Scott, who, of course, didn't pick up.

"Scott, you bastard," Stiles whispered into the phone, leaving a message for him to receive later, "I am having an honest to god crisis right now, complete with – with pacing and shaking and frantic breathing and you're not even picking up the phone." He took a deep breath, one that rattled in his chest and made him dizzy. It stammered out of him like Morse code, and he wondered if he was about to cry. "The – the real estate agent thought that – that Derek and I – she thought – together – but I – we're not – but now – his car smells like him! I – Scott, I know what he smells like. I... I know his scent!" He took another deep breath, and then continued in a quieter voice, hushed low enough that he stood a chance at not being overheard by Derek's insane wolf-ears, "I think maybe she has a point? I mean, I didn't even notice it until right now, but – shit, Scott, I've kind of been obsessing over him for the good part of a month, haven't I? I mean, helping him with the house, and – and the pizza nights – and when he picked me up that night? It's all been building up to this, hasn't it?"

There was the sound of voices growing closer, and Stiles squeaked like a frightened rodent and hissed, "They're-coming-I-have-to-go-I'll-talk-to-you-later-call-me-back!" He hung up and shoved the phone back into his pocket, just in time to straighten and watch as Derek and the realtor left the house, the door shutting with a neat click after them.

"Everything's done and dusted!" the woman cried, spotting Stiles and waving cheerily at him. "Mr Hale here has just bought himself a house!"

Stiles swallowed thickly and managed a weak, "Yay!"

It took Scott an hour and forty-five minutes to answer Stiles's call, and when his name flashed across the screen of his phone Stiles fought the urge to ignore it. It was with great effort that he reached out, took his phone in his hand, and answered it.

"Dude," Scott said, low and appreciative and tinny in Stiles's ear. "Dude, this is... this is something else."

"I know," Stiles murmured, feeling miserable.

"So," Scott continued, and Stiles could hear it coming, could hear the smirk in his voice, "you and Derek, hey?"

Stiles covered his face with his hand, shut his eyes, and groaned, "No, no me and Derek, no way."

"But, uh, sounds like you'd like it to be you and Derek," Scott pressed, and yeah, there it was, a hint of laughter.

"You're a terrible friend for finding this amusing," Stiles told him, but he was almost smiling. "You're meant to be offering me comfort and sympathy and bringing me junk food and romantic comedies."

"When did we start watching romantic comedies?" Scott asked.

"I don't know," Stiles wailed. "When did I start liking Derek fucking Hale?"

Scott laughed, and Stiles heard a burst of laughter escape him, loud and astonished. It sounded panicked even to his own ears.

"Fuck, Scott," he whispered, "I actually like Derek."

"You like Derek," Scott agreed, snickering a little. There was a beat, and then, "Derek's like, you know, a dude."

Stiles grimaced. He'd been trying to ignore that part of the situation. "I'm aware of that."

"Since when has that been a thing for you?" Scott asked eloquently.

"You have such a way with words," Stiles told him, attempting a smile. He laid back on his bed, feeling stupidly like he was a character in a teen romance film. "And, um, I didn't even think that it was a thing. With me."

"Looks like it's a thing now," sighed Scott, just accepting it – holy shit Stiles loved his best friend. "So, do you think he likes you back?"

Stiles's stomach dropped and tightened unpleasantly. "No," he replied. He frowned up at his ceiling, at the glow in the dark stars that his mom had put up when he was just a kid. "He's Derek."

"He did take you house hunting, though," Scott said, like that was an obvious sign of romantic attraction.

"That's because I pressured him into buying a new house in the first place," Stiles whined. "Maybe I was too firm. He didn't want to move, Scott, he told me so, but I kept pushing. He probably hates me for taking him away from his house."

"Dude, he wouldn't spend all that money on a new house just because you peer pressured him into it. He's not stupid."

"Are we sure about that?" Stiles croaked. "Are we sure he's not stupid? Because he did agree to take me house hunting with him. That seems like a stupid choice. I mean, what do I even know about houses? Or real estate? Or money? I'm seventeen, Scott. I don't even know how to wrap presents properly. There are always lumps, and the paper never covers everything, and it just–"

"Maybe," Scott began, a smile in his tone, "he took you with him because he enjoys your company."

"Don't." Stiles rubbed at his forehead, trying to massage the worries out of his head. "We both know Derek's incapable of enjoying anything except food and fighting."

"I've seen him laugh at your jokes a few times," Scott offered, and wow, really? "He's not that sour, Stiles."

"He's a little sour," Stiles insisted.

"A little," Scott finally agreed. "But he's... I don't know... not as sour when he's with you."

"You didn't even think we were friends up until last week, remember?" Stiles grumbled, narrowing his eyes. "You're just saying this to make me feel like I have a chance. Bad friendship move, Scott. Bad friendship move."

"Fine, don't believe me," Scott said airily, "but it's true. Ask anyone. Actually, ask Erica. She's good at this stuff."

"No thanks," he sighed, "I'll be fine lying here wallowing in misery and unrequited like."

Scott laughed. "Well, do you know what you're going to say to him next time you're together?"

"Probably something like 'Hi, Derek. How are you?'"

"You are going to tell him though, right?" Scott asked, sounding as though he already knew the answer.

Stiles laughed and pressed a hand to his chest, wheezing. "Don't be ridiculous," he chuckled, "I'm taking this to the grave. And so are you, by the way."

"Stiles," Scott grumbled.

"No," he said firmly, "I'm not telling him. No way. He's – he's Derek. He doesn't have emotions like we do, and he definitely doesn't have emotions involving yours truly. Well, none that are positive, anyway. It's mostly just annoyance and frustration from what I've witnessed. Maybe a little amusement, sometimes. Like when I fall over, or choke on a bug."

Scott let out a long breath and said, disappointment evident in his tone, "Stiles, you really ought to tell him. Or, I don't know, at least act on your feelings to see if he feels the same way."

"I value my life and limbs too much to risk them in that way," he replied, but the joke fell flat and was sour in his mouth.

Scott must have heard the shift in Stiles's voice, must've notice the slight change. "You won't know unless you try," he said, soft and comforting, and shit, Stiles felt like crying.

"He doesn't like me, Scott," he said, and his voice was hard and empty. "We're totally different."

Scott sighed but didn't say anything else.

"We're packing for the move tonight," Erica said from across the lunch table, her eyes fixed upon Stiles's. "It's going to be a riot. Lots of cardboard boxes and household knick-knacks. Might even order a pizza."

"Am I the only one confused about why you actually live there?" Lydia asked, blinking rapidly, her thick false lashes fluttering heavily.

Erica shrugged and glanced in Lydia's direction. "It's convenient."

"Free rent," Boyd supplied around a mouthful of his lunch.

"So," Erica continued, eyes shifting back to Stiles, who flinched a little under her gaze, "what do you say? Are you guys up for a night of packing boxes?"

"You said there'd be pizza?" Scott asked hopefully.

"It's looking likely," Erica agreed, sensing that she'd persuaded him already.

"Count us in," Scott said cheerily, and he slung an arm around Stiles's shoulder and ruffled his hair affectionately.

"Wow, okay, rude. I might have things to do tonight," Stiles said, "sorry to ruin your plans which you totally didn't consult me on before making."

"Okay, things such as what?" Scott demanded, and there was a light in his eyes that made Stiles frown. He had a feeling that Scott was trying to be strategic.

"Lots of things," he answered. "Homework, chores, sleep."

Erica snorted. "Sounds like a blast."

"Beats packing someone else's crap," Stiles grumbled, and he stabbed at his salad with particular venom.

"C'mon," Isaac urged, "it'll be fun. Think of it as another pack bonding exercise."

Stiles wanted to turn them down, to stick to his flimsy excuse, but Scott was looking at him with pointed eyes, and Erica was watching him with great interest, and if he was honest, totally, stupidly honest, he kind of wanted to see Derek.

"Fine," he said, like an exhale. "Fine, whatever, yes, okay. I'll help you pack. I'll be your housekeeper for the evening, but I expect to be paid in pizza. Lots of pizza."

Erica clapped with ecstatic glee and Scott socked him playfully in the arm, but Stiles felt sick with nerves.

Stiles was sitting cross-legged on the dusty kitchen floor, the fourth and final kitchen cupboard open before him, just past half-way emptied. A collection of over-flowing moving boxes were stacked behind him, each filled with carefully wrapped kitchen appliances that Stiles had dug out from the depths of each previous cupboard.

"Does someone want to explain to me why you have a totally unopened juicer hidden in the back of your cupboard?" Stiles asked, pulling the box out and turning it over in his hands, grunting a little with the weight of it. "Jesus, it's brand new."

Erica's head appeared from around the corner, her eyes bright and excited. "Hey!" she cried cheerfully. "I've been looking for that!"

"Well, uh, it's going in this box over here, okay?" he asked, slowly lowering the juicer into the box of kitchen appliances.

"Cool," she said, and was quickly gone again, back to whatever corner of the house she was packing.

Stiles resumed his work, sifting through the contents of the cupboards and trying not to yelp whenever he discovered some kind of enormous insect whose home he'd just destroyed.

"Honestly," he huffed, pulling out an ancient kettle that he wasn't game enough to look inside of. "Don't these people ever clean?"

"There hasn't been much need for cleaning, up until recently," said Derek from behind him, and Stiles gasped and dropped the kettle with a resounding crash.

"You scared the shit out of me," he grumbled, twisting around to look up at the asshole werewolf who was currently in the process of ruining his emotional well-being."You just knocked, like, ten years off my life, you know," Stiles insisted. "You just weakened my heart significantly."

"You'll be fine," Derek said, and there was a hint of a smile around his mouth, and Stiles fought desperately not to be charmed by it.

Stiles picked up the fallen kettle and sighed in relief that nothing scurried out when the lid toppled off. "I don't know why you have so many things," he said, "since you clearly never use them." He looked over at Derek. "I mean, come on, a juicer?"

Derek shrugged. "It was on sale."

"Of course it was," Stiles murmured, wrapping the kettle in newspaper and fitting it into the moving box with the juicer. "Of course you bought a juicer because it was on sale." He smiled a little, amused, exasperatedly fond.

"I'm surprised Allison came today," Derek said, and Stiles was about to reply when he realised just how odd it was that Derek – Derek – was making small talk.

"Are you – are you trying to gossip with me?" Stiles asked with shock. "Is this really happening? Somebody pinch me, I'm dreaming!"

"Shut up," Derek muttered, casting a glance over his shoulder as though he half expected Allison to be standing there, outraged. "I'm not gossiping, I'm just... I'm taking an interest in the pack, alright? I'm just – I'm trying to be a good Alpha."

Stiles looked up at him, a little surprised. "Really?" he asked, because wow, Derek was actually trying.

"Is that really so much of a shock to you?" Derek demanded, hints of offence in his tone. "I'm not actually a monster, you know."

"I know, I know," Stiles hurried to assure him, "it's just – I don't know – a pleasant surprise." Before Derek could interrupt he added, "You're not usually buckets of friendly, that's all."

Derek scowled. "Are you saying I'm unfriendly?"

"Well, why don't you consider the tone you just used and the expression you're wearing, and see if you can't answer that for yourself," Stiles told him, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. Packing had been pushed to least priority.

Derek frowned further. "I'm not actually trying to be an asshole," he said with frustration.

"It just comes naturally?" Stiles asked, a smirk already in place.

"You're hilarious," Derek grumbled, and he came to sit at the kitchen table. "Have you emptied the other cupboards yet?"

"This is the last one," he answered, looking back to the half-emptied cupboard and taking a breath. "What about you? Finished with your room?"

Derek grunted.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'," Stiles muttered, and he reached back into the cupboard and got back to work.

It was easy to forget Derek was in the room with him when Stiles was so consumed with his task. He found what appeared to be an ancient iron, followed by a whisk and a pair of bowling shoes which were so not supposed to be kept in kitchen cupboards oh my god. He'd started humming a little as he worked, and in between the finding and the wrapping and the placing into boxes, Stiles completely forgot Derek was at the kitchen table.

"Thanks for house hunting with me," he said, frightening Stiles so severely that he yelped and nearly dropped the vase he'd been wrapping in newspaper.

"Shit," Stiles breathed. "I forgot you were in here," he admitted, twisting around to look up at Derek at the table. "You went all quiet."

"Sorry," Derek said, eyes flickering down to Stiles before back up to his hands on the table. "But I meant what I said. Thanks. For house hunting with me."

Stiles swallowed thickly, trying not to remember the realtor and what she'd said and what she'd unknowingly triggered in him. "You're welcome," Stiles replied cheerily. "I had fun."

"You were a big help," Derek said, and Stiles hated himself for being so happy about that.

"Anyone could've done it," Stiles assured him, gently wrapping the vase and placing it into the box with the other things. "All I did was make the woman scowl at me."

Derek smiled, and Stiles's chest tightened. "You did a good job at that, though."

"I totally did," Stiles agreed, feeling ridiculously dumb because of how much he was enjoying such a stupid conversation.

"Derek!" Erica called. "I think the pizza's here!"

Stiles couldn't help feeling disappointed as Derek got up from the table, offered one last hesitant smile in Stiles's direction, and then wandered away to get the food.

"Okay, Stilinski," Erica said the following day, cornering Stiles in the hall on the way to class and pushing him into the corner, trapping him there, "I want to know what's going on with you and Derek." Before Stiles could respond she added, "And before you start lying, I just want you to know that I have eyes, and ears, and incredibly heightened senses." She stared at him as though she was offering up a challenge.

"Uh," he started. "I don't–"

"No," Erica hissed, "no lying. No denying."

"I'm not–"

She glared at him. "You are."

"But–"

"Stiles."

He took a deep breath and felt it flow through him. He scowled and huffed, "Fine, whatever. I like Derek."

Her eyes lit up and she let out a breathy gasp that could only be described as delight. "I knew it," she breathed. "I called it three weeks ago, but Lydia said I was crazy."

Stiles felt queasy. "You told Lydia?"

Erica rolled her eyes and waved her hand absently. "Yeah, but so what, she didn't believe me."

Stiles wanted to slide down the wall and melt into a puddle around Erica's heels.

"Hey, no sour faces," Erica said, and she reached out and caught his face between her hands. She tried to force him to smile but he batted her hands away.

"Can you – can you not?" he asked exasperatedly, spluttering a little. "Isn't it bad enough that you're prying into my personal business? Do you really have to molest me, too?"

"I'm not prying," she grumbled, insulted. "I'm just... expressing an interest."

Stiles blinked at her. "Are you serious."

"Like a heart attack," she whispered, and her grin was sharp and bright.

"You're insane," he groaned, covering his face in his hands and wishing for some kind of natural disaster that would excuse him from her interrogation.

There was a moment of silence from both of them, but then Erica jumped right back in.

"Have you told him? Derek, I mean?"

Stiles ripped his hands away from his face and glared at her. "What do you think?"

She lowered her eyes to his lips, to his throat, then back up to his eyes. "I don't see any hickeys, so... no."

Stiles blanched. "That's – I don't – You can't – No."

She beamed at him.

"This is sexual harassment," Stiles told her. "You're harassing me right now. Sexually."

"I am not," she groaned, like he was being ridiculous and she was perfectly sane, "I'm merely taking an interest in your life." She clutched at his shirt and whined, "Let me in, Stiles. Tell me your thoughts and feelings." She pouted at him.

"No, no, and no," he answered, and he brushed her hands away. "Erica, you're being ridiculous."

"Oh, but I'm not," she replied, and her smirk was back, and there was a mischievous light in her eyes. "Don't you think it was a little odd that Derek came and sat with you in the kitchen yesterday? There's oh so much to pack, and yet he had all the time in the world to spend with you."

"We didn't even talk then," Stiles argued, frowning at her. "I forgot he was there."

"He's not good with words, we both know that already," she said dismissively. "The point is, the entire pack was there and who did he go straight to?" She looked at him pointedly.

"Me," he said, if only to satisfy her.

"You," she agreed, grinning delightedly.

Stiles rolled his eyes and side-stepped her, escaping the corner she'd pressed him into. "It doesn't mean anything," he said, headed down the corridor towards his next class. "He was just thanking me for looking at houses with him."

Erica chased after him, her heels clacking against the floor as she followed. "And that's another thing!" she cried. "You went house hunting with him! He actually let you come!"

"Yeah, because it was my idea," Stiles told her, "and he probably just wanted someone else's opinion."

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong," Erica told him slyly, and Stiles glanced at her with confusion. She was grinning again, like a lawyer with a winning case. "I practically begged him to come, and you know what he told me?"

Stiles stared at her, suddenly not sure of what to say.

"He said he wanted to do it alone," she drawled. "He said it was important that he do it alone."

"But–"

"But he went with you," Erica continued, and Stiles belatedly realised they'd stopped walking and were standing in the middle of the empty corridor. "Exactly."

"He..." Stiles frowned, confused. "He asked me to come."

Erica merely looked at him, smiling softly.

Stiles swallowed. "If you're just trying to get me to embarrass myself by admitting my feelings to him, I hope you realise that even though I might not be sufficient in any kind of martial arts, I happen to have an incredibly loyal werewolf best friend and a father who carries a weapon at all times."

She rolled her eyes dramatically and huffed, "For a smart guy you're pretty freaking dumb, Stiles."

"Hey!" he yelped, offended, but she'd already started walking away.

"You're gonna be late for class," she called back to him over her shoulder, and then she was gone, and Stiles was left with a hell of a lot to think about.

"I'm baking him cookies," Stiles said into the phone as he crouched low in front of the oven, eyeing the tray of cookies he'd just put in. "Is that – do you think that's too much?"

"Oh my god, you're actually going to tell him, aren't you?" Scott breathed, like he'd never expected Stiles to actually do it. "You're seriously going to tell him."

"That's the plan," Stiles agreed. "Well. That and cookies. It's going to be like wham! Cookies! Then a slight break while we discuss how I'm the best chef ever, and then wham! Feelings!"

"Sounds like you've got it all figured out, then," Scott mused. "I hope he, you know, actually likes cookies. It'd be a bummer if he was like 'sorry dude, I'm a savoury muffin kind of guy'."

"Don't be stupid, Scott," Stiles sighed, standing up and pacing the kitchen for something to do, "there isn't a person alive who doesn't like cookies. Especially not my cookies. My cookies bring all the boys to the yard."

"And they're like, 'oh my god is there rat poison in these?'"

Stiles rolled his eyes and drawled, "Ha-ha, so funny. You joke, but we both know I'm a master in the kitchen."

"You're alright," Scott said, sounding reluctant, which was totally insulting – not to mention rude. "You're no Allison, though. You should taste her vanilla slice, it's like – she could sell it, dude. She could make a living off that slice."

"That's nice, Scott," Stiles huffed, throwing himself into a seat at the table because pacing was making him dizzy, "please continue talking about your on-again-off-again girlfriend while I freak out about telling a freaking werewolf about my totally gay feelings for him."

"You don't sound freaked out," Scott replied.

"I'm working up to it," Stiles told him. "It's brewing. Winter is coming, Scott. Winter is coming."

"It's going to be fine," Scott assured him. "Trust me, dude. He's got a total homo boner for you as well. It's like, written all over his frowny face."

Stiles grimaced and made a noise of disgust. "Please stop talking about boners."

Stiles stuck his head into the lounge and said, "I'm going around to Derek's new house, I've made him a housewarming present, I'll be back later." He quickly started for the front door before his dad could argue about his curfew.

"Hey, hey, hang on just a minute!" his dad immediately called after him, and Stiles gritted his teeth and held back a sigh, his fingers just an inch from the door handle. "It's a school night!"

"I know," Stiles replied, trudging back into the lounge. He had a tin of cookies under one arm and his car keys in his hand, and he was seriously regretting even announcing he was leaving. "It's only 7, dad. It's not like I'm going out to break laws and impregnate women, or something. Just dropping off some baked goods." He rattled the tin. "You know, the usual.

His father narrowed his eyes at him from over the newspaper he was reading. "I didn't think you were friends with Hale," he said with strong suspicion. "Are you sure you're telling me the truth?"

Stiles struggled to find sense in the world. "What – how – why would I lie about this? What else would I be doing with a tin of cookies at 7 at night?"

His dad looked at him for a long while. "You wouldn't be going to see Lydia Martin, would you?" When Stiles started to splutter he continued, "I know you like her, Stiles, but I'd rather you be honest with me about it than–"

"I'm – I'm not lying!" Stiles stammered with astonishment. "Why would you even think I'm lying about this? If I was lying, why would I use a person I'm supposedly not friends with as a cover? Why would – how – It's just a housewarming present!"

His dad narrowed his eyes at him again. "You're acting pretty jumpy, Stiles."

"I'm always jumpy!" Stiles cried. "I'm jumpy, that's who I am!" He jumped to prove it, and the cookies rattled within the tin, probably crumbling away to nothing.

Surveying him once more, suspicion still strong in his eyes, his father finally sighed and said, "I'll trust you this time, but I just want you to know that the truth is always preferable, Stiles. Even when you think it's not."

Stiles beamed at him. "Sure, dad," he said. "Honesty is the best policy!" He turned and started for the front door again, and called over his shoulder, "Night!"

Stiles had only just stepped out of his Jeep and shut the door after him when Erica, Isaac and Boyd came barrelling out of the house like they were desperate to get the hell out of dodge.

"Hey," he said, watching as they walked right past him towards Derek's car, "I've brought a housewarming present – uh, hey, guys, where are you going?"

"Something elsewhere requires our immediate attention," Isaac said, a hint of amusement in his voice. He had Derek's keys in his hands, and he tossed them to Erica, who caught them without even looking up.

She spun around to grin at Stiles. "We're going to be gone for – hmmm – an hour should do it." She shot him a wink, one that was totally laden with innuendo.

"Derek's inside," Boyd added, and he laughed gruffly at Stiles's expression of complete confusion.

"Go talk to him," Erica encouraged, and then they were gone, climbing inside the car and reversing out of the driveway and disappearing.

Stiles stood staring after them for a long moment, the tin of freshly baked cookies nestled in his arms. It took several attempts before he was able to force himself up to the front porch and then to the door. His hand was surprisingly stable when he reached out and knocked.

Stiles was no werewolf, but even he could hear Derek's footsteps on the way to the door. He could also hear his own heartbeat, loud and clumsy in his ears, and he struggled to calm himself down. The last thing he wanted was Derek asking why he was so riled up.

The door opened, and Derek appeared. He was in casual clothes – clothes that one might wear when unpacking boxes, Stiles supposed. He looked at Stiles with surprise, and his eyes dropped automatically to the tin he held.

"Hi," Stiles started. "I went all Martha Stewart and baked you a housewarming gift." He held the tin out for him to take. "Chocolate chip cookies, extra gooey. No one likes a dry cookie."

Derek blinked slowly before accepting the gift. "Thanks," he said, voice low. He stood aside and murmured, "Come in."

Stiles had kind of been hoping Derek would take the cookies and that would be it. Stiles would go home and go to sleep and he would work on forgetting about his stupid crush. Well. He'd hoped that.

"I didn't know you baked," Derek said as he led the way into the kitchen, which was empty save for dozens of unpacked boxes.

"I don't," Stiles told him. "Cookies are special though. Everyone should know how to bake cookies."

"Sorry it's such a mess in here," Derek said, wincing a little at the sight of the room, and wow, Derek was so normal sometimes.

Stiles shrugged and leaned against the kitchen counter. "Dude, you've seen my room," he said. "This is nothing."

Derek smiled – Stiles was starting to keep count of each smile he managed to coax from the guy. He pried the lid from the tin and they were assaulted by the scent of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.

"It's okay," Stiles began, "you can say it. I'm a baking god."

Derek huffed a laugh and said, "Yeah, okay, I've got to agree with you on that one." He took a cookie and then offered them to Stiles, who took one as well – he wasn't made of stone, after all.

They stood quietly for a moment, eating. Stiles tried to occupy himself by looking around, taking in the ceiling and the walls and the floor and all the boxes, but his eyes kept finding Derek, kept returning to him. He was magnetic.

"This is a great house," he murmured, desperate to fill in the time. "You couldn't have picked a better one."

Derek snorted. "Me? I did nothing. I just signed the contracts and paid for it. You picked it out."

Stiles winced. "I hope I didn't – y'know – take over, or something."

"Stiles," Derek said, slow and purposeful, "you were a huge help."

He remembered what Erica had said. He said it was important that he do it alone.

He took a deep breath and decided.

"Look," he said, nervous as all hell, "I need you to just – uh – set the record straight for me, okay?"

Derek eyed him with concern – Stiles's heart probably sounded as though it was about to fail, after all – and he said, "Um... okay?"

Stiles nodded, if only to reassure himself, and he rocked back on his heels. He fidgeted with his own fingers and began, "It's funny, actually, but – uh – Erica thinks that maybe you like me. And – hypothetically speaking, of course – I like you." He swallowed thickly, and wow, was it getting hot or was it just him?

Derek tried to interrupt. "Stiles, you–"

"Can you, uh, leave all questions until the end?" he requested, flustered and panicky. "Thanks. Anyway, I know it's insane, because I'm this dashingly handsome young man with wit for miles and an incredibly fashionable wardrobe of plaid and denim, and you're this grumpy homeowner who rescues people from flat tires on rainy nights. You'd think – logically – that we'd be, y'know, incompatible." He took a huge breath and tried to calm down, but he was well past the point of calmness. "But – uh – yeah. I just wanted to know what your reaction would be to this totally hypothetical scenario which is totally not true or anything. Like, any resemblance to any people, living or dead, is purely coincidental."

He chanced a look at Derek's face and the guy was smiling, almost.

"Stiles," he said.

"I baked you cookies, oh my god what is wrong with me?"

"Stiles," Derek persisted.

"I have terrible friends. They – they assured me this was going to work out fine." He laughed giddily, and he was pretty sure he was nearing a total panic attack. "This is what I get for following Scott's dating advice."

"Stiles," Derek growled, "shut up."

And then Stiles was being pulled in by a hand balled in his shirt and – oh, wow, okay – they were kissing.

It was odd – Stiles had known that he liked Derek, had known he was attractive, but he'd never considered the possibility of them actually kissing. And yet that was exactly what was happening. Derek's hand was gripping Stiles's shirt, holding them close, and his lips were hot and insistent, and yeah, Stiles was kind of incredibly impressed.

When Derek pulled away Stiles made a sound of protest. A very embarrassing sound of protest.

"Wait," Derek said, breathless enough to make Stiles blush, "you're seventeen."

Stiles stared up at him, dizzily trying to take in every tiny detail of his face. "I'm aware."

"I'm pretty sure this is illegal," Derek continued, and yep, okay, party pooper.

"I'm not eight," Stiles whined, sounding precisely like an eight year old. "Don't – let's not bring the law into this."

"Your father is the law," Derek pointed out. "He has a badge and a gun and everything. He still glares at me in the supermarket."

Stiles fought the urge to pout and stomp his foot. Instead he said, "Can we – can we think about that later? After you've – you know – molested me a little?"

Derek gave him a withering look, but Stiles's only beamed at him and pulled him closer.

"So," his father said the following morning as Stiles waited for his toast to cook, "how was Lydia?"

Stiles groaned and cried, exasperated, "I already told you, I didn't go to Lydia's!"

His father only raised his eyebrows and looked pointedly at Stiles's throat. "So I'm supposed to believe that Derek Hale gave you those love bites, am I?"

Stiles choked on his coffee and managed a nervous chuckle.

THE END