The TV blares in the background. The anchorman is droning on and on about inconsequential news — so-and-so lost weight on a super diet, and so-and-so has a new baby and a failing marriage. Stiles' mind glosses over it the same as it has been doing with Scott's prattling about his girlfriend of six months, Kacy, for the last seventy-three minutes. Stiles keeps count. His right leg bounces on the edge of a fraying carpet, lying like a pelt of some exotic animal, once brightly colored and now faded like most things in his apartment. The fingers of his free hand drum a staccato on his knee, brushing loose threads of a rip above his patella. Having gone over his grocery list, Stiles moves on to the tasks he needs to accomplish ASAP. Like watering his cacti.
Craning his neck, he sniffs in the direction of his left armpit. His face arranges into a complicated expression of half disgust and half thoughtfulness. He'll do laundry later, Stiles decides, right after he finishes this conversation, or be forced to go bare-chested tomorrow. Not that his chest isn't worth showing off. He does work out often enough, but winter calls for appropriate apparel — coats and sweaters and the like. Frostbite just isn't sexy.
"…And Kacy says" — is a precursor to a lot of Scott's sentences nowadays. Stiles executes a flawless silent sigh. He's had years of practice to get it right — "she knows this guy, Bob or something, who's perfect for you!" Scott finishes, his voice carrying enthusiastic eagerness that never fails to remind Stiles of a hyped up puppy. "He is studying bioengineering, a year above us, so he must be smart. Kacy wants you to meet him tomorrow evening," Scott continues, not giving Stiles the time to come up with a reply. "Be at ours at six."
Stiles clears his throat. The plastic case of his phone creaks under the pressure of his grip. "Um, Scott, buddy—" he starts, only to be interrupted by his so-called best friend.
"You are coming, right?" A hint of doubt creeps into Scott's tone. Afraid to disappoint Miss Perfection. Stiles rolls his eyes.
"Mm, sorry, pal, no can do." He can practically hear Scott's face drop into kicked puppy mode.
"But…"
"I already have plans for this weekend." No way in hell will he suffer another set-up courtesy of Kacy I'm-always-right-deal-with-it-fuckers Roberts. He doesn't have anything against her per se. He did, after all, have a crush on Lydia throughout most of his school years, and she is as bossy as they come. That said, he'd very much prefer for Scott's sweetheart to keep her busybody-ing ways out of his damn business.
Scott, still in the googly-eyed phase, is, in Stiles' opinion, blind and whipped. Ever since their first meeting at the start of the school year, he has been happily following her everywhere like she put him on a leash. And it got worse when they moved in together at the end of November. Lost to the world, he is. It's like Allison 2.0 on steroids.
"My boyfriend's coming, so." Stiles lets the sentence hang, hoping Scott will draw his own conclusions and get off his case. These constant attempts to set him up long since went from merely annoying to oh fuck, not again. Each of these would-be candidates for his heart was worse than the previous one. It's a progression Stiles didn't care for.
Paul the Dog Walker was nice enough but lived with his mom. At twenty-eight. Sebastian was gorgeous and kind and smart, and also into a bunch of weird fetishes Stiles pretended to purge out of his mind as soon as he'd found out about them, along with the picture of Basty— No, wrong turn. Abort, abort! Argh! Now I need to erase this image all over again. Thanks so much, brain. I hate you. Dean was okay. Good even. He'd seemed pretty normal up until Stiles stumbled on the stalker's dream of an altar dedicated to Dean's ex-girlfriend.
And these are the best of a mile-long list of failed dating attempts. Maybe Jonny's parting words have come true, and Stiles is cursed to be forever alone and die with five cats and seven different degrees for company. It isn't his fault he doesn't have much of free time, what with studying for two majors and a minor degree at the same fucking time. His diverse interests aren't something to be ashamed of, all right? Besides, he's already decided Daisy will be a blue Persian and Bucky a black mixed breed with a torn ear he will pick up in a shelter. Might not even be that bad.
"Boyfriend?" Scott's voice yanks him out of daydreaming, if thinking about his hypothetical starving pets eating his decaying body could be called that. "Since when do you have a boyfriend?!"
Stiles snorts. "Dude, you sound like I've personally offended you with my not so dismal anymore love life."
"Am not," Scott says petulantly, and Stiles imagines him sticking his lower lip out and cracks a grin. "Just, why didn't you say something earlier?"
"Oh, you know" — he flounders, mind blanking at the most inopportune moment — "there wasn't time. I met him like three weeks ago—"
"Yeah? And he's already coming to spend a weekend?" Now Scott sounds downright suspicious. Damn. And also, It's insulting.
"So what? Don't diss my whirlwind romance," Stiles snaps.
"Um-hm." Scott, bless his soul, can be perceptive and pay attention when he wants to. It only happens when Stiles would like him to remain oblivious, though. "Didn't you swear to take things glacial slow after Basty?"
Stiles shudders. "Hey! You promised to never bring him up! Thanks a lot for the reminder, buddy!"
"Stiles." Great. Scott sounds like Stiles' Dad during interrogations — his 'I'm calling bullshit' voice.
Stiles exhales. Loudly. The fingers on his knee catch stray fabric threads and pull. "He's hot like burning, all right?! I'd like to see you try to resist that temptation." Maybe Scott'll swallow this explanation. Stiles can only hope.
"And what's his name, again?" The tone suggests he doesn't.
Stiles' gaze jumps around the room, going from medical journals littering the TV stand to overstuffed bookcases lining the walls. Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Ray Bradbury, Jeff Lindsay… Come to think of it, more than a half of his flings share a name with a writer. A corner of his lips tugs up. Why not make it a tradition?
"Derek," he says, eyeing Raymond's novel. He'd finished it a while back. Might be a good time for a reread.
"Derek?" Scott repeats. "No last name?"
Stiles' eyebrows climb up. "Why ever do you need his last name?"
"Oh, I don't know, Stiles." Scott pauses, and Stiles pictures him scoffing. "Because he doesn't exist?"
Perceptive, see! Stiles' laugh comes out somewhat manic. Like after a case of energy drinks polished off with a triple shot of espresso. "You wound me. Right in the heart. I'm bleeding out over here, and my carpet's getting ruined. I'm billing the cleaning to you, 'cause it's your fault."
"So?" Scott is a pit bull. He won't leave him be unless he comes up with a convincing lie, and fast.
"Hell," Stiles says, without meaning to. It slips out on an exhalation.
"Hell? That's his name?" Scott says with evident disbelief. "Couldn't think of something more common?"
"No, dummy!" Stiles' restless leg strikes the floor heel first with too much force. Pain shoots up his nerves. On TV, the news changed to a balding guy in a light gray, ill-fitting suit waving his hands at an interactive map. A dark blue cloud crawls over the coast, and a word catches Stiles' attention. Bingo! "Hale. I said, Hale. Derek Hale."
The lights in his apartment flicker.
"What, like bad weather?"
"Pff! No. Like strong and healthy." Stiles even nods, though it doesn't translate over the phone.
"Mmm, if you say so." Stiles sighs. The threat has passed. Then Scott adds, "Why don't you bring him over?"
The thread he has been pulling snaps. Stiles rolls it into a tiny ball, sends it flying at the screen. It doesn't make it, falling sadly onto the carpet. "Later. I'm going to be busy ravishing him in all the ways that rate over PG. I have a three sheets long list of things I planned. You don't wanna see that, dude."
"I don't." Scott chuckles like it's a joke and not an experience neither of them is willing to repeat. One accidental walk-in is all that puppy swore to be able to handle. God bless this crappy apartment where Stiles can afford to live without roommates. "All right. I will tell Kacy we'll see you both next week."
Stiles mentally curses. There's no way he can actually refuse him now. He'll have to come up with an excuse later and make it good, or his deception will shatter like the papier-mâché volcano he did for the science fair and Jackson the King of Jerks smashed into a pancake with his stupid, big hammer. That volcano could spit 'lava' too.
"Bye, bro! Gotta go — someone's knocking," Stiles says at top speed, mashing it into one word, waits long enough to hear, "See you, lover-boy," and thumbs the red icon.
"Damn, damn, damn!" The phone flops on the tattered upholstery that used to be burgundy velvet in the prime of its previous life — when dinosaurs still roamed the earth. Stiles runs a hand over his face. If he shows up alone or skips Scott and Kacy's pad of lovey-doveyry, they will redouble their efforts. "Well, hell." Maybe it's time to emigrate to Canada. Or Cuba. Cuba sounds great.
"Right, laundry!" He sighs and gets to his feet.
A quick run around the room and the epitome of tininess that is his bathroom later, Stiles awkwardly opens the front door, arms full with an overflowing laundry basket. Out of the corner of his eye, he spies a hand poised to ring the bell stop its motion. The hand is connected to an arm whose owner must live in a gym to get this definition to show through his black leather jacket so plainly. Swinging the basket to the side, Stiles follows it to a black t-shirt hugging a well-defined chest and swallows the excessive amount of saliva his glands have produced. His gaze slides lower, to — of course — black jeans clinging to a pair of straight, muscular legs. Cataloging and memorizing every detail, Stiles decides even if the face doesn't hit the mark, he'll be one lucky boy tonight.
"Hello, Stiles." A rich, dark voice sends heat into his belly and shivers down his back. Overhead, a lone lightbulb flickers.
"Who are you? How do you know my name?" Looking up, Stiles meets the stranger's gaze head-on. Strong, stubbled jaw and piercing eyes. Definitely, lucky.
"Why, Stiles" — the man leans on the doorjamb, which brings him into Stiles' space, along with smells of mint and spices. The grin slashing his face shows too sharp teeth — "don't you recognize your own boyfriend?"
"Who?" Stiles says intelligently. His mouth continues, "Last I checked, I'm single. Are you volunteering?"
The man's grin widens. "I'm Derek."
"Nice to meet you." Stiles' brain boots up. "Wait. Derek… Hale? No way, dude."
In response, Derek magics up a business card. Stiles goes for it. His forgotten basket sways sideways, a purple sweater sleeve falls out. He slaps his hand back, hugging his laundry.
"Um."
Silently, the man holds the black rectangle for Stiles to examine. Quite considerate of him. White ornate lettering state the name — Derek Hale, surprise, surprise — and a phone number. "You called me," he says after a moment.
"No, I didn't." Stiles shakes his head. His heart speeds up. "Is my phone bugged? My apartment? Are you with the government?" Stiles asks and gets a look like Derek suspects him of being exceptionally slow on the uptake on purpose.
"You said my name three times."
"A-and? What, are you Bloody Mary?"
One bushy eyebrow arches up. "And here I am."
"Claiming to be my boyfriend?" Stiles needs to check, that's all.
"Just so." Derek leers, and Stiles swallows, his mouth going dry. "I'm yours," he says, killing Stiles' higher brain function, "for the duration of a month unless you decide you needn't my service earlier. Now, there's one small formality—"
"Yeah?" Stiles' tongue darts out to his lips. The situation is bizarre. He must have fallen asleep, and this is a conjunction of his mind. It wouldn't be the first time he mistook a dream for reality.
Derek's voice drops lower, encroaching into the bedroom territory. "The matter of payment."
"What, are you expecting my soul in return?" Stiles jokes. A shiver makes a round over his body. He expects a laugh or a smirk, but Derek's expression remains serious.
"Souls are in my uncle's jurisdiction. I want a favor, fulfilled at a later date. A promise, if you please."
"That's all?"
"Yes, Stiles." Derek's eyes gleam. "A promise is enough."
Oh, what the hell? Stiles thinks. Why not? If this is all a dream, he has a decent idea of where it is going. Time to hasten the events. "All right. Where do I sign?"
"No need." Derek smiles. "A kiss will suffice."
"Just so you know," Stiles feels he must say it, even if Derek's clearly not real, "I do so hope you aren't an ax murderer."
The basket hits the floor. Warm lips meet Stiles', hands slide under his shirt and up his waist. Blood leaves his head, and he forgets to breathe, lost in the moment. This is the best dream ever.
And in the gloomy hallway, illuminated by a single lightbulb, dark brown eyes belonging to the man who calls himself Derek Hale flash blood red.
A.N. Just to clarify, this story is completed. Sorry to disappoint if you want a continuation.