Author's Note: Every couple of years I go through a phase were I remember how intensely I adore swing dancing and swing music. I've always had a thing for people and how they can move their bodies (tango tango TANGO) but swing dance is the fastest way to my heart (and pants). I was recently reminded about my love of swing (specifically the jive and the jitterbug, but whatever) and even though I've got more of the Buffy/Teen Wolf au written down I decided to type this out instead. It can be taken as Sterek of Stydia, depending on who you prefer. I watched a YouTube video were I got the moves for the last part from and you can go see it if you search Fast Swing Dancing - ULHS 2006. House points to whoever can tell me which dancer I based Stiles off of.

Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Wolf and I definitely can't swing dance, so if anything is inaccurate or stupid, I'm sorry.

They had only been back in Boston a week, the musty smell hadn't even entirely left their apartment, for Christ's sake, but Lydia had been a force of nature since before she could walk and Stiles was way too easily swayed when it came to her schemes. But he came home that second Tuesday back from the West Coast, back twitching with pain and grumbling angrily about the weight of his laptop in his backpack and found Lydia sitting on the couch waiting for him. He dropped his backpack on the coffee table and flopped onto the couch, planting his face into her thigh (because they were friends and this was a thing they did now, flop on each other and moan about their day/classes/stupid pack members) and groaning in a loud over dramatic fashion.

It took him twenty minutes to realize that Lydia shouldn't have been back for another two hours, but by that point she was already tapping impatiently on the back of his neck and glaring.

"What," he said.

"We're going to join a swing dancing class," Lydia told him.

And that was, unfortunately, that.

By the end of the first class that night they were shouting at each other, ripping at their hair and nursing at least one sore toe each. They hardly spoke to each other on Wednesday, but come Thursday night Stiles rolled himself out of his bed, pulled on the dance pants Lydia had shoved in his face before their first class, and changed his t-shirt for a tank top. Lydia was already waiting by their front door when he came out of his room, like she knew he would cave and come along with her plan, though he could tell by the way she was fidgeting with her keys that she hadn't been sure. He hugged her before they went and she sighed into his shoulder.

It didn't occur to him to ask why they were learning how to swing dance, honestly. Their first year in Boston Lydia had made him take a pottery class, even though the clay ruined her nails something fierce. During their second year they had both signed up for a movie festival club and then hated it so thoroughly that both of them dropped out and took joined a Bitch and Stitch instead. It was their third year away from home (three of six, something in the back of his head reminded him; this year and next in Boston and then two years up at NYU and then he was home free) and apparently now they were going to do swing dancing.

(Actually, Stiles could pretty much piece together what had pointed Lydia toward swing dance. He was nearly 100% positive it had been when he was watching Dancing With The Stars and Corbin Blue and his professional dance partner had jived it out of the fucking park. It had been awesome and, unfortunately, all Stiles could talk about at dinner. Stiles had shown Lydia the YouTube video of their act and barely thirteen hours later he was being handed dance pants and told they were taking a class. So yeah, Stiles could figure it out, but that didn't mean he wanted to. It was easier just to blame Lydia and ignore his part in the mess, honestly.)

It wasn't all that bad, once they stopped screaming and arguing and stepping on each other's toes. Stiles learned to hold the small of Lydia's back comfortably enough and Lydia had always been light on her feet, so that part wasn't difficult. They were already overly accustomed to being in each other's space, especially after two years of being roommates and four of being pack members, so that wasn't a problem. Their teachers were a thirty-something couple named Elise and Mike who had obviously been dancing together for at least a decade. Elise got annoyed at Stiles' outspoken nature, but Mike always laughed and clapped him on the back, grinning like a proud parent, whenever they managed a new step correctly. Lydia hated failure on the dance floor just as much as she did in the class room, but she seemed to enjoy it nonetheless.

It was late November before either of them realized that they hadn't told their friends and family that they had taken up dancing. The pack knew about their pottery and Bitch and Stitch attempts (Isaac still wore his sweater, bless his heart, and Derek used his crooked coffee mug religiously, though it embarrassed Lydia greatly that her 'failure' was so cherished) but something about the idea of telling them about the dancing itched at them, so they kept quiet.

"You're coming home for summer, right," Derek asked during Thanksgiving, curled over his kitchen counter, hands wrapped around one another, shoulders relaxed. Stiles loved seeing the other man like this; all warm and lazy like a sleepy toddler. The years had started to be kinder to Derek, especially since the pack had stabilized and then territory they held became secure. It helped, Stiles thought, that Ethan had stuck around, even if Aiden had left. It also helped that Scott was such a big shot alpha too, leaving Derek to make furniture and read bad historical fiction novels at his leisure.

"After Christmas we won't be able to come home until July," Stiles told him, shrugging. He didn't mention that they couldn't come home immediately after exams because of their swing dance class, but for the first time he felt compelled to explain, especially when Derek's face fell a little bit.

"That sucks," Derek said.

And, honestly, it did. But Stiles and Lydia got better and better at swing, until the point where he was picking her up and swinging around like one of the pros. It was fun, in a way that very little had been since they were sixteen. But Lydia, being Lydia Martin, the best at everything she had tried (except pottery) since she was six, she couldn't just let it rest there. Oh no, Stiles thought, groaning as he stared at the forms, she couldn't just let it go.

"A dance competition, Lyds? Really?"

"If you ever call me Lyds again, Stiles, I will stab you in the eye. And yes. I think we can do this. I want to do this."

Stiles scrunched up his nose before sighing. He signed his name on the line indicated and then shook his head, tossing the papers at her. Lydia caught them without a single flail, proving once again that she was the superior human being in the room. But she smiled at him, pleased and brilliant, and he couldn't find it in himself to be upset.

He could, however, find it in himself to panic upon finding out that all of their friends would be there.

"Lydia," he said, disbelieving and offended when the red head informed the entire freaking living room that they were entered in a dance competition upon arriving home. Erica, from her spot curled between Boyd and Isaac, let loose a cackle that echoed in his ears. The rest of them just looked a little stunned, like they weren't sure if she was joking.

Honestly. She was Lydia Martin. She didn't joke about competitions. They should have figured that out by then.

"Is this like the time you took up pottery?" Danny wondered. He had been home two weeks, but was due back down south next week to give a presentation. Stiles did not envy him that, he was planning on spending the next three weeks sleeping in the bed upstairs that was solely his, only stopping to eat and, when Lydia demanded it of him, practice dancing. Which apparently wouldn't be a secret anymore.

"I guess that makes practicing easier," he said and Lydia gifted him with one of her pleased looks.

"Can you show us," Allison asked, curious. Stiles shrugged and made to stand up, but Lydia shook her head sharply and pulled him back down on the couch.

"No one sees us perform until the competition," she declared.

The entire pack gave violent protest of this, because if there was one creature more curious than a cat it had to be a werewolf, but Lydia shook her head each time they were asked. Finally Derek sighed and shrugged his shoulders, offering the basement for their practice area. It would work well enough, since it had hardwood floors and decent soundproofing since the remodeling, and Lydis gifted Derek with pleased smile of his very own.

Some days Stiles wondered if she was secretly training them in positive reinforcement with those smiles. He was pretty sure she actually was.

It was three days later, after being woken up at 7 am continuously to practice, that the pack started asking questions again.

"Is that a dance thing," Scott asked, leaning over the kitchen counter much like Derek had at Thanksgiving. He was staring at Lydia's back and when Stiles glanced over he realized that his right hand was curved into the small of Lydia's back, just like it was when they danced.

"Yes," he said, because it was.

"Is swing hard," Isaac wondered. He was curled into one of the chairs Derek had first made, which wobbled a little when he moved. It was nice to see that Derek had faults too, like not being immediately perfect at making furniture from scratch. That was Stiles' favorite chair, actually.

"No," Lydia said, half a second before Stiles said, "Moderately."

There was a long pause in the kitchen before Erica and Allison sniggered. They had more questions, dozens and dozens of them, but Lydia mostly let Stiles stumble his way through the answers. Derek's question was Stiles' favorite, because even after six days of being questioned it was the first time anyone had asked him it.

"Do you like it?"

They were sitting on the roof, looking up at the stars. Stiles was wrapped up in a blanket that he and Lydia had tried to knit together at the end of their Bitch and Stitch run and he was leaning against Derek's side, with Derek's arm wrapped around his shoulders. This was one of their favorite things to do whenever Stiles came home, though neither could be really sure when it started. They had been doing it for years though and it was nice.

It was Stiles' favorite thing about coming home, honestly, getting the chance to curl into Derek's side and look up at the stars as they caught each other up on their time apart. (Derek had made three new styles of chair, though he thought they all looked silly and had almost perfected his rocking chair design. Stiles was ridiculously proud of how far his sourwolf had come since their teenaged years.)

"Do I like what?"

"Swing."

"Oh yeah," Stiles sighed. He tipped his head up to glance at Derek and found the older man's head tipped down to him. He grinned and got a grin in return, which made him wiggle a little bit in happiness. Their noses brushed, but neither pulled away.

"What's your favorite part?"

"The energy. It's- it's kind of hard to explain, I think. But there's so much energy and… I don't know. I've never seen someone swing dance without a smile on their face, I guess, and I really like how much it brings everyone out of their shell."

Derek hummed in the back of his throat and Stiles settled his face back in the man's shoulder. Derek reached up and carded his fingers through Stiles' hair.

"I can see that," he said, after a moment. He didn't really understand what Stiles had meant, however, until he was up north, watching the competition happen.

Stiles had always been a jittery, twitchy, long limbed mess. College hadn't changed that and Stiles personally doubted that anything would change that. He figured he'd probably be a jittery, twitchy, long limbed mess when he was eighty years old, if he lived to be that old (which was looking more and more likely by the year, though he had had his doubts in high school). But swing suited him, perfectly. What surprised everyone in the pack (not that they would admit that to her face) was how well it fit Lydia.

When the competition the pack continued their tradition of being little shits by placing bets on how far their friends would get. Stiles knew it was happening, but as being a human and not some sort of freaky supernatural being he couldn't hear who was betting on what. Which was nerve wracking to the max.

"Stiles," Lydia snapped.

"I wish being a banshee gave you super hearing. I need to know who's betting on what."

Lydia punched him in the gut, not with her entire strength but with a good amount of force. He wheezed and from across the room he could hear Erica laugh, bold and loud like a firecracker. He scowled in her direction, just before Lydia grabbed his face and dragged it to look at her.

"Sorry," he muttered, because Lydia looked wrecked. Not physically, because Lydia looked like a swing era goddess right then, all low wide heels and a skirt that would flare dramatically with every turn, tule underneath to tease at her legs and make it a real show, but emotionally she looked, well…

"Don't be nervous," he blurted, which earned him a scowl and a finger jabbing into his ribs like a viper.

"I am not nervous," she snapped. This time Boyd laughed, though it cut off sharply when Lydia's head whipped around to glare at him. "I'm not," she insisted tightly.

"Of course you're not," Stiles promised. "Why would you be nervous? You're the best dancer I've ever seen, Lyds."

(That was a lie. One of Stiles' guilty pleasures was Dancing With The Stars and Julianne Hough was definitely the best dancer he had ever seen, but Lydia couldn't hear his heartbeat to catch his lie, so…)

Lydia's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. It was more of a grin, like a child planning a scheme to defeat evil pirates (hell yes that was a Peter Pan analogy, he had been Stiles' childhood hero and if anyone was ever deserving of a Peter Pan analogy it was Lydia). It was a face that Lydia rarely made, that little mischievous grin that tucked into the corner of her mouth, but it was hands down Stiles' favorite Lydia Expression.

"Of course I am," she said, pressing against his chest and curling his arm around her shoulders like he was a doll. She didn't even tell him off for calling him Lyds, but Stiles figured that was more because the announcer called their name for the first round and no because she had finally accepted the nickname. The live band started up and Lydia jutted out her hip, leading them out onto the dance floor with a wiggle and a bump to his hip.

They made it all the way to the finals, much to Erica and Scott's apparent dismay. The final round went the same way the previous rounds had, with all the dancers that had made it getting in a line with their partners and going out into the middle of the dance floor to dance an impromptu series of moves that were supposed to last as long as a single chorus of the swing song the band was playing. Lydia and Stiles were third in line, clothes sticking to them with sweat, with Stiles' hair sticking up in every direction and Lydia's curls haphazardly tucked behind her ears. Stiles tucked his white-with-black-polka-dots tie back into his black vest for the third time, the fingers of his other hand tapping anxiously against Lydia's hip. The band started up and the crowd, which had been loud and rowdy and pleased beyond belief all day, clapping to the beat like they were possessed by it. Stiles found himself bouncing on one leg as the clapping started and he leaned forward, egging the first couple on with a grin. Lydia leaned against him as he bounced, dragging him back with a giggle when the first couple spun out and he let out a whoop of glee. The first couple was good, very good, and watching them amped Stiles up until he was shaking. When the second couple went out Stiles found himself curling around Lydia, clutching her hands and buzzing like he had downed eight Monsters. His feet started to move, stepping to the beat, before the second couple had even finished and by the time the girl rolled over the guy and popped up, pointing at them, he was grinning like a loon.

He and Lydia danced like they were fighting gravity, spinning out and toward each other, curling and turning and Stiles got lost in it. They paused, snapped their heads to the side, grinned at the crowd and then he kicked out, hoisting Lydia in the air as she spread her legs like his kick had lifted her off the ground. When she landed he turned them, twisting her and feeling her jump in the air so that her back landed against his. They did some fancy foot work for a second before Stiles slipped his arm down hers, hooking their elbows so that he could roll her over his shoulder. His vision filled with red tule, her black and white polka dotted skirt obscuring his face, but then, before he could slip or trip, she was on the ground again. They gave another dramatic pause as the crowd cheered and then kicked out to the side before Stiles spun away, slipping into a slide so that Lydia could handstand flip over him and land in a pose. The crowd cheered and Stiles sprung up to grab her, hauling her around the circle and back into the line.

He caught a glimpse through the crowd of Derek's face, which was split in two by the biggest smile Stiles had ever seen. He found himself smiling back like a dope and getting lost in the twitchy feeling as the music filled his ear, the cheers and the claps and the scream of the trumpet. He didn't realize it was their turn again until Lydia planted her elbow in his stomach before kicking out and dragging him out with her. They curled, circling each other stars in space, before Stiles curled his arm around her waist and swung her down, spinning Lydia in a circle between his legs while he stepped over her legs. Her dress swirled, the crowd screamed and his heart pounded. He almost dropped her when he tucked their elbows together and slung her back upright, what with the sweat of skin to skin slicking their grip into dangerous territory. He almost wished he hadn't rolled up the sleeves of his red button up shirt, but Lydia landed on her feet without a hitch and they were off again. They kicked back and forth, twisting their bodies and pressing them together briefly before pulling them apart again, but there was a move Stiles wanted to do, had to do. He twisted them, pushing Lydia away and gave her his biggest shit eating grin. She rolled her eyes, but when they came together she tucked forward and down, like she was going to do a handstand roll again and he grabbed her middle. She spread her legs and he pushed, flipped her up and over his head and shoulders so that she landed, left hand in his right, her head behind his legs. He kicked one leg around, getting her head between them while her shoulders rested on the other leg, pulled up just enough to keep her at a parallel level to the ground, before kicking her shoulders up so that she was standing once more.

The pack let out a howl of approval while the crowd whooped and hollered. Stiles twisted them around into a few more kicks and spins before the chorus ended and they spun out of the circle, arms twined and chests heaving for breath.

"Thank you," Lydia said, standing on her tip toes to speak in his ear. She smeared her red lipstick along his jaw, but he didn't care. He dropped a kiss to the top of her head and held on.

They got third place in the competition, which won Boyd the bet. Derek had bet that they would win first and Lydia fumed for days before deciding that they would just have to compete next year and knock the competition all on their asses. Stiles didn't stop grinning for a week, even when Scott begged him to teach him to dance and then accidentally kicked him in the ribs.