Me and you and you and me

No matter how they toss the dice, it had to be

The only one for me is you, and you for me

So happy together…

I CAN'T SEE ME LOV—

Stiles wakes up, hugging his pillow tighter with one hand and smashing the snooze button on his alarm clock with the other. He groans sleepily, kicking his legs out wildly in an attempt to show the universe that he's not happy with its decision to wake him up this early. Flopping over onto his back like a starfish, Stiles stretches, stomach bowing towards the ceiling—and with one final sigh, he rolls out of bed.

He trudges his way into the bathroom and looks at his tired expression. He really shouldn't stay up so late Wiki binging. After all, he had only wanted to know more about the history of the waffle cone. It all just spiraled out of hand after that. Like it usually does.

Stiles huffs.

It just isn't worth looking like roadkill.

After he's done in the bathroom, Stiles slips downstairs and starts the coffee drip. He knows what time his dad got in last night.

"Just a few late shifts, my ass," Stiles mutters as he scoops out tablespoons of Folgers dark roast.

Once that starts percolating, he runs back upstairs. He yanks on a fresh pair of brown chinos and a worn green t-shirt. Stiles shuffles back into the bathroom and runs his hands through his newly grown out hair. It's actually getting to be a little too shaggy. He swipes this way and that, but he can't decide what looks best—having a buzzcut his entire life hasn't prepared him for this moment—so he just leaves it looking a bit wild.

He stuffs his new notebooks and pens into his backpack and shoves his feet into a pair of black Chucks. Stiles makes his way downstairs and forces a piece of toast down his throat. He pops the right amount of prescription pills and washes it all down with a glass of orange juice—he'll leave the superhuman dry swallowing to people like Dr. Gregory House, thank you very much.

Stiles jots down a quick post-it reminding his dad that his lunch is in the fridge and then he books it outside to his Jeep.

Checking the time on his phone, Stiles thanks Whoever's Listening that he got his driver's license over the summer.

The engine starts with a rattle and a shake, and then Stiles is on his way to the first day of his sophomore year at Beacon Hills High.

It's lunch by the time Stiles actually feels awake. He's sprawled out in his usual spot by the oak tree, munching on a PB&J and people watching.

He does this alone, of course, because he doesn't really have many friends. There's Heather, but she goes to Beacon Prep. And there's Ben, but he's from New York and they only game together online.

Stiles gets it. He really does. He's too loud, too sarcastic. He sits on the bench for lacrosse. He fucks up the grading curve. He doesn't take shit from Jackson—who, in retaliation for Stiles upsetting the high school ecosystem and kicking the guy's ass after he tried to jump Stiles behind the bike racks last year (pretty boy didn't look so pretty with a fucked up lip and a black eye, heh), started a rumor last year that Stiles is a pothead, claimed that he has a stash confiscated directly from the station's lockup. Stiles isn't really sure why that asshole decided to flip the whole "cop's kid = narc" stereotype on its head, but his constantly bloodshot eyes (COD and the internet, what can you do?) and his twitchy demeanor (thanks, Adderall and Lexapro) only helped that douche seem believable.

So, he gets it. He's been relegated to the bottom of the popularity barrel. And, in all honesty, he doesn't really mind. If being popular means kissing Jackson's ass or changing everything about himself like Lydia Martin did, well, he's fine with where he's at.

And, speaking of Lydia, there she goes—holding court at her designated lunch table. She's wearing heels, for Loki's sake. Stiles remembers when she had her hair cut in a bob and wore nothing but orange sweaters and matching knee socks. She used to carry around murder mystery books and a magnifying glass.

Stiles was in love with her then.

But then high school rolled around. She grew out her hair, got a dye job, and started acting like she didn't know how to speak three languages. She swapped her sweaters for designer handbags and made friends with the likes of Allison Argent. Stiles admits that she got capital "h" Hot.

But he's not in love with her anymore.

The only person in that group that he doesn't internally cringe at is its leader, strangely enough.

Scott McCall, most popular guy at Beacon Hills High, is also the nicest. He co-captains the lacrosse team and goes out of his way to smile at anyone that looks in his general direction. Stiles tutored him last year in English Lit., and the guy was friendly as shit. It was a little disconcerting, but he always returns Scott's waves now (Stiles had thought the guy was being a sarcastic dick before, but you can only hold onto your cynicism for so long until stories about treating puppies and kittens breaks you down).

Yep, Scott McCall is a Good Guy—a little dopey, a little oblivious, and with a huge crush on fashionista Allison—but overall, Stiles was pleasantly surprised by how much he didn't dislike hanging out with him.

Stiles finishes his sandwich and starts in on his apple, spotting Matt Daehler snapping pictures of Allison from behind some bushes. He frowns, making a note to talk to his dad about the creep.

He turns his head just in time to watch John Hammond wipe out on the concrete while walking over to the trash cans.

Ouch. Poor fucker.

Crunching away, Stiles continues scanning the tables. He makes it to the farthest row before he finds who he's looking for. The greatest person to people-watch.

Derek Hale.

The guy is sitting with his sister and a few of her friends, wearing a black leather jacket and a scowl. Derek is a year ahead of Stiles and used to be the captain of the basketball team in middle school; he even made the varsity team his freshman year. He was a model student.

That is, until two summers ago when the Hales' house burned down and Derek's favorite uncle was killed in the fire. Most of the town has tiptoed around the Hales ever since—especially Derek.

He used to volunteer to hide Easter eggs for the local park's annual hunt and help teach basketball camps at the YMCA two towns over. Now the guy gets into fights if someone even looks at him wrong.

Oh, and Derek doesn't speak—communicating mainly via his eyebrows and various grunts and growls.

A lot of people either feel sorry for him or think he's gone batshit.

Stiles knows it for what it really is.

Grief.

Derek catches Stiles staring at him and his brows scrunch together. Stiles gives him a grin and waves wildly like a crazy person.

Stiles can see Derek's eyes roll from here.

But the guy actually nods his head in response.

The other people eating lunch watch their interaction with wide eyes. For some reason, Stiles is the only one outside of his family that Derek tolerates. Stiles is the only one that speaks Derek's language, and everyone at school knows it.

Most people think it started when Derek helped Stiles when Jackson and his cronies tried to jump him in April last year. Derek had appeared like some sort of avenging angel, taking on three guys and leaving Stiles to handle Jackson.

But everyone is wrong. It actually started months before then.

Stiles finishes his apple and tosses the core behind him in the grass. He leans farther back against the oak and gazes up at the clear sky.

Yeah, they're wrong. Derek tolerates Stiles for the same reason that Derek's so fun to watch.

Because Derek is a werewolf, and Stiles knows it.

Derek and Stiles' strange relationship started with geometry proofs—specifically, Derek's inability to understand them.

Stiles was assigned by the office to tutor him, and they met in the library every Monday and Wednesday to work on Derek's homework together.

Stiles is used to the quiet—used to being alone—so Derek's lack of chatter didn't make Stiles uncomfortable like it did to so many others. Honestly, it just gave Stiles more of an opportunity to speak for the both of them.

Which he did.

A lot.

So much so, that Derek got comfortable with it—with him. He started nodding and grunting when Stiles showed him how to do certain problems. The dude even started bringing snacks for the both of them to eat while they studied.

It was nice.

Until it wasn't.

It was a Wednesday afternoon, about two months after Stiles had started tutoring Derek, when everything changed.

Derek had gotten a phone call from someone and had left abruptly after it ended. He looked angry, tense in a way Stiles had never seen him. The guy had stomped out of the room, leaving his messenger bag and all of his homework behind.

Stiles had sat there, Reese's cup halfway to his mouth, watching the entire thing with a dazed expression. He finally kicked into gear about five minutes after he heard the library door's hydraulics click shut.

He scrambled to gather all of his and Derek's stuff, only stopping on his way out the door to ask the librarian, Ms. Simpson, if she could tell his next client that their session was canceled.

Racing out of the library, Stiles had climbed atop his bike and pedaled toward Derek's house.

Now, everyone knows where the Hales live—even before the fire. They owned this huge Victorian out in the middle of the preserve. Once it burned down, they just built another one a few miles away. Rich people do weird shit like that.

So, keep all of this in mind: Stiles is on a bike, pedaling through the woods, and carrying two backpacks.

It was a lot of fucking work, but Stiles knew that Derek had a test the next day—that the guy had looked so fucking broken when he left—so he rode out to Derek's house to give him his stuff.

It had seemed important.

Up until he got to Derek's driveway and was tackled to the ground by a fucking wolf.

Stiles laid sprawled on the ground, legs akimbo and shoelaces tangled in his gears, with a heavy ass wolf breathing on his neck.

And then, suddenly, it wasn't a wolf.

It was Derek Hale.

A very naked Derek Hale breathing heavily on top of him.

"This is private property," Derek had growled in his face.

It's practically a crime that those were the first words Stiles ever heard from Derek—from a naked Derek. Stiles' poor bisexual heart had almost failed right then and there.

"Yeah, no shit," Stiles had gasped out, because he has no self-preservation instinct. "There's a sign. And I have eyes. And a pretty—cough!—good grasp of the English language."

Derek had stopped growling, but he had a pinched expression on his face. "What are you doing here, Stiles?"

Stiles, with a handlebar digging into his gut, had replied, "I'm bringing you your stuff, y'know, because you fled the library and left it all there!" Stiles huffed. "You have a test over angles tomorrow, you ass!"

If anything, Derek looked chastened at his explanation.

"Why, uh, did you leave so quickly anyway?" Stiles asked.

"None of your business," Derek had ground out.

"Fair enough," Stiles hummed thoughtfully. "But you could at least apologize for tackling me."

The tips of Derek's pointy ears had turned bright red after that.

And that reminded Stiles—"So, uh, I guess you're, like, a werewolf, huh?"

More growling. With an interesting new addition: spluttering. "I'm not—why would you think—of course I'm not—"

Stiles had shut him up with a wave of his hand. "Zoinks, dude. I saw you. You were a wolf. Now you're a man. A Wolfman, if you will. And your face is all," he wiggles his fingers at Derek's ridged brow, "werewolfy."

Nothing but Stiles' panting and cicadas could be heard.

Derek didn't say anything in response. He didn't move, didn't blink—it looked like he was barely breathing properly.

"I'm not going to tell anyone," Stiles had continued. "But…I have to admit—I have a million questions to ask."

"Of course you do," Derek grunted. "I won't answer them."

Stiles frowned.

"At least, not today. Not right now," Derek had finished begrudgingly.

"Cool," Stiles beamed. "Cool, cool, cool."

A howl echoed throughout the woods, raising the hairs on the back of Stiles' neck. "Is that for you?"

Derek nodded.

But he still didn't move.

Stiles drummed his fingertips against his trapped thigh. "So…if you could get off me, that would be great."

Derek climbed off of Stiles and his bike, wheeling it to the side after he stood. He had offered his hand to Stiles tentatively.

Actively trying not to look at Derek's body, Stiles had accepted.

And that's how their strange not-friendship started.

Derek still doesn't go out of his way to interact with Stiles, Derek made it clear that they aren't friends, but he still pays for their study sessions—and now he even speaks to Stiles!

Out of everyone in the school, Derek Hale talks to Stiles.

Stiles isn't even sure that he talks to Cora.

And he helped Stiles with his Jackass problem.

And sometimes, Derek even pays for more hours, bringing not only snacks, but dinner for late nights at the library. Ms. Simpson even tried to lecture Derek about bringing in food, but with a single look, he quashed that argument. Now she just looks the other way when Derek whips out a party sub and two paper plates.

Stiles is in love.

And he tries to get that across with crazy waving, not telling people about Derek and his family, and the Pythagorean theorem.

The seduction isn't going too well.

Stiles looks back over at Derek.

He's still watching Stiles.

Huh.

Or, maybe it is.

Stiles winks at him right as the five-minute bell rings.

It's Wednesday when Harris assigns them permanent lab partners in AP Chemistry. He's rattling off names, pairs seemingly designed to inflict maximum damage to each student's grade and social life.

Stiles is tapping his leg in the back, highlighter twirling in his fingers and the lid clenched between his teeth.

"Allison Argent and Lydia Martin," Harris calls.

Stiles sees Scott's shoulders slump and can't help but feel a little bad for the guy.

Scott turns to look at the rest of the class, trying to guess who he's going to get as a partner now that his dreams of being Allison's have been dashed.

Stiles catches his gaze, and Scott perks up, giving him a wide grin and a small wave. Stiles waves back.

"McCall and Erica Reyes," Harris lists, a triumphant twitch at the corner of his lips when Scott slumps even further.

Stiles has to give the guy credit, though, because he still offers Erica a nod and a smile.

He hasn't been paying close attention, so when Harris reads out, "Stilinski and Hale," Stiles chokes a little, spitting out his highlighter cap in surprise.

A set of books slam onto the table, and then Cora Hale is sitting in the stool next to him.

She gives him a wicked smirk. "So, Stilinski. I hear you're not completely stupid." Cora kicks his chair. "This is going to be fun."

It's Friday when Stiles asks his dad about what he can do about Matt Daehler and his camera.

His father walks him through California state's stalking statutes but tells him that he can't do anything without an official complaint.

Stiles contemplates the consequences of framing a classmate for a felony while he makes beef stroganoff for dinner.

It takes two weeks for Stiles to work up the nerve to talk to Allison Argent about the fact that he thinks some whackadoo is most likely jacking it to several hundred pictures taken of her through her window.

Yeah, it's not exactly an easy subject to work into polite conversation.

After all, Allison is from one of the richest families in Beacon Hills. Her dad supplies guns at a national level, and her mom's some sort of clothing buyer for other rich yuppies. She wears the latest clothes and doesn't really talk to anyone besides Lydia.

In second grade, when Allison was cast as Cinderella in the school's play, her parents bought her a crown that had actual diamonds in it.

Yeah.

Stiles was cast as a pumpkin. Not even the one that turns into the carriage. Just a background pumpkin.

That's the kind of social ladder separation that he has to try and navigate in order for this to work.

So, with all of the grace and tact that his pumpkin-self can muster, Stiles approaches Allison after school while she's digging through her locker.

He walks up slowly and clears his throat.

Allison looks up from where she's shoving books into her bag and gives him a confused look. "Can I help you?"

"Hi, um, actually, I'm here to try and help you," Stiles starts out. He looks over both of his shoulders anxiously. Allison follows his gaze with her own. He notices a sharp light enter her eyes. "I'm Stiles and, not to sound creepy and insane, but I've noticed that someone else is noticing you a bit too much."

Allison raises an eyebrow.

"That is to say, I think, if you aren't already aware, that you're being stalked by somebody."

Allison blinks once, twice, and then her spine goes rigid.

"Matt Daehler, the guy with the camera? He takes a lot of pictures of you from behind bushes and trees." Stiles pulls out the copies of receipts he'd smooth-talked from a few home improvement store employees. "He's been buying a lot of…suspicious things from Home Depot, like rope and duct tape, I think—"

"Stiles," she interrupts kindly. "I know that you're coming from a place of kindness, but I'm not sure how strange buying duct—"

"Soundproofing insulation," he continues, unfazed. "A hunting knife!"

Allison looks like she's about to interrupt again.

"Four tasers!"

Both of her eyebrows shoot up at that, alarmed.

"C'mon!" Stiles exclaims, waving the papers a little. "That'd be a red flag even if I was color blind!"

She drops her bag onto the linoleum and closes her locker door. "I can take care of myself," she says, and something in her voice tells Stiles that what she said is the absolute truth.

Allison leans her shoulder against the row of lockers and looks past Stiles. He turns his head around to see Lydia coming their way. Focusing back on the problem, Stiles gets serious. "I know it isn't a smoking gun, but that's just the thing—I'm trying to prevent there from ever being a smoking gun!"

Allison suppresses a smile.

"Okay, I'm a genius at wordplay, I know—but in this instance, I'm dead serious. Allison, you don't know me, and I don't really know you, but I think you're in trouble. I think someone wants to hurt you, or at the very least, invade your privacy. Which is, you know, illegal." He shoves the receipts into her hand. "My dad, the Sheriff, can't investigate or do anything without a complaint. I think you should go into the station and make one." He shuffles in place a bit. "Take somebody with you if you feel uncomfortable. Your parents, or Lydia. I'll even come with you, if you want."

Allison doesn't respond.

Lydia shoulders her way into standing next to Allison. "What's going on here? Needing a few fashion tips, Steve?"

Allison gives her a look Stiles can't decipher, so he lets his gaze drop. "Nothing." He looks back up and searches Allison's face, waiting for her to say something—anything.

She doesn't.

"I guess nothing's happening here." Stiles starts walking backward. "Have a nice life, Argent."

And then he walks calmly down the hall, hands in his pockets and his heart hammering in his chest.

The first week of October is when Stiles' investigation takes a turn for the worse.

Stiles pays Danny $50 to hack into Matt's personal computer.

He gives Danny $20 more for emotional damages when they find, well, what they find on his hard drive.

Knowing that he can't exactly take illegally obtained evidence to his father, Stiles employs the ace up his sleeve.

"Pleeeeaasssse, Derek?" He whines, dropping to his knees on the Hales' front porch and lacing his fingers together in prayer. "I just want to scare him a little. He won't even know it was us!"

"No," Derek says, taking a bite of a kebab—seriously, this guy is always strapped with food, Stiles is a little jealous.

"But I need your, you know…"

Derek gives him the Murder Brows. "No, Stiles, I do not know."

"Your werewolf strength and your scary face—those! I need those!"

Derek grabs ahold of the front of Stiles' shirt and picks him up until their noses are practically touching.

"See? That strength," Stiles gurbles out, "that strength right there, I need that!"

"What are the rules?" Derek grits out.

Stiles sighs. "No telling others about your family. No telling your family that I know." Stiles flaps his arms, exasperated. "But they aren't here, are they? So we're all good."

Derek squints. "How do you know that?"

"You're talking."

Dropping him, Derek takes a step back. "What?"

Trying to soothe the skittish Wolfman, Stiles holds his palms out. "I've collected a lot of pretty reliable data on this matter, Derek. You're a black belt in the silent treatment. You only talk to me."

Startled, Derek hunches in on himself. "Derek, it's not a bad thing. It's okay that you—"

"Go home Stiles," Derek growls, slamming the door shut.

Stiles spins around angrily, strangling the air with his bare hands. He scuffs his foot against the porch and starts down the steps. "I hope you choke on that meat, Derek Hale!" He calls out over his shoulder.

The only satisfaction he gets is the loud thump! he hears against the door in response.

Two days later Lydia Martin sits down next to him during the last few minutes of AP Government and crosses her legs. "What were you talking to Allison about last week?"

Stiles snorts and goes back to doodling. "Allison didn't tell you, huh?"

Lydia turns her head primly, her eyes slits, and says, "No, as it happens, she did not."

"Then I can't tell you."

"And why not?"

Stiles stares at her and then crosses his arms. "What's my name?"

Taken aback, Lydia blinks rapidly. "What?"

"You heard me—What. Is. My. Name?"

Silence.

And then the bell rings.

Stiles gathers up his shit and shrugs on his backpack. "That's what I thought." He takes a few steps towards the door, and then looks back at Lydia. "I think she's in danger." Stiles runs a hand through his messy hair. "You love mysteries—you figure it out." And then he leaves Lydia sitting there, staring out the window.

Stiles throws himself into his homework, his tutoring, his Guild.

He tries to console himself with the knowledge that he's done everything he can.

It's all out of his hands.

It's not his problem.

The reminder always gets him through the day.

But it doesn't help him sleep at night.

Stiles hears through the school grapevine that the captain of the swimming team, Charlie Woodson, asked Allison to the Homecoming dance.

Flowers and a giant poster covered in glitter were involved.

She said yes.

Stiles catches Derek giving him Looks during passing periods.

He raises his tutoring rate.

Charlie Woodson's tires are found slashed three days after Allison agrees to be his date to the big dance.

Stiles spots her and Lydia whispering furiously behind the lacrosse field's bleachers.

He feels his lunch curdle in his stomach.

Stiles skips practice that day.

Jackson tries to trip him in the hallway one day.

Stiles didn't know this until two hours later when Greenberg tells him in the middle of Economics.

Apparently, Jackson decided he was going to mess with him, and wound up being stuffed into one of the school's giant recycling bins.

When he takes his seat in Chemistry, Stiles whispers a quiet, "Thanks."

Cora doesn't even look at him when she says, "You're welcome."

Allison Argent doesn't come home on a Friday night in early October, exactly one week before Homecoming.

Two spent taser cartridges were found in the high school's parking lot.

Matt never comes home either.

Apparently, she had gone in and filed a police report against Matt Daehler for stalking and possible child pornography two days previously.

Lydia had gone with her.

An APB has been put out for Matt's arrest.

An AMBER Alert has been put out for Allison.

Stiles is knocking on Scott's front door before he can really think about what he's about to do.

Scott opens the door looking lost and confused. "Stiles?"

"Yeah, man. Can I come in?"

Shrugging, Scott says, "Sure, I guess."

Stiles makes his way into Scott's living room and then whirls around, hands fixed seriously in front of him. "Okay, the only reason I'm here is because I know that you're in love with Allison Argent and I'm in need of a little backup here."

"Wait, what?" Scott sputters. "I'm not," he looks around nervously, "in love with—"

Stiles walks up to him and grabs the guy by his shoulders. "You are in love with her, and I think that's beautiful and sickening—sickeningly beautiful—but that's not important right now."

"It isn't?" Scott asks.

"No," he shakes his head. "What's important right now is that I think I can find her, and I need some muscle behind me for when I try and do that."

"Find…? You know where she is?!" Scott shouts.

"No!" Stiles shakes Scott a little. "Listen to the words that are actually coming out of my mouth, McCall! I said that I think I can find her. But my method isn't exactly legal, and it isn't exactly conclusive—that's why I'm not giving it to my dad. It might just send the police on a wild goose chase."

Scott is nodding excitedly. "Yeah, okay, I'm following so far. What did you do? How can I help?"

"I may have planted a GPS tracker on Matt Daehler's camera, and I may need someone to help me beat him up once I find him."

Tense silence falls between them as he waits for Scott to marinate in what he just told him. "So you're tracking Matt based off of the one thing the guy never leaves behind?"

"Yes."

"And you need me to help you stop him and save Allison?"

"Yep."

Scott searches his face. "That's the best news I've heard all day. When do we leave?"

Stiles grins and claps his hands together. "Hot damn! First, I've got to go to my house and get a few things, and then we'll go from there."

He starts pushing Scott out the door and then pauses. Stiles turns to Scott and asks, "Do you have any weapons you could take with you? A knife, a lead pipe, or perhaps a poison-dart-shooting blowgun?"

Scott thinks about it for a second and then pats Stiles on the back. "Wait for me in the car, I'll be there in a minute!"

Then Romeo races upstairs for a weapon to save Juliet.

Stiles chuckles darkly as he climbs into his Jeep.

Hopefully their story doesn't end the same way.

Stiles and Scott make it to the Stilinski household in record time, a Louisville slugger sitting in Scott's lap.

There's a black Camaro and a blue VW sitting in his driveway.

Somehow even stranger than that, Lydia and Derek are sitting on his front porch.

Both he and Scott approach them cautiously.

"What are you doing here?" Stiles asks Lydia.

"I want to know what I can do to help my best friend," she responds, her expression more honest than he's ever seen it before.

Stiles turns to Derek and raises his eyebrows questioningly.

Derek grunts, arms crossed over his muscular chest.

"Uh-huh," Stiles mutters sassily. "What makes you think that I can do anything to help?"

"Because you're the guy that warned her when no one else did—when even," Lydia chokes up, "…when even I didn't take it seriously."

Stiles looks at Derek, taking in the guy's Helpful Brows.

"Well alright, then."

All Stiles needs from his room is his pocket knife, a flashlight, the med kit from under his sink, and an extra charging cable for his phone.

In other words, all four of them hit the road in his Jeep within five minutes of deciding they're doing just that.

Lydia peeks through the seats from her spot in the back. "So where exactly are we going?"

Stiles glances in the rear-view mirror at Derek. "I bugged Matt, and because I'd stake my entire existence on him being a guilty little fuck, we're tracking him down, and as it logically follows, we're also tracking down Allison."

"Impressive," she says. "Now, as I said before, where are we going?"

Derek huffs, turning to meet Stiles' gaze and giving him a shit-eating grin. Both Scott and Lydia's eyes bug out when they see it.

"From the looks of it, he's still driving her somewhere about an hour from here. But he's slowing down near this industrial area, so I think he's, uh, set something up. Y'know, he's planned something in advance."

Scott grips the bat until his knuckles turn white.

Lydia's face hardens.

Derek looks out the window.

Stiles presses his foot harder on the gas pedal. "But don't worry, gang—we're here to make sure it doesn't happen."

Now, if only Stiles could really believe that.

"So that's it?" Scott asks, resting the bat on his shoulder.

"Yep," Stiles replies, taking one last look at the app on his phone. Matt's blinking red dot is located somewhere in this run-down warehouse.

"Why do bad guys always have to pick the creepiest places to enact their evil plots?" Lydia murmurs.

"It's a part of their whole aesthetic," Stiles answers. "How else will everyone know that they're the bad guys?"

"Let's stick together, alright?" Scott announces.

Stiles nods. "Couldn't have said it better myself, man. That splitting up nonsense never works."

Scott is the first to sneak up to the building's main entrance. Stiles and Lydia follow him, Derek taking up the rear.

"See anything?" Stiles whispers.

"There's a van in there, and a…dining table?" Scott whispers back, a little confused. "There are candles and shit, what the hell?"

"Oh great," Lydia joins in with her own whisper. She takes out an expandable baton from her purse. At Stiles and Derek's raised eyebrows she just shrugs. "Allison gave it to me."

"Well, that's completely terrifying," Stiles mumbles.

Lydia snaps it open and twirls it in her hand once. "I know. Isn't it great?"

Derek nudges Stiles and points to his ear and then at the door.

"We should go in?" Stiles asks.

He nods.

"Okay," he mosies on over to Scott and says, "let's go in."

So they do.

They find Allison pretty much instantly. She's been bound and gagged—tied to one of the chairs placed at the table. Allison's clothes are torn, and her hair has seen better days, but all in all, she doesn't look scared like Stiles would have expected. Her face is red and wet, but it looks like sweat instead of tears. If Stiles had to guess, he'd say the girl is angry.

And from the way she screams when she sees them, rocking back and forth in the chair—shit that's rope, duct tape, and zip-ties, what the actual fuck?—Stiles would say that she's fucking pissed. Like some Old Testament, rivers will run red with your blood type shit.

This day just keeps getting weirder and weirder.

Stiles gets out his knife and hands it to Scott. "Cut her loose, will you man?"

"Yeah!" Scott scrambles for the knife and then drops to his knees next to her. "It's okay Allison, we're here to help." He gently unwinds the tape from her face.

When her mouth is finally free, Allison leans forward and kisses Scott with the passion of a thousand romance novels.

Allison breaks off the kiss and gives Scott a shy smile. "I promised myself that I'd do that someday."

"Guh," Scott says dreamily.

Allison turns to look at Stiles and her face turns wrathful again. "I'm going to murder that cunt."

Scott and Lydia get to work untying Allison.

Derek has disappeared.

"I'm not sure it'd be considered murder. Let's call it self-defense," Stiles says. "After all, you're tied to a chair and I'm pretty sure that that chariot over there," he waves at the shitty white VW bus parked a few meters away, "is your rape van."

"Noticed that, did you?" Allison snarks.

"Yep," Stiles pops the "p" for emphasis. Allison gives him a tired smile.

When Allison is finally set free, they all back up and give her room—room to stretch, room to breathe, room to think.

Stiles walks over to the Love Bus and starts rifling through its contents. There are an incalculable number of condoms stacked in the back, along with what appears to be a cooler full of food.

"I think it was meant to be our first date," Allison says tonelessly from over Stiles' shoulder. "My first date."

"He doesn't get to take that from you," Stiles replies quietly.

"No," she turns to look at him, "no he does not." Allison walks around to the driver's side door and snatches the keys from the ignition. She dangles them in front of Stiles' face. "But I can take this from him."

"You're going to steal this van?" Lydia asks, coming over to sneer at the vehicle.

"I'm thinking about it. I'm—"

"Holy shit!" Scott exclaims from behind them.

Allison, Lydia, and Stiles all whip around to see Derek walking back into the warehouse, Matt Daehler dragging behind him limply as he pulls him across the floor by his leg. Derek drops him in front of Allison and takes a step back.

Stiles watches as some sort of unspoken exchange happens between them.

They both end up nodding at one another, and then Allison tosses the van's keys at Scott. "Consider this my gift to you." She pushes her hair back behind her ear. "Drive me home? And, uh, then to the Homecoming dance when it comes around?"

Scott gapes. "You want to go with me to the dance? But I, I thought you were going with Charlie?!"

Allison nods. "I was. And it's because you never asked me."

Blushing, Scott fidgets. Then, he seems to gather his confidence, saying, "I'd be honored to be your date."

Allison beams. "Then it's settled, then." She grabs Scott's hand and leads him over to the van.

"I'd puke if they weren't so cute together," Lydia mutters darkly.

"I still might," Stiles answers distractedly, still looking between Derek and Allison. He faces Lydia. "You'd better go with them," he says. "Derek and I will handle this."

She eyes Matt on the grimy floor. "Are you sure about that?"

"Yeah, go be with your best friend." He motions towards the van as Scott starts it up. "I think she'll need you."

Lydia gives him a searching look, and then turns to Derek. "Look after him, yeah?"

Derek nods seriously.

She considers him for a moment, and then climbs into the van with Allison and Scott.

Stiles stands shoulder-to-shoulder with Derek, waving furiously as they drive away. "So…what are we going to do with Captain Shithead over there?"

Derek starts laughing, long and loud—the sound echoing throughout the warehouse. He bumps his shoulder into Stiles'. "I'm going to erase his memory." Then he walks back to Matt and starts rolling him over.

"What?!" Stiles screeches, running over and crouching next to the body. "Werewolves can do that?"

Derek teeters his hand in a so-so motion. "Well, only Alphas are consistently good at it, but my Uncle Peter taught me how to do it." He digs his claws into the back of Matt's neck and Stiles can't help but wince. "The only real worry is permanent brain damage, and I'm, uh, not really worried about that in this case."

"Fair enough." Stiles wanders over to the table and blows out the candles. No reason to start a fire, after all. "What was all of that between you and Argent?"

Derek just grunts.

"Okay, fine. Keep your secrets, for now anyway. You must know that I'll discover them all eventually." He crouches back down beside Derek. "How much are you erasing, exactly?"

"All of it."

"All of it?"

Nodding decisively, Derek says, "Yes, Stiles, all of it. His current mental state is already to the point where he's kidnapping people and attempting to rape them. I'm willing to bet that a clean slate would be a gift to a mind like that." He yanks his claws out of Matt's neck and then checks the guy's pulse. "He's alive."

"Yay," Stiles cheers unenthusiastically. "Let's get out of here and then call the cops and give them an anonymous tip."

"Sounds good to me."

Stiles and Derek are halfway home when Derek says, "As horrible as this may sound, but that meal Matt prepared for his 'date' or whatever has made me really hungry."

Stiles snorts and glances at the passenger seat. "That's fucked up. But only because it looked like overdone steak. Does cooked steak travel well? No, no it does not."

Derek laughs and taps his fingers against the dash. "Well, what should it have been, then?"

"Diner food, duh. A relaxed atmosphere, no pretension, a good meal—there's nothing better than that on a first date."

"You don't say?" Derek hums. "Are you hungry?"

Stiles' heart starts beating faster. He tightens his fingers on the steering wheel. "I could eat," he answers softly.

"I'll leave the destination in your capable hands." And then Derek turns on the radio, flipping through channels until he stops on an oldies station. He looks over at Stiles. "Is this okay?"

Imagine me and you, I do

I think about you day and night, it's only right

To think about the girl you love and hold her tight

So happy together—

"Yeah," Stiles murmurs, "it's perfect."