Derek's first few nights bartending at Splash had been relatively uneventful. It wan't like he'd never bartended at a gay bar before, and even though this place was bigger than the Jungle back in Beacon Hills there was a lot that was familiar. The music. The men trying to buy him drinks – he could have sworn some of these were the same men even.

It was entirely possible. This club seemed to be the tourist destination. The fact he'd only been in New York City for two weeks didn't seem to bother anyone. The tourists found it endearing, that he was like them. And the New Yorkers – who seemed to be the minority as far as he could tell, or maybe they just stuck to the bartenders they already knew – unanimously offered to show off their city to him.

It was his fourth night working when something changed. It didn't seem like much. He was just wiping down the counter; the dancers for the night were arriving. One of them, Scott – a self-proclaiming "straight boy" with a fantastic body – let out an excited shout.

"Yo, Stiles!" he exclaimed, "Are you back?"

Derek glanced up. Scott was grinning at a slender boy in a leather jacket and skinny jeans, with a gym bag over his shoulder. He had short brown hair, pale skin dotted with moles, and one of the most gorgeous jaw lines Derek had ever seen. The boy smiled, and it was official. He had the most perfect mouth. "I'm back," he announced.

Derek smiled – there was a feeling of camaraderie between the dancers that he found refreshing. Scott headed away to the lockers, but Stiles turned and stared at the new bartender. His lips curled up, slowly, but it was clear he was thrilled. "Well, hello. You're a new piece of décor."

Derek's eyes flicked down to the rag in his hand, then back up to meet the hazel pools that were eyeing him. "I'm Derek."

"Stiles. Pleasure's all mine." The boy thrust his hand forward to shake Derek's.

Derek took the offered hand. "Nice to meet you."

"And I look forward to really getting to know you." Stiles winked, spun on his heel and strode away. It wasn't the way he'd walked in – he was putting extra effort into showing off his assets now. Derek couldn't help but smirk. They were worth showing off.

Derek only caught distant glimpses of Stiles, dancing and working the crowd, over the next several nights. The way he moved was entrancing – fluid, constant, somehow he seemed to always be in control. It was as if, rather than keeping time with the music, the music was keeping time with him. Derek could have watched him for hours – if customers wanting drinks hadn't kept interrupting him every time he caught sight of him. This went on for some time.

It was a week before they had another conversation of any length. Seven days exactly, not that Derek had counted.

Alright. So he'd counted.

"I had a dream about you last night," Stiles announced, lifting himself up onto the bar. Apparently, that's where he'd decided to dance tonight. And he'd decided to just sit there until enough customers had filtered in to make it worth his while.

"Okay?" Derek stammered, "Uh, what… what was it about?"

"You, I just said that," Stiles winked and stood up on the bar. Apparently now was the time he wanted to start dancing – and the conversation was over. Derek spent the next two hours distracted – what with Stiles' beautiful ass practically right in front of his face – and more than a little frustrated.

It wasn't until midnight that Stiles took any breaks at all – and that was only because the drag show started and stole away all the attention from the club's patrons. He sank down onto his ankles, crouching over the bar, and turned his own attention back to Derek. "Enjoying the show?"

"I don't really watch the queens," Derek admitted.

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Wasn't talking about the drag show. Gotta run!"

And in a flash, Stiles had disappeared into the crowd. When the drag show ended, Scott took Stiles' place on the bar. Not that Scott was bad looking – obviously, given what he was doing for a living – but he was not anywhere near as entrancing as Stiles.

When the customers were filing out, Derek hadn't seen any sign Stiles still existed. And then, finally, he emerged from the locker room with Scott – just about the time Derek was finished counting out his tips and tidying up his area of the bar.

"You guys want something to drink?" Derek offered.

To his delight, Stiles shrugged and nodded to Scott. "Bottlecap?" he asked. Scott nodded, and Derek set about making three of the shot in question.

After the glasses were all poured out, Derek raised the shot glass and dropped it into the highball glass that held the rest of the cocktail. "Bottom's up," he toasted, which made both Stiles and Scott laugh before they could have their own drinks.

And so, they began a tradition. At the end of every night, the two dancers would approach Derek's bar, he would make them each a shot. They would stay and socialize with each other until the bar manager would tell them to go home. Derek's attraction to Stiles only heightened as he got to know the boy.

One day, after about a week of this tradition, Stiles was in an uncharacteristically quiet mood. Usually, he was the big talker, but on this particular night – well, morning by this hour – he seemed distracted.

"You want to come grab breakfast with us?" Scott asked when the bar manager ordered them out onto the street.

Derek shrugged. "Sure. Why?"

"Just shut up and come," Stiles insisted – probably the longest sentence he'd uttered the whole night.

Scott snickered. "That's what he said."

"Yeah, let's go," Derek nodded.

The place they ended up going was a little diner only about four blocks from the club. Stiles insisted they all order omelets – different ones so they could share. Derek complied, although he also ordered the chocolate chip pancakes he really wanted and gave his entire omelet to Stiles.

Except for one bite which Stiles force-fed him. "No, you have to taste it. You don't understand. The cheesy-bacon omelet is the best one." And it was pretty good, as it turned out.

As it was, Stiles managed to devour both omelets in an astonishingly short amount of time. The three of them sat at their table for three hours, and Derek was relieved to find out he actually did enjoy spending time with them. They were fun. And he even felt at ease around Stiles, which was amazing given how infuriating and confusing he was at the club. Finally though, they found themselves out on the sidewalk.

Scott clapped his hand onto Stiles' shoulder. "Are you okay now? Do you want to crash at my place?"

"No, I'm fine," Stiles answered, but when Scott bid him good-bye and disappeared around the corner, he turned to Derek with an almost pleading look. "Want to walk me to my apartment?"

Derek smiled. "Sure."

They walked together in silence for about two blocks before Derek finally broke the silence. "You've been really quiet tonight, are you okay?"

"Yeah," Stiles nodded, "Just had a weird night."

Derek nodded sympathet,ically, slipping his arm around Stiles' shoulders. "Weird nights happen." They fell silent again until they reached Stiles' building, though it was a very comfortable silence.

"This is me," Stiles announced, turning his key in the lock. Derek nodded and turned to go but Stiles wasn't finished. "You could come up for a bit, if you wanted."

Obviously Derek accepted. He wasn't an idiot, and he wasn't turning down any offers after quietly pining for this guy for weeks. And it turned out to be a good thing too – when they got to the apartment, the door was wide open and the lights were on. "Shit," Derek and Stiles both said simultaneously.

"You should go," Stiles stammered quickly.

Derek shook his head fervently. "I'm not leaving you if you're being robbed."

"I'm not—" Stiles started to explain, but he didn't need to finish. A perfectly formed face appeared in the doorway. A light dusting of freckles added a touch of color to otherwise porcelain skin.

"Oh, you're back," the man said in a tone so cold it could have frozen Hell itself.

Stiles scowled. "You were supposed to be out of here by four, Jackson. It's six thirty."

Jackson didn't acknowledge this statement at all. "That your new boyfriend? You move on fast."

"Oh, like you hadn't moved on before we were even broken up?" Stiles snapped.

Derek, for his part, stayed silent and just stared at Jackson in the most intimidating way he could manage. He'd been told that could actually be quite frightening. Jackson was either unnerved, didn't notice, or didn't care. He did turn his attention to Derek though, stepping out of the door completely. "You're big," he cooed, as if questioning if those proportions were true everywhere, and volunteering himself to find out.

"You're leaving," Derek growled.

That, finally, got to Jackson. "Yeah, I am," he said, some of his cockiness draining from his voice. And a minute later, he had disappeared down the steps.

Stiles was visibly shaking – enraged, upset. There was a cacophony of terrible emotions etched into the boy's face. "You could have just left," he managed.

Derek didn't answer right away. There wasn't anything he could really say to make Stiles feel any better. Instead, he wrapped his arms around the dancer and folded him into his chest. Stiles, for his part, melted into the embrace. When he had finally stopped shaking, Derek said softly, "If you want to talk about it…"

Stiles shook his head, taking Derek by the hand and leading him into the apartment. It wasn't quite trashed enough to be an actual burglary, but it was trashed enough that it was evident Jackson hadn't found what he was looking for. Stiles led Derek through the mess to a couch, and promptly collapsed onto it. Derek followed suit. "He's my ex," Stiles finally said.

"Got that," Derek admitted, "And you don't have to—"

"He called me tonight," Stiles went on, "Said he wanted to pick up some stuff – it's been two months, I told him I threw out most of his stuff. He didn't care. So I told him to be out by four, and to leave his key when he left."

A thought struck Derek. "Did you want me to walk you home in case he was still here?"

"No!" Stiles exclaimed, "I just… I feel really safe around you. When you watch me dance at the club, I feel like nobody can touch me. I don't know what it is. But I was just… hoping… you might stay. So I'd feel safe here even after… that."

Derek smiled. "I'll stay as long as you want. Whatever you need." He leaned across the couch, moving to plant a kiss on Stiles' forehead, but the dancer lifted his face and Derek's lips met the tip of his nose. They both chuckled.

"Here, let's try that again," Stiles suggested, reaching out and sliding his long, slender fingers into the hair on the back of Derek's head. He lifted his lips up to Derek's mouth and slid his tongue out to push Derek's lips open. For a few minutes that managed to be both simultaneously too long and too short, their tongues wrestled as they explored each other's mouths.

And then Stiles was stripping Derek's shirt off of him. Their mouths broke apart as the shirt lifted off of Derek's shoulders. "You're sure?" he breathed.

Stiles nodded. "Absolutely."

Derek still hesitated. "Because, I've wanted you for…"

"Weeks?" Stiles finished the sentence, "Or like… your whole life?"

Derek didn't answer – he simply pressed his mouth to Stiles' once more. The kiss said all that either of them needed to say.

Scott called Stiles much too early in the day for Derek's tastes. Stiles woke to the sound of phone and untangled himself from Derek's naked body, while Derek mumbled unintelligible, half-asleep protests.

"Gym?" Stiles said, rather groggily himself, "Sure. See you there."

"Gym?" Derek asked.

Stiles gave Derek a playful shove as he answered, "Yeah. People do the fitness there." The phone call was enough to rouse Stiles for the day and so he and Derek dressed and showered – separately, Derek was disappointed to note – and headed their separate ways.

Derek spent the rest of the day wondering if the previous night had been anything more than a rattled Stiles manipulating a bartender he had to know was wrapped around his fingers. He wondered if he was filling Scott in on all of the details, and how much he was laughing about it all. The more Derek spent thinking about it, the more convinced he was he'd been a fool to fall so easily into bed with him. But had he thought was going to end up happening when he walked him home?

Derek only caught glimpses of Stiles once the bar opened. He was fairly certain Stiles and Scott had arrived a little late, and a part of Derek was convinced they'd done so specifically to avoid interacting with him. Another part of him was convinced he was turning into an utter drama queen.

Eventually, the customer's cleared out. Derek set to cleaning his bar, relatively sure that Scott and Stiles would not be stopping by for shots until…

"Aren't we missing something here?" Stiles' voice rang out behind Derek, "Like… usually there's three glasses sitting out right here. And then three shot glasses…"

Derek turned around to find a very expectant Scott and Stiles leaning on his counter. "Sorry," Derek mumbled, grabbing the glasses and setting them on the counter.

He turned to start making the drinks but Stiles gave a little cough and asked, "Was I… not getting what went on last night?"

"What?" Derek practically jumped, he felt like he'd just had an electric shock.

"I just thought you'd be happier to see me tonight," Stiles wondered aloud, "Like, maybe I'd get a kiss or something?"

And suddenly Derek felt very foolish. "Yeah, I'm just kind of tired," Derek stammered, "You know somebody called kind of early…"

"It was noon," Scott protested.

Derek ignored the objection completely, leaning over the counter – and the assembled glasses – to plant a quick kiss on Stiles' lips.

"Shots?" Scott reminded him.

Derek rolled his eyes, but poured their drinks. They each tapped their shot glasses in a toast. Derek smiled as he dropped his shot glass into the full-sized glass, "Bottom's up!"

"Is he now?" Stiles asked with a grin, with a pointed stare at Derek, "I can help you with that later, y'know? After we lose Scott…"

Color filled Derek's cheeks, but he certainly couldn't say he was upset about where Stiles' mind had gone. "Just drink it, Stiles," he grinned.