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

Not gonna lie, this was inspired by the episode of The Simpsons where they get a pool and Bart and Lisa suddenly become popular because everyone wants to swim in it.

I hope you enjoy it!

There's Something in the Water

Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned in frustration. "Jesus, Scott, if you've volunteered us both for the school production again, I'm telling you, dude, I just can't deal with that kind of trauma."

"No, no, it's not that this time," Scott assured him, and Stiles sighed heavily with relief. "It's, uh, something else."

Stiles narrowed his eyes at him with suspicion. "Did you sign us up for a club of some kind? Please tell me it's not the anime club."

"Nope."

"Have you gotten us into trouble for something?" Stiles asked, his head tilted curiously in thought. He was running out of guesses – there was only so much trouble Scott could manage to get into on his own. "Because I already have detention for the rest of this week and I don't need any more. I'm fully booked, baby."

"I've kind of – uh – volunteered you for something," Scott finally revealed, and Stiles wailed miserably, his worst fears confirmed.

"I hate volunteering," he whimpered.

Scott stared at him. "Wow, you're so selfless."

Stiles shot him a withering look. "You want to tell me what I've been volunteered for, or do I have to wait until I receive a confirmation email from the theatre group like last time?"

"Okay, so I was in the locker room waiting to talk to Coach, you know, about missing last week's practise? And some of the guys were in there and I overheard them-"

"Overheard," Stiles repeated, "or eavesdropped? Because there is a difference, Scott, even though you struggle with it."

"Fine, whatever, I kind of hid and listened in on their conversation, is that such a crime?" Scott grumbled, defeated. "Anyway, they were talking about how hot it's been, and Jackson was like, 'I wish one of us had a pool.' and Danny was like, 'We could just go to the public pool?' and Jackson was like, 'Yeah, if we want to catch some kind of infection, sure.'"

"Great impersonations," Stiles murmured, giving him two thumbs up. "Spot on. You really captured Jackson's dickish personality there."

Scott nodded appreciatively. "Thanks. But anyway, I jumped out and was like, 'Hey, guys, I just happened to overhear you and guess what, you won't believe it, but our very own Stiles Stilinski has a pool in his backyard!'"

Stiles stared at him. "Scott," he breathed, "please tell me you didn't."

"So then I invited them all over to your place this Saturday afternoon for a pool party," he finished, shrugging in a what-can-you-do kind of way. "It just happened."

"My life is flashing before my eyes," Stiles whimpered. "No, actually, my beautiful backyard is flashing before my eyes. It's going to be ruined by the end of Saturday night, Scott, I just know it. Red cups and broken glass galore, I see it now." He bowed his head and said mournfully, "Rest in peace, old friend. You served us well."

"Aw, come on," Scott wheedled, "it's not that bad. Would you have preferred I sign you up for the school production of A Streetcar Named Desire?"

Stiles glared at him and said petulantly, "Actually, yes. I don't mind a bit of Blanche."

Scott sighed. "I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't stop to think. I just – I saw an opportunity and I took it. You know how long I've been trying to get close to Allison, and she's friends with Lydia, and Lydia's dating Jackson, and you know he'll bring them if he comes." He took a shaky breath and raised his watery eyes to Stiles's. "This could be my only chance."

"But why me?" Stiles whined. "Why my pool? My beautiful, spotless pool?"

"If I had a pool I'd have offered mine," Scott replied with a shrug. "You're the only person I know who has one, dude."

Stiles took a long breath. "Okay," he said, trying to come to terms with it. "I guess – I guess this is happening. Okay."

"Hey, it's not so bad," Scott consoled him, patting him clumsily on the shoulder. "Think of the bright side. Derek will probably be there."

Stiles promptly started choking on his saliva. "Are you – is this a joke?"

"Think about it," Scott began, grinning at him brightly, like he could already sense that this was his way out of Stiles's bad book, "he's the captain of the lacrosse team, and he's friends with everyone. He'll definitely come."

"Derek Hale is going to be in my backyard," Stiles whispered, his eyes going unfocused as he imagined the heaven that awaited him on Saturday. "In my pool." His eyes bulged. "In his bathers."

They were on their way to their fifth period English class when someone called after them.

"Hey, McPhone!"

Scott spun on his heel towards the shout, obedient like an eager-to-please puppy. "Jackson!" he replied, voice shaking awkwardly with excitement. "Hey! Hey – uh – dude!"

Jackson and Danny approached them, Jackson sneering slightly. "Don't call me dude," he said. "We're not at the dude stage yet. We're not even bros. Not until after the party. And if the party blows, guess what? You'll be back at 'McPhone' status for the rest of the year."

"My last name is McCall, actually," Scott told him, beaming like some naïve child, and Stiles wanted to groan and bury his head in the sand to save himself from the pain of watching.

Jackson stared at him for a long time before sighing and saying, "Just – whatever. Make sure there's alcohol there, alright?"

Panic flared in Stiles's chest and he cleared his throat, drawing Jackson's cold eyes to him. "Um," he began, withering under the chill of Jacksons's stare, "I'm Stiles Stilinski."

Jackson stared harder. "And?"

"And," Stiles went on, "it's my pool."

Danny nodded appreciatively, but Jackson remained unimpressed. "You're bringing this up now, because…?"

Stiles scowled. God, Jackson was such a dick. "Well, my dad's the sheriff."

Jackson frowned further still, his brow digging down over his eyes and giving him the look of a caveman. "Your point?"

"Dude, the sheriff isn't going to allow underage drinking in his own backyard," Danny said, eyeing Jackson dubiously, like even he was beginning to wonder if Jackson wasn't a Neanderthal. "It's illegal."

"Only a little bit," Jackson argued, and Stiles fought the urge to turn and walk away out of frustration. There was only so much stupidity he could take before his body passed out in protest.

"No alcohol," he said instead, in his firmest voice. When Jackson looked ready to argue he hissed, "My father is the sheriff, remember! Do you know what that means? Sheriff! Handcuffs! Jail!"

Before Jackson could reply, Stiles caught Scott by the sleeve and tugged him away to class, determinedly not looking back at the big caveman idiot.

"Seeya, guys!" Scott called back to them, waving excitedly even as they turned and walked away.

"I don't even know how to throw a party," Stiles whined, holding his head in his hands. "The last time I had a party I was twelve and there was a piñata and musical chairs, and I've got a feeling that's not what your buddies are expecting."

"All we really need is snacks and music," Scott said, sounding horribly upbeat and excited about the whole thing. "You know, like, Doritos and dip? We can just move your stereo outside, or even up against your bedroom window. You've got enough music on your iPod, right?"

"Why aren't you as miserable as I am?" Stiles demanded. He paused in mock-thought before gasping dramatically, earning an eye roll from his friend. "Oh wait, I already know the answer. It's not your god damn backyard that's going to be destroyed tomorrow, it's mine."

"I've already apologised," Scott grumbled, "so I don't know what else you want from me."

"I'm going to have to change the water after this, I hope you realise," he said sourly. "I can't trust these people not to mistake the pool for the toilet."

Scott grimaced. "Thanks for that thought."

Stiles bared his teeth in a grin at him. "You're totally welcome."

The next day they had lacrosse practise, even though neither of them had ever set foot on the field during an actual game before. They'd joined in the hope of gaining notoriety for all the right reasons, and maybe making some friends in the process, but it now seemed like all it did was cause them physical pain.

"My lungs are about to break," Scott rasped, clutching at his chest and rummaging through his backpack for his inhaler. "I swear – I hate – suicides." He sat there on the grass, sweat dripping from him like rain.

"They make you big and strong, McPhone," Jackson interjected, grinning easily and strutting about as energetically as he'd been before the intense training exercises. "Hey, Derek," he called, and Stiles's head jolted up automatically at the mention of his name. "These are the guys who are throwing the party on Saturday."

Stiles watched, entranced, as Derek turned to face them. Sweat sheened across his skin and beaded over his forehead, but he still managed to look ridiculously attractive. After push-ups and laps and suicide drills Stiles only managed to look red, sweaty, and laughably weak. The same could not be said for Derek Hale.

"Who?" he asked, and Stiles could practically see the heavens opening and angels coming down to blow cute little trumpets and throw confetti at them.

"McPhone and Slinky," Jackson said, waving a hand absently at where Stiles was gazing star-struck up at Derek, and Scott was rasping at his inhaler. They didn't make the most impressive pair.

Derek's eyebrow quirked, like he was both confused and amused at the same time, and he made a gruff sound that Stiles hoped was in the same neighbourhood as laughter. His eyes travelled past Scott and landed on Stiles, and Stiles was pretty sure it was the first time he'd ever noticed him. Ever. And they'd been in the same classes since they were five years old.

"It's – uh – it's Stiles Stilinski," Stiles stammered, actually looking Derek in the eyes. "Not – uh – Slinky."

"What time's the party?" Derek asked, casual and at ease, like this definitely wasn't the biggest thing to have happened to him all year, and Stiles swallowed thickly and tried to remember how to speak.

"We're thinking around one tomorrow afternoon," Jackson answered instead, drawing Derek's attention back to him and away from Stiles, who gasped for breath and tried to compose himself.

"One on Saturday," Derek mused, running it over in his head. "I think I'm free."

Stiles could have burst into song, but because he was kind of freaking out about being spoken to by Derek fucking Hale, and also because he'd just really exerted himself on the field, he only managed a weak, "Hope to see you there, man!"

"Dude," Stiles breathed, shutting his eyes and letting his head fall back against the head-rest of his seat, "he acknowledged us. He – Scott, dude – he talked to us."

"Who? Jackson?"

"Derek," Stiles replied, rolling his head to look at his friend. "Honestly, weren't you paying attention?"

"I was kind of busy trying not to die, actually," Scott said, making a point out of waving his inhaler about a little before dropping it back into his bag.

"Well, while you were off, you know, having an asthma attack or whatever, Derek talked to us," Stiles told him. "He said he might come tomorrow."

Scott snorted with amusement and said, "Look who's excited, now."

Stiles shut his eyes and sighed. "It's been a good day. He talked to us."

Stiles had considered his options, and it seemed like he had the likeliest chance of getting his father to agree to the party if he brought it up on Saturday morning before his dad had left for work. He didn't want to give him too much time to think it over – his dad had a habit of discovering flaws in Stiles's plans that even Stiles had missed – and he didn't want to risk a last minute phone call announcing the party minutes before it started. He wouldn't put it past his dad to finish work early just to come home to doll out punishment.

So that was how Stiles found himself up at 7 o'clock on a Saturday morning, making bacon and orange juice for his father.

"You're up early," his dad said when he entered the room, buttoning his shirt and frowning at Stiles with something akin to suspicion. He took the glass of orange juice that Stiles's had left waiting for him and he sniffed it warily. "Um… why are you up early?"

Stiles shrugged and turned back to the frying pan to dish up the bacon. It was easier to lie to his dad when he didn't have to look at him. "Felt like doing something nice for you, that's all."

"Okay," his dad said, "but why else?"

"Couldn't sleep?" Stiles tried, turning and sliding the fried bacon on to the plates he'd left out.

His dad stared at him. "Stiles."

"Okay, okay, fine," he relented, "I wanted to ask you something before you left for work."

"And you couldn't have asked me yesterday? You know, at a reasonable hour?" His dad accepted his breakfast with a curt nod. "Thanks, kiddo."

Stiles sighed and carried his own breakfast to the kitchen table with his dad, and when he sat it was with a huff of dismay.

"You weren't supposed to realise that I want something," he grumbled. "This breakfast was supposed to put you in a good mood."

"A mood that's more willing and likely to agree to things, you mean," his father murmured, eyes flickering between Stiles and his breakfast. "But there's no going back now. You might as well just spit it out. I appreciate the honesty, though. At least you owned up to it."

"You should take my honest nature into consideration, then," Stiles told him. "Keep in mind how honest and helpful I am, and how great my bacon and OJ is."

"I'll try," his dad allowed, a smile tugging at his mouth. "C'mon, Stiles. Let me in on the big dilemma."

"Fine," Stiles huffed, and he sat back a little and met his dad's eyes. "I've invited a few people over today for a pool party." He didn't mention that it hadn't been his idea, and that he hadn't invited anyone, actually, and how it was pretty likely that more than a few people would come. "I just wanted to tell you," he continued, pressing on before his father could interrupt and shut the whole thing down, "and I wanted to make sure you were okay with it."

His dad chewed on his breakfast for a long time, and the wait was agonising. "Who have you invited?" he asked eventually, and his eyes were stern. Stiles felt as though he was being interrogated.

"Scott," he quickly answered, "the rest of the lacrosse team, and then a few people from classes."

"The lacrosse team," his father repeated dully, flat with disbelief. "You mean the people you're always calling apes and Neanderthals? That lacrosse team?"

Stiles shrugged. "I've developed an appreciation for evolution, what can I say?"

His father frowned slightly as he took a long drink from his juice. "Who have you invited from your classes?"

Stiles panicked for a brief second before he managed to say, "Lydia Martin, Allison Argent – you know, just a couple of people."

His dad took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and Stiles tried to smile.

"Will there be any drinking?" his dad asked, and Stiles almost relaxed a little. His dad seemed to be softening.

He shook his head vigorously. "No way," he said firmly. "I flat out told everyone that there's not going to be any drinking. I threatened them with handcuffs and hard prison time."

His dad nodded, looking impressed. "Good lad," he said.

Stiles watched him, waiting for any kind of sign.

"So?" he asked when the waiting became too much. "What do you say?"

His dad finished the last of his juice before saying, "If anyone drowns, I'm drowning you as punishment. Is that understood?"

Stiles almost squealed in excitement. "I promise you, everyone will be totally responsible and I'll make sure everything's fine and I'll be the perfect host. No one will drown. I'll hand out free floaties at the door or something. I'll take preventative measures to ensure no one dies."

"Good," his dad grumbled, smiling just a little, and Stiles sighed in absolute relief.

"Well," he said, letting it out like an exhale, "now that that's done, I think I'm going to head back to bed for a couple more hours of sleep – because let's be honest here, I am not a morning person."

His dad laughed, ruffled Stiles's hair, and then Stiles whistled cheerfully as he climbed the stairs back to his bedroom.

"Okay, Doritos are out and dips have been strategically placed," Scott called from the snack table that they'd placed up against the house in the backyard. "I even folded a few napkins into swans!" He held one up with pride.

Stiles managed a shaky laugh. "That's really cool, Scott, but do you think you could maybe help talk me down from this panic attack for a second?"

Scott dropped the swan and hurried over. "Wow, okay, is this really happening?" he asked, hands spread and eyes wide, like he was being asked to catch something. "What do I do in this kind of situation? Hold on, I'll Google it." He was already reaching for his phone when Stiles shook his head and caught him by the wrist.

"No," he wheezed, his fingers tightening into a death grip, "just – just tell me this is going to be fine. Tell me I won't end up grounded for life."

Scott glanced down at his wrist, which was now property of Stiles's fingers, and then met his eyes. "Um."

"Scott!"

"Everything is going to be fine," he said, and yeah, he sounded just as panicky as Stiles felt. "It's going to be great. Everyone's going to have a great time, and we'll go up, like, ten notches in the cool scale." He nodded happily at that prospect. "I'm going to talk to Allison, dude. I'm actually going to do it."

"That's – that's good," Stiles managed. "I'm probably going to faint if I see Derek, not gonna lie."

"You managed to stay conscious last time you saw him," Scott pointed out helpfully, "so stay hopeful."

"Thanks, Scott," Stiles said, just a little sarcastically.

With his free hand, Scott patted Stiles on the shoulder. "No worries, man. Thanks, y'know. For this. Again."

"No worries," Stiles said, though actually there had been plenty of worries, and the worries were continuing to exist.

Stiles was about to suggest they blow up some of the inflatable pool toys he was sure his dad had stored away in the garage, but at that moment the door bell rang. Both of their heads turned towards the house.

"Did you—"

"I heard it."

Stiles dropped Scott's wrist (Scott breathed a sigh of relief and rubbed sorrowfully at the red marks that had appeared where Stiles's fingers had been) and raced into the house, nearly tripping over the extension cords that lead outside to the stereo. He was panting heavily with exertion when he pulled open the front door to reveal a group of people he was pretty fucking sure he'd never seen before in his life.

"Um," he said, his eyes flickering between their unfamiliar faces, "can I – help you?"

"We're here for the party," said a guy with large ears and a six pack of beer under his arm. "Are you McPhone?"

Stiles took a deep breath and struggled to let it out again. He ground his teeth and smiled. "Sure," he said, "that's me." He stood aside and held the door open. "Come through. But – uh – no drinking."

"Sure," said the guy, but he still brought the beer with him anyway.

"You're a cool dude, McPhone," said one of the girls with him. "You're on the debate team, yeah?"

"Uh, no?"

She smiled at him, nodding. "Cool."

"Have you even seen Jackson yet?" Stiles demanded, almost shouting above the noise.

Scott shrugged. "I might have, I don't know. There are too many people to tell apart."

There were more people in Stiles's backyard than he even knew, and he recognised almost no one out of the crowd. After a while he'd quit opening the front door to every group and instead propped the backyard gate open so people could simply come through when they arrived. He was already beginning to think that had been a big mistake, because people never seemed to stop trailing in.

He rubbed at his temple, wishing he'd had enough foresight to forbid Jackson from inviting anyone Stiles didn't personally know.

"He's probably just being fashionably late," Scott said knowledgably. "All the popular people do it."

Stiles narrowed his eyes at him.

There was a shriek and a triumphant shout followed by an enormous splash, and Stiles looked over quickly enough to see two people struggling in the water, one of them fully dressed and definitely unimpressed.

"Hey!" Stiles shouted, though no one paid him any attention. "You gotta – gotta show some respect for the people in jeans, man! No one wants wet jeans!" No one listened. "Wet jeans are heavy as shit, okay."

The music changed, and Stiles's head snapped in the direction of the stereo. He was storming towards it before Scott could hold him back.

Two guys were going through his iPod, arguing over what to play. Stiles slapped their hands away and promptly returned it to the original playlist.

"Dude," he hissed, glaring at the uninvited guests, "that was such a party foul, oh my god. You don't just change the music, okay? Not when I spent twenty minutes picking out the tracks."

One of them frowned at Stiles, looking utterly bewildered. "But… it was just made up of Justin Timberlake songs."

"Yeah," the other guy said, guffawing like the situation was funny or something. "Isn't Justin Timberlake in a boy band?"

Stiles's eye twitched. "What year do you think we're in, dumbass?" he demanded, voice low. They'd hit a nerve – a nerve only Scott and his dad knew about. "Newsflash, Forrest Gump – we're not in the 90s anymore. And for your information, Justin Timberlake happens to be one of the most highly regarded artists of the time. I mean come on, who doesn't know all the words to 'SexyBack'? And don't even get me started on 'LoveStoned'. That interlude is perfect." He took a breath, feeling overwhelmed. "Justin Timberlake is a gift. And you know what? I haven't even touched on his acting career. The man worked with Fincher, for heaven's sake!" He took another long breath and let it out slowly.

The two offenders stared blankly at Stiles, blinking groggily as though they hadn't understood a word he'd said. Stiles shook his head neurotically and made a noise of frustration.

"Just – just leave the iPod alone, okay?"

"Hey – hey, McPhone," someone gurgled, grabbing Stiles by the arm and tugging him through the crowd, totally against his will, but whatever. "Tamara stepped on a broken bottle. There's blood all over the place, dude. It's like – this is some medical show shit."

The crowd thinned a little, and then Stiles was starring down at a clearly intoxicated girl who looked no older than he was. She was in a bathing suit – a particularly revealing suit, at that – and she was sitting in a heap on the lawn, crying loudly as she drunkenly prodded at her bleeding foot.

"Whoa," he murmured, shaking free of the hand around his arm and blinking at the increasing amount of blood that was oozing from Tamara's foot. "That's – uh – a big cut. That's like – wow. Big."

"Yeah," said one of her friends, who looked just as drunk as Tamara was. "It's like… it just keeps going. You can see her insides."

"Uh, I should probably – fuck – get a first aid kit?" he guessed. He'd never had to do this kind of stuff before – this was usually where his dad stepped in, or Scott, who'd actually done a course in first aid back when he'd been interested in joining the life savers club because Allison had done volunteer work with them. "I'm going to go and do that." He turned and headed towards the house, but then hurried back and added, "I'll be like, two minutes, okay?"

Tamara hiccupped loudly.

The party had grown significantly bigger. It was nearing four and Stiles's backyard was reaching its limit. There wasn't an empty patch of lawn to be seen, and the pool was just a mass of writhing bodies – Stiles was definitely going to replace the water afterwards.

He hadn't seen Jackson, Danny or Derek yet, but he had spotted Lydia's head through the crowd, and he was sure he'd seen Scott with someone who looked suspiciously like Allison. It was just that whenever Stiles wanted to stop for a moment and take a breath, to talk to his friend, to enjoy his own god damn party, there was suddenly something else that needed to be done. When someone wasn't trying to change the music, there was someone vomiting in his hallway, and that was, you know, not okay with him.

"Excuse me," he shouted, forcing his way through the crowd, "make way! Host coming through! Make way for McPhone!"

He reached his house and stumbled through the back door, stepping over discarded clothes that had been piled there by the people who had dived into the pool in their underwear – again, the water would definitely be replaced – and then he hurried towards the bathroom. The first thing he noticed was that his bathtub had been filed with ice and alcohol, just like a scene from a movie. The second thing he noticed was that someone was vomiting profusely into his toilet.

"Wow," he said, standing there and surveying the damage appreciatively. "I'm living in a movie. I am actually in a movie right now." He fought the urge to pinch himself, and instead went through the mirror cabinet for the first aid kit. He spared a glance at the person being ill on his floor and mustered up enough energy to hope that they didn't get any on the tile.

He headed back outside, back into the overwhelming summer heat. He walked quickly but kept his eyes down, fearful of stepping on glass like Tamara had. It wasn't all that much of a surprise, therefore, when he ran head-first into someone's naked chest.

"Whoa," he gasped, reeling backwards and bringing his hands up to steady himself, "sorry!"

The brick wall he'd run into laughed a little and caught him by the shoulder, helping stabilise him. "You okay?" he asked, and Stiles's entire body froze as though it had gone into lock down. He somehow managed to raise his eyes to the guy's face.

"Derek," he croaked, "you made it!"

Derek Hale was shirtless in Stiles's backyard. Stiles's body had just made contact with Derek's shirtless chest. Derek's hand was currently on Stiles's shoulder. Derek was there. Derek was looking at him.

"Yeah," Derek said, and he removed his hand. "Looks like you've got a good turn out." He looked around with raised eyebrows, taking in the mass of rowdy, drunken teenagers. "How many of these people do you actually know?"

Stiles swallowed. "Most," he lied, because Derek would know everyone since Derek was popular and amazing. But Derek only raised his eyebrows further, amused disbelief clear in his features, and Stiles crumpled. "Okay, fine, I know like, four people. I don't even think some of them go to our school."

Derek grinned, revealing perfectly straight teeth that were probably just naturally that good, no braces necessary. "I guess this is what happens when you leave Jackson in charge of your guest list."

Stiles laughed shakily, astonished beyond belief that Derek Hale was actually talking to him – making jokes and everything.

Derek started like he'd just been reminded of something and he said, "Hey, sorry, have I interrupted something, or…?"

Stiles blinked at him. "What? No. No – you're definitely not interrupting anything. I'm – I'm free to talk! Whenever! All the time!"

"But – first aid?" His eyes darted down to the kit in Stiles's hands.

"Oh fuck," Stiles gasped, "I forgot about Tamara."

Derek frowned with confusion, his eyebrows quirking so charismatically. "Who?"

Stiles opened his mouth to reply but promptly shut it again upon realising he didn't actually know Tamara, other than that she was a drunken injured girl in his backyard. "She cut her foot," he said instead. "I was going to get this. Like, five minutes ago." He bit his lip in worry. "Oh dear god she's probably bled out by now – my dad is actually going to kill me once he finds out I let a girl die in our backyard. He told me he'd drown me if someone drowned, so he'll probably stab me to death for this. With shards of broken hopes and dreams!" Stiles sucked back a rattling breath that stank of chlorine and sweat, and he fought the urge to let it out as a dry sob.

"Stiles," Derek said, voice close and quiet, "are you alright?"

He blinked and looked up at the guy – the incredibly attractive, incredibly popular, incredibly shirtless guy.

"You're seriously the first person to call me by my actual name all afternoon," he said, and he was hit by an overwhelming wave of depression.

Derek's hand returned to Stiles's shoulder and he offered it a comforting rub. Stiles absently wished that he wasn't wearing a t-shirt, but hey, he'd take what he could get.

"Let's find Tamara and deal with her, okay?" Derek said, and Stiles breathed out in relief.

"Yes," he said, "that sounds – that's a good idea."

As it turned out, Derek actually knew what he was doing. He took one look at Tamara's foot and then he was crouching down beside her, fiddling through the first aid kid and cleaning the wound, or whatever it was you were supposed to do with an injury like that. Stiles tried to watch and learn – seriously, he tried – but it was hard to concentrate when Derek's bare back was visible and his muscles and bones were moving and shifting hypnotically beneath his tanned skin. The sun and sweat made him glisten, and Stiles was pretty sure he was a sick pervert for enjoying the moment so much.

"You're like – you're a freaking doctor, dude," Stiles told him once Tamara's foot was bandaged and they'd found her a lawn chair to rest in. They were headed back to the house to return the first aid kit, and Stiles was pretty much lost to Derek's charms. "You were all wham-wham-wham-fixed back there."

Derek's lip twitched, the hint of a smile. "It's basic first aid," he said, waving off the compliment, "I learned it at camp when I was thirteen."

"Well it's more than I know," Stiles admitted. "Which is probably totally shameful." He sighed. "Don't judge me for my limited knowledge of first aid."

"No judgement," Derek assured him.

Stiles smiled to himself, looking down so Derek couldn't see just how stupidly, ridiculously happy he was.

"Nice house, by the way," Derek said as they entered it, stepping over more discarded clothing as they did. "Nice pool, too."

"Thanks," Stiles murmured, "I'm glad everyone's enjoying it." He only meant it half-bitterly.

The mysterious vomitter had left the bathroom by the time they entered, and most of the alcohol had been taken from the half-melted ice bath. Stiles put the first aid kit back in the cabinet while Derek pretended not to look around at the bathroom with curiosity.

"This was supposed to be a non-alcoholic event, you know," Stiles said, following Derek's eyes to the bath. "I promised my dad and everything. I was like 'I give you my honour, father' and he was like 'I trust you, son' but now I've gone and pretty much ruined everything, so it's not looking like he'll trust me with anything ever again. Well, at least not this century." He shrugged. "But hey, what can you do?"

"I could kick everyone out," Derek said, and Stiles was laughing before he realised Derek was serious.

"Wait – wait – hold on," he stammered, finally realising that Derek wasn't laughing with him, "I wasn't – I was being rhetorical!"

"I know," Derek said, his face completely neutral. "But the offer still stands. I'll get rid of them for you."

Stiles looked up at him, staring him squarely in his ridiculously attractive eyes. "Why?" he asked.

Derek shrugged and ran his hand over his head, and wow, yep, biceps.

"I could probably just ring my dad," Stiles said, thinking aloud. "He'd get rid of them easily, but then I'd be sentenced to death by stabbing." He grimaced. "Win-lose." He pretended to measure his options in his hands as though he was a scale.

Derek looked at him, and Stiles chewed on the inside of his lips as he tried to think of a way to get out of what was going to be a very painful, bloody death.

"Come on," Derek said in his quiet, stern voice, and he edged around Stiles and started back for the backyard, "I'm pulling the plug on this party."

Stiles snorted with amusement, trailing deliriously after the ridiculously attractive man. "That sounds like – you could be a character in a movie, with that kind of dialogue." He thought for a moment. "This whole day could be from a movie, really." His eyes fell to Derek's naked back again. "That means I should get a happy ending out of all this pain and suffering." I should get to kiss the girl. Or in my case, Derek Hale.

The backyard was still as crowded as it had been when Stiles had last seen it, and someone had definitely changed the music – Stiles hadn't put any Kanye in with his JT playlist, he'd have remembered that. There was the nearby sound of glass shattering followed by howls of drunken laughter, and really? It was only five in the afternoon, holy hell he was surrounded by alcoholics.

Derek reached out and tapped the nearest person on the shoulder, and the guy, who looked incredibly intoxicated, blinked groggily at him for a long moment before recognition sparked in his eyes.

"Hey," he slurred, nodding enthusiastically along to the music, "you're the sports guy!" He pointed at Derek with his drink and it splashed over the both of them.

"Yeah," Derek agreed, looking unimpressed and frustrated. "Hey, Jackson Whittemore's having a party at his house, there's free booze and a DJ and everything. You should grab a bunch of people and head over there."

The guy's eyes bulged. "Whoa, dude," he said, "thanks for like, letting me know!" In a cheery voice he whispered, "You're the man."

Stiles watched as the guy stumbled over to his friends and told them.

"Instant reaction," Derek said, watching as the group continued to spread the word throughout the crowd. "I'm betting that in ten minutes the only people left here are passed out or deaf."

Stiles blinked at the crowd, which was now buzzing with rekindled excitement. He watched as group disappeared through the back gate, headed towards the party that didn't exist.

He looked at Derek, who was smiling smugly. "You… are a genius," he said. "An actual genius." A beautiful, beautiful genius.

Derek shrugged. "Everyone has their specialties," he said, and he grinned that blinding white smile that Stiles was – shockingly enough – growing accustomed to.

"Come on," Stiles said, walking backwards in the direction of the house, not wanting to take his eyes from Derek while he still had him there, "that zombie sloshed his drink all over you. I'll find you a towel."

"Hey, I can actually see your lawn now," Derek said, stretching tall in his seat in the kitchen so he could peer out of the window at the backyard beyond it. He snickered a little and muttered, "Jackson's going to flip when he realises what's happened." He wiped at his stomach with the wet towel Stiles had provided him, and Stiles struggled to keep his eyes above his shoulders.

"I didn't even see Jackson once this evening," Stiles grumbled, grinding his teeth at the thought of the guy, "and he's the reason why this party happened in the first place. Well. Him and Scott." He paused. "Come to think of it, I have no idea where Scott is, either."

"Jackson was here," Derek assured him, "he was my ride. He disappeared though, and I wasn't too bothered about tracking him down again." He shrugged. "It was too hot to chase him through the crowd."

There was a lot Stiles could have commented on, but instead he said, "So you have no way to get home?"

"I don't live too far from here," Derek told him offhandedly, like the Hale house wasn't on the edge of the forest or anything, "I can walk."

Stiles shot him a pointed look.

"Okay, fine, I'll call a taxi."

"I'll drive you, idiot," Stiles murmured, and he dropped his eyes to the floor before he could start blushing at the thought of Derek in his Jeep with him.

"Hey, uh, do you maybe have a shirt I could borrow?" Derek asked, embarrassment prevalent in his tone. "I wouldn't be able to tell you where mine has gone to."

Stiles smiled shakily and with one final glance at Derek's shirtless body he said, "Yeah, I'll just – I'll find you something." He was about to suggest Derek come with him up to his bedroom, but he didn't want him to see his nerdy posters, or the junk he'd left lying around haphazardly. He didn't want his chances dashed because of an unfortunate Pokémon poster he didn't have the heart to take down.

"Thanks," Derek said, and Stiles hurried out of the room. He skipped up the staircase and swung around the corner and slammed face-first into his bedroom door.

"What the fuck?" he seethed, staggering backwards and bringing a hand up to test if he'd broken his nose. When nothing hurt too badly and his hand didn't come back bloody he switched his attention to the door. He knew he certainly hadn't shut it.

Stiles narrowed his eyes with dark suspicion. He'd seen enough movies in his lifetime to know what a closed bedroom door meant at a teenage house party.

"This is how unplanned pregnancies happen," he muttered under his breath. "This is how you get STDs."

He considered his loud face-first knock as plenty of warning, and instead of announcing himself again he simply reached out and swung the door wide open, ready to shame two teenagers into a lifetime of celibacy –

"Oh my god, Scott?" he cried. "What the hell, man? Why aren't you having sex right now?"

Scott and Allison were sitting on Stiles's bed, PS2 controllers in their hands. Vice City was paused on the tv in front of them. It was all incredibly boring and totally rated PG-13.

"This isn't what happens in the movies," Stiles muttered, feeling more than a little foolish.

"Dude," Scott breathed, eyes wide and furious, "what the hell?"

Stiles blinked rapidly as he tried to comprehend the situation. "Hey, Allison," he said, voice weak and wavering. "Fancy seeing you here… in my room… playing Grand Theft Auto." He smiled awkwardly in her direction. "I'm glad you could come."

"Hey, Stiles," she said, face pink. "I hope you don't mind that we're in here. We haven't – nothing's – we've just been playing games." Her eyes bulged. "Video games."

"It's okay," Stiles said, edging into his room and scurrying to his dresser, "I'm just gonna grab a shirt, and then I'll leave you both to your hooker murdering and car stealing." He grabbed the first shirt he saw and bolted, accidentally slamming the door on his way out.

"You look ridiculous," Stiles told him, not for the first time.

"It's your shirt," Derek reminded him – as though Stiles would ever forget.

"Yeah," he agreed, "but on you it's – it's something else."

Derek sighed and looked down at himself, drawing Stiles's eyes back to the blue and orange polo shirt that was straining tightly against his torso. "It's not that bad, is it?" He looked at Stiles with desperation in his eyes, as though he seriously thought he could ever look anything but astonishingly attractive.

"No, it's just – just a little tight, that's all. Just a little." Stiles grinned at him, wanting desperately to laugh at how amazing he was.

"It's not my fault you're freakishly small," Derek told him, tugging the shirt away from his body. "Are you sure this isn't a in a children's size?"

"Hey," Stiles murmured, fighting a grin, "I prefer the word 'lean', thank you. And – uh – no, it's definitely Stiles sized." He'd worn the shirt only a week ago, and it definitely hadn't looked as good on him as it did on Derek.

"Here's some more glass," Derek murmured, and they wandered over to a spot by the pool where someone's beer bottle had met an unfortunate end against the concrete.

Derek was holding a plastic garbage bag that was already filled to the brim with discarded bottles and general debris from the party. He and Derek were the only ones remaining, save for Scott and Allison in Stiles's bedroom (hopefully still playing video games and not doing anything else on his bed), and Derek had volunteered to help clean up. Stiles had put up a fight, but had eventually caved when Derek promised he had nothing else to do. Besides, who was Stiles to say no to spending more time with the guy?

"I'll put this with the pile," Derek said, gesturing with the bag he was holding, and Stiles nodded. He glanced over and watched Derek place it down by two large boxes they'd already filled with rubbish, and then he looked back down at where he was sweeping up shards of broken bottles.

All in all, he thought, the party hadn't been so terrible. Sure, it had probably reduced his lifespan by a decade because of how stressful it had been, but it had also brought him significantly closer to Derek Hale, and that was an achievement to be proud of.

"Watch out," he murmured, looking down at the glass and noticing Derek's feet getting dangerously close, "if you cut yourself you'll have to do your own first aid, since I think we've both realised I'm useless at it." He laughed a little and looked up, smiling, and –

Derek was really close.

Like, he was standing shockingly close to Stiles.

Close enough –

to kiss.

"Derek," Stiles said, his voice no louder than a whisper. He couldn't look into Derek's eyes without going cross-eyed, and he was pretty sure his breath was Doritos and dip flavoured and that had to disgusting, but Derek was so close. He was so close that Stiles could see the pores in his skin, and the fine stubble over his jaw, and the dark brown of his eyelashes. There were flecks of gold in his eyes.

"I've had a really good time today," Derek murmured, and Stiles could feel the movement against his lips.

"Hm?" He was pretty sure his eyes were closing, and yeah, he was leaning in even closer.

"I said," Derek began, but then they were kissing.

Derek's mouth was soft and gentle, and as their lips pressed together he brought a hand up to hold Stiles's jaw. Stiles made a sound of approval and he scrambled a hand up between them to rest against Derek's chest, providing himself with some kind of stability.

The kiss deepened, and Stiles was pretty sure he was the instigator, but he couldn't keep track of anything – couldn't even think. It was all a blur of Derek Derek Derek Derek Derek Derek.

They separated and Stiles took a shaky breath, one that he was pretty sure he could've gone without if it meant he could keep kissing Derek just that little bit longer.

"I know I keep saying this," Stiles whispered, "but I really think my life has turned into a movie."

Derek pressed his smile against Stiles's jaw, and Stiles's couldn't help the shiver that went through him. He raised a hand to the back of Derek's neck and ran his fingernails through his short, stubble-thick hair.

"You're ridiculous," Derek told him, sounding disgustingly fond. "I still remember when you tried out for the lacrosse team. You were wearing a Bart Simpson shirt and you wouldn't stop talking." He laughed breathily against the shell of Stiles's ear.

"I have a habit of doing that," Stiles murmured, pressing himself against Derek as best as he could without stepping in the glass that he was trying his very hardest not to forget. "I'm a talker."

"I've noticed."

Stiles smiled. "I don't know if you've noticed this as well, but I really like you."

Derek made a sound of surprise. "Really?" He pressed a chaste kiss against a particularly sensitive spot under Stiles's jaw.

"I know, it's hard to believe," he continued, breathy and amazed. "What's a guy like me see in a guy like you, anyway?"

Derek shifted and brought their lips together again, and Stiles wanted to stay like that forever, kissing him, their hands lost over each other.

Of course, that was when his dad came home.

The car door slamming shut gave them just enough warning to break apart, and then Stiles's dad was stomping across the yard, eyes bulging out of his extremely red face.

"Stiles, I thought this was going to be a small party?" he breathed, and Stiles worried at the sight of a throbbing vein in his forehead. "I thought you said you had it all under control?"

"Everybody makes mistakes," Stiles squeaked. "Nobody's perfect." He didn't know why he was suddenly quoting Hannah Montana, only that it kept him from passing out in a panic.

His dad waved a hand towards the piles of empty beer bottles that they'd collected into boxes and garbage bags. "What happened to not drinking?" Yeah, he definitely had a bulging vein in his forehead.

Stiles held his hands up innocently. "You can test me – I'm as sober as a newborn!"

His dad narrowed his eyes at him and gaped wordlessly, struggling to speak. "Stiles – you – I can't – this isn't – you're grounded."

Stiles nodded, having already assumed as much.

"For – for a month."

He was about to protest, but the vein in his father's forehead throbbed warningly.

"Okay, dad," he murmured, and his face burned hot and ashamed. "I'm sorry."

His dad looked like he'd like to have said something else, to have yelled at him for a little longer, but he glanced at Derek and said instead, "Take your friend home, and then we're going to have a long talk about responsibilities."

Stiles swallowed thickly, not at all looking forward to that. "Sure thing, sheriff."

His dad took a deep breath and stormed back to the house, muttering quietly as he did, obscenities only just audible.

After he managed to smuggle Scott and Allison out of the house, Stiles took Derek home in his Jeep. They were quiet for the most part, the radio filling the silence for them. It wasn't awkward or uncomfortable – instead it was relaxing, and almost soothing. He felt remarkably at ease. It was a pleasant change after the hectic afternoon he'd suffered through.

It wasn't until he parked the car outside Derek's house that Stiles realised they still had a lot they needed to say.

"So," he began, turning in his seat to face the ridiculously attractive guy he'd earlier been kissing, "looks like I'll be doing some hard time."

"Mmm," Derek agreed, "a month of it."

"I might come out of it a changed man," Stiles said. "I might join a gang and get some teardrop tattoos… You never know."

Derek's lip twitched. "It's a possibility."

Stiles met his eyes, and found only affection and amusement in them. He took a breath, steeled himself, and asked, "Do you think – maybe – you could wait for me?"

Derek laughed, his perfect teeth flashing like diamonds, and he said, "I've seen your house, Stiles, and I'm pretty sure an athletic guy could shimmy up your drainpipe and get through your bedroom window in under a minute, undetected."

Stiles grinned, absolutely besotted. "I'm sorry – did you – did you just say 'shimmy'?"

He shrugged. "I can neither confirm nor deny that."

"You're so ridiculous," Stiles murmured. "I like it."

"I'm glad. Now shut up and let's enjoy our movie moment and have a goodnight kiss."

Stiles grinned and let himself be pulled in.

THE END