Stiles wakes up at 10am the next morning for a 9am class, his sheets imprinting a pattern on his cheek and his hair standing up on end like he's been electrocuted.

"Fuck," he says, and then remembers that he's meant to be meeting Scott for lunch and he looks like crap and has no way of telling Scott that he'll probably be late because his phone is currently in the possession of some chiselled demi-god with a body carved by angels. "Fuck," he says again. It's sort of satisfying. It almost helps. "Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck."

He sighs, rubs his bleary eyes with the heels of his palms, and picks up his borrowed phone, frowning when he sees that there are two texts waiting. The first one is from his phone and must have come through last night, after he went to bed and lay awake for seven hours. He opens that message first.

Don't mention it.
[Received 19:41]

Huh. It's a pretty congenial text, all things considered. He's starting to wonder if Derek really is as aloof as he'd assumed. He thinks back to their conversation last night, when Derek had seemed completely willing to listen – well, read – and offer his own story in return. It's kind of awesome for him to do that, Stiles thinks, considering they haven't properly met, and Stiles can't get some of his actual real life friends to talk to him about his mother most days.

It's still odd, he thinks, how much he actually enjoys texting Derek. Even though they've only been doing it for a couple of days, Stiles has carved a little nook in his life for the sarcastic messages, looks forward to them and enjoys reading them, coming up with replies that will hopefully make Derek feel the same way.

He picks up the phone and types out a message. He wonders if it'll ever be Derek who sends the first text and sparks a proper conversation that doesn't take a nosedive into depression and dead parents.

Unemployed, huh? The lack of an alarm on your phone caused me to miss my first class. I'm considering taking legal action. My people will be in touch.
[Sent 10:13]

He knows from experience that Derek will take eons to reply, if he actually does, so he puts the phone back on his bedside cabinet and yawns, stretching out his body until he hears at least three vertebrae crack. Still aching, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up, scratching an annoying itch in the small of his back and yawning again. He has no idea why he feels so rough. He's not hungover, hasn't been since the last time he got drunk and tried to kiss Lydia – really, he should have known better – and ended up with concussion, and that was nearly three months ago. He staggers into the bathroom, splashes some cold water onto his face and inspects himself in the mirror. He sighs. If he goes outside within the hour, he'll probably get arrested. He'll scare small children. He'll turn nubile young men into stone.

He takes his time in the shower, reasoning that he's already missed his morning classes and might as well show up to his afternoon ones looking like he's at least half human. He almost feels like he's earnt his place amongst the living when he walks back into his bedroom, towel wrapped around his waist, and sees that he's got a text. He's a little worried by how his stomach flips over with excitement at this, but decides that it's far too early in the morning to confront that.

Not unemployed. I use an alarm clock. And I think your failure to go to bed at a reasonable time caused you to miss that class. Perhaps you should sue yourself?
[Received 10:21]

Employed, then. I bet you're a comedian.
[Sent 10:55]

He waits ten minutes for a reply, towelling his hair and rooting around in his closet for something to wear, before giving up and going downstairs to make himself a coffee and some bacon.

For a change, it isn't Stiles who's late. Scott shows up ten minutes behind schedule, red-faced and out of breath.

"Sorry, man," he says apologetically, taking the seat opposite Stiles, who's taken the liberty of ordering him a really milky latte as punishment, just the way Scott hates it. However, because he's a good friend, he's also bought him lunch. "Shit hit the fan with Allison and her dad last night. She stayed over, and... well. You know."

"I wish I didn't." Stiles wrinkles his nose in disgust and picks up his sandwich. "And if you think you're going to finish that story, by the way, you can go right up to the cashier and order yourself a steaming hot cup of nope."

Scott grins.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he says airily, which is a total lie because Stiles knows more about Scott's sex life than he does his own. Not that that's hard, because it's hard to know that much about something that doesn't exist, but Stiles digresses. He raises his eyebrows pointedly, and Scott stirs his disgustingly milky coffee. "How's life?"

"I missed my first class," Stiles tells him around a mouthful of grilled cheese sandwich. Scott frowns.

"I know, dude," he says. "You put it as your Facebook status this morning."

Stiles blinks.

"I really, really didn't," he says. He swallows a mouthful of cheese and anxiety and extends his arm, his hand in front of Scott. "Show me."

Scott eyes him worriedly, like he's worried Stiles might suddenly produce a knife and start stabbing him. Eyes still on Stiles, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, handing it wordlessly to his friend. Stiles grabs it and immediately goes to check Facebook.

"Be careful," Scott mutters. "It's new."

Stiles ignores him. He has more important things to worry about, like why the hell Scott seems to be on drugs. He taps his finger on the touchscreen phone – because Scott was intelligent for once in his life and didn't fall for the Blackberry shtick – and selects his Facebook profile, waits for it to load.

"I think you're tripping major balls, man," Stiles tells him. "There's nothing on my Facebook, you..."

Except there is. Stiles blinks.

Stiles Stilinski Missed my morning class. What an idiot. I should do what Derek does, and get a proper alarm.

"What," says Stiles, and then reads it again. "Derek," he states, flatly.

Scott takes a bite of his panini, because Scott is the kind of terrible person who actually eats paninis, and looks pensive.

"Yeah, I was gonna ask about that," he says, wiping crumbs from his mouth. "Who the hell is Derek?"

Stiles hands Scott his phone back and takes Derek's phone out of his pocket.

"The General of the enemy army," he grits out. "Because this is war, Scott. This is Sparta. He may have won the first battle, but - "

"That's not your phone," Scott points out helpfully. Stiles throws his arms into the air in defeat.

"How can you all tell?" he cries. "My phone is not in that bad condition."

"Yeah, but it kind of is," Scott counters. "Anyway. Whose phone is that?"

Stiles sighs.

"Derek's," he answers. "And it's kind of a long story."

He taps out a text message and hits send.

Oh, it is ON. You will come to rue the day you took on Admiral Stilinski on his home turf. I once fraped someone so bad she started crying and had to stay off school for two weeks. Admittedly, that was because I made a spelling mistake, but my point still stands. Prepare to be annihilated, because this is going NUCLEAR, Derek Hale.
[Sent 12:31]

"You have that look on your face," says Scott, worriedly. Stiles doesn't look up, just loads Facebook onto the Blackberry. How can he get Derek back? Something about forests, he thinks. Tree Guy and his forest fetish. Or is that too crass, too obvious? Probably, but then Derek's was a pretty low blow.

Derek Hale Thank the heavenly stars above that I set my big-boy alarm for 8am this morning! Managed to get a good three hours of frolicking in the forests before work. Stiles should take my advice; frolicking is awesome. And manly.

Stiles sniggers to himself. He's hilarious. He then realises that he never responded to Scott's statement, and looks up. Scott has raised one eyebrow and is sort of smirking. That look never means good things, in Stiles' experience.

"What look?" he asks.

"That look you used to get when you teased Lydia in Biology class," Scott responds. That makes Stiles look up.

"Derek is not Lydia!" he protests. "Dude, I had a crush on Lydia. This Derek guy? I've never met him, and he's an ass. And yeah, he has all the cheekbones and the eyes and probably the biceps and he abs and shit, but he's still a douche, and I still need to make him cry."

Scott looks at him, a slightly terrified expression on his face.

"OK," he says, eventually. He sighs, checks the time on his phone. "I've gotta go, man. My next class starts in an hour and I haven't even looked at the assignment. I'm basically screwed."

"Allison will be devastated to hear of your affair with procrastination," Stiles retorts. He looks at Scott's plate. "Are you going to finish that sandwich?"

Scott rolls his eyes.

"It's a panini, Stiles," he replies. "And no. Go to town on it."

Stiles does. He hasn't eaten in about ten minutes and he's starting to get hunger pains.

"You're gross," Scott tells him, matter-of-factly. "Anyway, I'll leave you to your unresolved sexual tension with Derek, whoever he is."

"There is no unresolved sexual tension!" Stiles retorts, spraying crumbs everywhere in his indignation. "There is, perhaps, an undertone of thinly veiled tolerance, but that's about it."

Scott raises his eyebrows, and Stiles decides to focus on his sandwich, which he cannot call a panini for ethical reasons. The sandwich makes more sense than Scott.

"You have a text, by the way," Scott tells him, standing up and swinging his rucksack over one shoulder. Most people have stopped using rucksacks by now. Not Scott. "That light's been flashing since you got here. Man, I hate that about Blackberries."

Scott leaves, giving him some weird sort of salute that he probably thinks makes him look really cool but just reminds Stiles of The Village People. Stiles makes a mental note to change Scott's ringtone next time he sees him, then thinks about what Scott had actually said and frowns. He didn't hear the phone vibrate.

Then he remembers this morning. There were two texts. He'd only checked one. He's an actual idiot. He wonders who it's from. Obviously, it'll be a text for Derek. He feels kind of grotesquely voyeuristic when he realises just how much he wants to read it. It's none of his business.

So, of course, he opens it. It's from someone called Laura, which makes Stiles' heart sink.

From Laura:
Whoever has my brother's phone, thank you. You've given this family more entertainment in one day than we've had in ten years.
[Received 09:11]

It's his sister, then. Stiles remembers when he had first shown the phone to Lydia and she'd stalked his Facebook. She'd thought that the woman in Derek's profile picture was his sister. Stiles looks at the phone, thoughtfully. They really don't look that much alike. At first glance, there are obvious similarities; they both have dark hair and eyes, and they're both really attractive. Stiles curses genetics. Some people have it so easy. On second glance, however, they're worlds apart. Laura smiles brightly and easily like she's used to it, like she's never really without a grin of some kind. Derek can barely manage to turn the corners of his lips in anything that resembles a smile of any sort.

Stiles is pretty sure genetics aren't to blame for that. He wonders what is.

To Laura:
Absolutely no problemo. Well, a bit problemo, because this is ruining my life, but hey, if I'm giving some joy to even one person out there, then it's totally worth it.
[Sent 12:49]

Stiles bites his lip, thoughtfully. It's a little weird to think of Derek as an actual person rather than just sardonic characters on a Blackberry screen. Derek has family, friends and a Facebook. Well, maybe not friends. But he has a job and an awesome sister and a whole life that Stiles knows nothing about.

It kind of scares him how much he wants to find out about it.

He looks at the time. His next class starts in twenty minutes, and he's fifteen minutes from campus.

"Scheisse," he hisses, and he crams the rest of the sandwich into his mouth and makes a run for it.

Stiles' next class is surprisingly tolerable. He snaps a picture of the professor's butt and sends it to Jackson, wondering why Jackson's number is the only one he's committed to memory, before realising that Jackson will now be receiving a photograph of a stranger's ass from an unrecognised phone number. The thought makes him break into hysterics, causing the girl next to him to spill her coffee all over his notes on Erik Erikson (which, at this point, consist only of 'Erik Erikson's parents were douchebags and gave him the worst name in history').

Still, despite the third degree burns he's probably developing on his nether regions, it's totally worth it.

He's on his way out of the lecture room when he feels Derek's phone vibrate in his trouser pocket, making him squirm and inadvertently gyrate against some poor dude who shoots Stiles a look of abject terror before fleeing. Stiles ignores the fact that he's probably going to be known as a sex offender from now on and pulls out the phone.

Frolicking? That's very cute. Everyone on your Facebook agrees, too.
[Received 14:45]

Stiles gulps, and checks his Facebook.

Stiles Stilinski Hit 'like' on this status if you think I'm adorable!
9 people like this

He's sort of tempted to murder Derek as well as those nine douchebags, but he can't ignore the fact that he pinks when he realises that Derek Hale has called him adorable, albeit in a cruel and mocking way.

You think I'm adorable? Aw, that's sweet. Especially coming from someone who's so vain that he brags about his workout routine on Facebook.
[Sent 14:51]

Derek Hale Phew, what a day. Only managed 800 one-fingered push-ups, but did find the time for 1600 squat thrusts in between admiring my cheekbones in the mirror, so I'll count it as a success.
14 people like this

I don't have time to do all of that. I'm too busy having a job. I was saddened to see that your recent application for employment was rejected, by the way. My commiserations.
[Received 15:15]

Stiles Stilinski I just got turned down for a job as a comedian. Apparently, you have to actually be funny.
15 people like this

Yeah, it really sucked. Especially as your employment is going so well, man. I'm happy for you.
[Sent 15:20]

Derek Hale Finally got offered my first GQ cover! At long last, all this pouting, posing and body sculpting has yielded the glamorous results I've always wanted! See you stateside, bitches!
23 people like this

By the time Stiles has reached his apartment, he can't stop himself from grinning like the cat that got the cream and then found out there was an entire fucking gateau underneath it. It's somewhat alarming to see that Derek actually has a pretty wicked sense of humour. He hadn't been expecting it. Seriously, it's not actually fair. The guy is handsome as fuck and all muscular and witty and –

"Fuck," says Stiles, the epiphany hitting him like a ton of bricks square in the chest. "I'm screwed."

And he is. He really, really is. He has a crush on a guy he's never even met, and it's a guy who's totally out of his league. He doesn't even know anything about Derek, not really. He doesn't know where he works or what his middle name is or how his mother died or how old he is. Fuck, he could be thirty for all Stiles knows, although he looks pretty good for it if that's the case.

He wonders what Scott would say if he knew. He'd probably encourage it, like the fucking optimist he is, because he just wants Stiles to be happy. He'd set Stiles up with Hannibal Lecter if he thought it would make him smile because Scott has Allison and everyone should have an Allison.

Lydia, of course, will tease him as soon as she finds out, which she will. Lydia finds out everything. She's like TMZ in human form.

She'll probably tell Derek. Fuck. She must never know.

Stiles wonders if it's too late to brick up his door and windows and become a hermit, or join a priesthood on some island somewhere. He seriously considers it before coming to the decision that he just wouldn't suit the hairstyle.

He wonders what he should do. The sensible part of his brain is telling him to call Lydia from the landline, invite her over and watch The Notebook while stuffing their faces with trifle, but Stiles has never been one to listen to the rational part of his consciousness, so he does the most stupid thing he can think of.

He phones Laura.

He doesn't even really know why he does it. There are a couple of reasons, really. Firstly, even though she's only sent one text, Stiles can tell that Laura is exactly the kind of person he gets on with really well. She's funny, forward and hot. Stiles kind of wants to be her best friend.

Secondly, he thinks it might make all this seem just that little bit more ridiculous and impossible if he can bring Derek into the real world, into the space that Stiles inhabits along with Scott and Allison and Lydia and Jackson, and away from this goddamn pedestal that Stiles has put him on.

Laura answers on the third ring, and Stiles immediately regrets his decision. His mouth dries up. He wonders if a drink of self-hatred and tears would soothe it.

"Hello?" she says, and wow, OK. She's a real human with a real voice and she sounds really pleased about something. Stiles wonders what it is.

"Um," he says, and then realises that conversations usually work best when both parties are capable of forming coherent words and sentences and he clears his throat. "Hi."

"Is this the guy who has Derek's phone?" she asks, slowly. Stiles coughs.

"Yes, yes it is," he answers. "Hi."

"Hi, Stiles," she says, and Stiles can tell that she's smiling. "What can I do for you?"

Stiles sighs.

"I don't know," he replies, honestly. He really doesn't. "I think I just wanted to be sure that I hadn't somehow managed to accidentally steal the phone of a serial killer, that's all."

"Well, Stiles, this isn't my phone," she tells him. "And my brother has bad days."

Stiles barks out a laugh. He can see where Derek gets his sense of humour from. Or does she get it from him? Stiles adds it to the list of technically inappropriate things he wants to discover about a hot stranger, and presses on.

"Well, as long as I don't fit his usual victim profile, I think it'll be OK," he says. He hears Laura pause, and when she speaks again, it sounds thoughtful.

"I think you might fit," she says.

Stiles hangs up, because he's an idiot, and because Laura Hale is quite clearly insane. Perhaps not as insane as Stiles, who's falling hard and fast for words on a screen, but still certified bat-shit crazy.

He feels the phone vibrate in his hand, and his heart churns. It's Derek.

Truce?
[Received 15:59]

His brain cycles through the things he could reply with. Stop texting me because I think I'm a bit in love with you and you make me want to stand on a bench and feed birds and sing about love and shit. No, not a truce, because this is the best part of my day and you might not want to text me if we're not jokingly at each other's throats. How are you a real dude and will you please date the shit out of me?

None of them seem wholly appropriate. There's only one acceptable response, really.

Truce.
[Sent 16:01]

Stiles puts the phone down on the end table by his front door. He feels a little empty.

There's only one thing that helps at a time like this; Happy Hour. Sighing, he makes his way over to the landline and calls Lydia.

If he can't confront his feelings, he can be damn sure he'll obliterate them into non-existence with copious helpings of vodka.

Because that always helps, except for when it doesn't, and Stiles is screwed.