When Stiles wakes up, his head is pounding and he feels like he's going to throw up, which reminds him of the time he went deep-sea fishing with Scott the summer before freshman year and he puked over the side of the boat, helping Scott catch a shark. Stiles rolls over, groaning, feeling just as sick as he had then, his head spinning and throbbing as he thinks what did I do last night?

Then he remembers, or, at least, he remembers part of it, and he blushes.

He didn't – That didn't –

Fuck.

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, trying to fight off the crippling embarrassment coursing through his body and I'll just die now, thanks.

Did he really? He couldn't have. He's about to slip into an unprecedented crisis when a soft knock sends his head into a tailspin of pain. "Stiles?" It's his dad. "You up yet?"

"Yeah, Dad. I'm awake."

"I'm off to the station. Remember to do your homework, okay?"

"Yeah, Dad, okay," Stiles says, irritated. Forget to do your homework once and your parent treats you like you're failing – well, like you're Scott. Stiles suppresses a laugh at his own wit as he remembers why he was freaking out before his dad had knocked. Quickly, without even thinking, he calls who he always calls when he's in a panic – Derek. But before he can panic some more and hang up before Derek picks up, Derek picks up.

"Stiles? What is it now?" Derek's irritated, a sure sign that things are normal, right?

"Derek, hi," Stiles says, putting on a friendly voice. "How are you this morning?"

"If this is about last night, you probably don't want to know," Derek says tersely.

"What? I…" Stiles thinks quickly, still trying not to panic. "What?"

"Do you even remember anything?"

"I remember going to the club, and getting handed a vast number of alcoholic beverages from a group of drag queens," Stiles says somewhat defensively.

"So that's really what happened."

"Yeah." Stiles hopes Derek isn't going to mention anything about what happened after he was already plastered and drunk-calling the object of most of his jerking-off fantasies.

"Do you remember anything else that happened?" Was it just Stiles, or did Derek's voice definitely have a twinge of awkwardness to it? Shit.

"Um. Well, about that –"

"Stiles, do you or do you not remember anything that happened?"

"Um." Stiles, gulping, squeaks, "Yes?"

He hears Derek's sigh over the phone as a bunch of static crackling. "Why are you calling me?"

Stiles hangs up, knowing Derek will only call back after a few minutes of fuming and brooding. He quickly dials Scott's number, and he jumps when Alison answers. "Stiles?"

"What the hell, Alison, why are you answering–" He stops, closing his eyes and pretending he's not having the most embarrassing morning after of his life (is he allowed to call it a morning after? It's definitely a morning, well, after something big) while Alison briefly laughs before handing the phone to Scott. "Stiles, what's up?"

Stiles looks to the ceiling, as if it could give him any kind of moral support. "I need you to come over. Now."

"Now? Stiles, can't you tell I'm –"

"Having a really romantic cuddle in bed, I'm sure," Stiles says, not caring in the least. "But I'm in the middle of a crisis, and –"

Scott laughs. Literally, laughs while Stiles is about to fall into the worst panic attack to ever be recorded in the history of man. "When are you not having a crisis of some sort?"

"Scott, I'm serious, Derek sniffed me yesterday, and do you remember that gay bar? I went back, and –"

"Wait, Derek sniffed you? What?"

"That's why I need you to come over!" Stiles runs a hand over his shorn hair in frustration. "I just hung up on Derek, and he's going to call back – no, scratch that, he's calling back, and he's probably gonna come over when I don't answer, and really, Scott, I'm going to need you when he's standing across the street from my house just staring at the front door like you know he does when he's trying to get to you –"

"Stiles, okay, calm down." Stiles can hear clothing slipping over skin over the phone and tries to keep his mind off of sex and naked bodies touching and Derek. "I'll be over as fast as I can. Okay?"

Stiles takes a deep breath. "Okay. And thanks."

"No problem." Stiles hears a door closing and keys jangling. "But, seriously, Stiles, you're going to have to explain everything to me. He sniffed you?"

"Yeah, well, come over first. It's very weird." They say goodbye then, and Stiles takes a moment to wallow in self-pity and wish he'd been drunk enough last night to have forgotten about the attempted blow job.

By the time Scott's ringing the doorbell, Derek is across the street. By the time Stiles is answering the door and trying to usher in his friend before he's caught, Derek is running up the driveway. "Stiles!" he shouts, but the door is shut in his face. That was close.

Scott's wearing a confused expression on his face, likely the result of the fact that Stiles still isn't wearing any pants – he'd completely forgotten while everything else was going on. "I'll… be right back," he says, sprinting up the stairs, his socks slipping on the wood and causing him to fall halfway up. He hears Scott's laughter following him to his bedroom, and he internally curses his friend for being such a dick when Stiles is obviously in the middle of an actual crisis – not his usual kind where it's really too much Adderall talking. By the time he's downstairs again, Scott's wearing a panicked expression as Derek pounds on the door.

"Stiles! Open the door!"

Scott shoots Stiles a what-the-hell-am-I-supposed-to-do look as Stiles wonders how long it'll be before Derek actually breaks his front door in. He makes a mental note to make sure Derek pays for the damage if he does.

"Stiles!" BANG-BANG-BANG. "STILES!"

"Just let him in," Scott begs. He still has a healthy amount of fear of the new Alpha, but Stiles, despite the constant threats and head-whackings, isn't afraid, his self-preservation skills currently directed toward avoiding the worst embarrassment of his life.

"He'll tire out eventually," he says, waving a dismissive hand as the door continues to be beaten. "He can't keep it up forever… right?"

"I can, and you know it!"

Scott blanches and whispers furiously, "Just let him in, okay? Even if you don't talk about whatever it is that happened now, you'll have to eventually."

Stiles fidgets. He was hoping to avoid this, which is why he had called Scott in the first place – so he could avoid talking to Derek. "Do I have to? I was really hoping – Scott, no!"

But Scott's already twisting the knob, already opening the door by the time Stiles is on him and doing his human best to stop him from ruining his life. Derek's too quick for both of them, though, and within the space of a second all three of them are tangled in a heap just inside the Stilinski's foyer with Stiles' face near Derek's crotch for the second time in less than twelve hours.

Scott manages to wriggle free as Derek rolls over, making Stiles slide off of him and onto the floor, groaning. "You two, talk," he says, pulling Stiles to his feet while Derek manages on his own. "I don't know what happened between the two of you – part of me isn't sure I want to know – but no one is leaving this house until something is resolved."

Stiles gulps; Derek merely scowls.

"Are you going to say anything?" They're in the kitchen now, Scott's sitting at the table, Derek's leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, and Stiles is on the far side of the room, his heart like a jackhammer with the way it's about to explode out of his chest.

Stiles runs a hand over his head, fidgeting again. Derek only stares, and Stiles is pretty sure the intensity of his gaze is about to bore a hole through his head.

"We've got all day," Scott says, crossing his own arms as he looks between the two.

Stiles looks up, brows raised in a qualifying fashion. "Actually, you have until my dad pulls into the driveway in..." He checks his watch. "About seven hours."

"I think that's enough time." Derek smiles, but it's humorless, more of a threat than anything else.

Stiles looks away, unsure of where to start. He takes a deep breath and, deciding to take the Band-Aide approach, says, "I'm sorry I tried to give you a drunk blow job."

"You what?" Stiles and Derek ignore Scott and his bulging eyes, though, staring at each other.

Stiles then finds it extremely difficult to look at Derek as he continues. "And I'm sorry if I said anything else that I might not remember. I was pretty drunk last night."

Derek barks a laugh. "You were smashed."

"I wasn't!" Defensive now, Stiles meets Derek's amused gaze. "I only had like, five appletinis."

Scott snorts, but again, he's ignored. "Five appletinis is a lot for 147 pounds of ADD-ridden teenager." Derek's still staring at Stiles, but his eyes are softer, with… concern? No way.

"Yeah, well, when you're feeling insecure, you'll take what you can get, even if it's two drag queens who tell you they want to teach you how to put a condom on with your mouth." Scott's full-out laughing now, so Stiles shoos him out of the room with a chastising glare.

"But," he continues, turning to Derek, "what was with you when I left your hideout? I mean," he blushes, looking down at his feet to hide the smile creeping across his face, "what… what was that?"

Now it's Derek's turn to look embarrassed and slightly ashamed. "I…" He looks down at his feet, too. "You smell really good, Stiles."

"I… what?"

Derek takes a deep breath. "You just… I don't know how else to put it. I like the way you smell."

"So…" Stiles purses his lips, unaware of how they're making Derek's insides squirm. "You're saying that the way I smell makes you act like you're in heat. Are werewolves ever in heat? Was that a heat thing that happened?"

Derek chuckles some more. "No. No, I… It wasn't a heat thing."

"What… was it, then?" Stiles carefully edges nearer to Derek, who doesn't move as one of his hands grazes the side of the werewolf's hip. "If you weren't in heat, does that mean…?" He looks up to see Derek staring at him in a way he could never have imagined in any of his fantasies. He swallows. "Does that – does that mean –" He's losing focus as his eyes take in Derek's twitching lips, and he can smell the sweat and manliness coming off of him, and it's about to be too much when – before he even has time to process what's happening – Derek's smashing his lips against Stiles' and turning their bodies around so now it's Stiles pressed against the counter with his trembling thighs yet again parted by Derek's, and now Derek's tongue is all over the inside of his mouth, and he's groaning into Derek's low growl as he scrambles to cling to whatever part of Derek he can while he feels himself grinding his crotch into Derek's – no, scratch that, he's riding his thigh, and God, this feels amazing. He moans louder when Derek starts sniffing him again, brushing his nose down the length of his neck, and then suddenly he's lifting Stiles onto the counter, spreading his legs farther apart as he grinds his erection into Stiles' and Stiles is pretty sure he's about to cum in his pants when a started yelp sounds from the doorway and Derek somehow manages to jump away from Stiles and out of the house while simultaneously flinging the teenager three feet across the counter, his ass landing in the sink with a clatter as dishes fall and skid everywhere.

Stiles glares at Scott's sheepish form from his position in the sink. Fuming, he shouts, "Now you've really ruined it!"