Disclaimer: I own no part of Teen Wolf or its characters.
Chapter Summary: Stiles gets his press conference, but things, as per the usual for The Beta Byte Boys, go awry. Luckily, Finstock is there to save the day. Sort of. (Not really.)

three: what we're doing is not a trend

Stiles is not entirely sure why he—or anyone else—ever thought it would be awesome to have a press conference announcing the Beta Byte Boys' shift to Lycaon.

Because it's not.

It's straight-up the worst idea anyone has ever had in the history of ever, and that includes the Halloween concert they had where they accidentally-on-purpose ruined the (eye-searingly hideous) Harris-approved costumes they were supposed to wear, in favor of hand-making new costumes. For each other.

(The only reason why Stiles hasn't erased the entire be-sequined, bedazzled debacle from his mind is because he never wants to forget the look on Jackson's face when Danny handed over the skin-tight lizard suit, complete with a remote-control tail. It's a memory that keeps Stiles warm on cold, sleepless, lonely nights. Like, Maybe I don't have a significant other, but at least I have never had to dance around on stage in scaly spandex while my best friend cackled in the background and directed a tech to make my animatronic tail smack me in the face.)

Stiles isn't expecting it to be a big deal, really. He's pretty sure that it's just going to be a quick little sit-down with some of the media, maybe about an hour of dodging awkward questions and giving round-about answers and laughing at ridiculous rumors. He's sure that it's only going to be the four of them and one of Laura's PR people, with Finstock sweating and swearing off on the sidelines, where he's been relegated ever since the "cream cheese" disaster last year. Yeah, they're the Beta Byte Boys, and yeah, it's Lycaon, but it's been a while since their last album and they haven't been on tour in three months. Plus, label-switching? Not really a huge deal. Stiles doesn't think there's going to be a whole lot of hoopla.

He's dead wrong.

It starts with Laura. Specifically, it starts with Laura storming into the little room adjoined to the conference hall an hour before they're set to begin, hauling her brother in behind her with an iron grip on the back of his neck. It would probably look comical, but Laura's expression is terrifying and incredibly effective at turning Stiles's nervous giggle into a choked-off squeak.

"Here," she snaps, and shoves Derek—whose resentful glare has a decidedly sheepish cast to it—at Scott. "This is yours. Keep him somewhere out of sight, but make sure he doesn't escape."

"Laura," the producer starts, voice low. Distractedly, Stiles notices that he's dressed up in an impeccably-tailored charcoal suit, the top button on his blue (Dark blue, like azure, maybe? Or cobalt? Something like that.) dress shirt undone. The effect is—nice. Just. Yeah. Very. Very nice.

"Don't even start," says Laura warningly. "Go. Sulk in a corner or whatever, just get your bitchery out of my face, Derek. Now."

Derek's jaw clenches, but jerks his head at Scott, turns on his heel, and stalks over to where Jackson and Danny are pretending not to eavesdrop. Laura watches them go, then abruptly whirls on Stiles. Stiles, who tries valiantly not to shrink away from her intense eyeballing, and probably fails. "You. Stilinski. You're in charge of my brother."

Stiles gapes. "I—Yeah, uh. That's not really such a good idea? So, uh. I'm going to have to decline that whole responsibility. Because reasons." Reasons which Stiles will never enumerate, especially not to Derek's sister. "But thanks!"

Laura's eyes narrow. "See, that's funny, because you think you actually have the option to decline. Guess what? You don't."

Stiles was afraid of that.

"Now listen," she continues. "He's next to you, at the very end of the table. You are his babysitter. You do not let him talk. Not one word. He's supposed to sit there and look broody and mysterious. Kick him if he so much as opens his mouth. Especially if he starts smiling like a serial killer. This is your responsibility and I will make your life a living hell if you fail to carry it through. Understood?"

Stiles swallows. God, he hates everything right now. "Underst—No, wait, but what about direct questions?" he asks. Then, as an afterthought: "Also, why me? Danny would be a better choice. So much better."

(He doesn't ask, And why is he even here? because he pretty much knows already. They've switched to Lycaon, ex-hermit Derek Hale is their producer, and the universe hates Stiles. Hence: this.)

"Can't help the direct questions. Just make sure he stays succinct." A grimace tightens Laura's mouth. "And I've seen your old interviews. I'm choosing you because I figure that if you're paying attention to shutting him up, you won't be so inclined to talk yourself."

"Harsh," Stiles mutters, mostly to himself.

"Just do it," says Laura, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I'd be here myself, but I've got—things."

She looks exhausted, Stiles notes, kind of weighed-down. Not in her face, really; she's as perfectly made-up as always, though Stiles can sort of see where the foundation was applied thicker beneath her eyes to hide dark circles. No, it's more in her body, in the slump of her shoulders and the slight bend in her spine.

So Stiles, because he's a little bit of a sucker, says, "Yeah, okay. You can count on me, boss!" and gives her his most reassuring smile. She doesn't look much convinced, though he does catch the wry twist of her lips as she brushes past him on her way to Finstock.

This is going to suck.

The next indication that things are not going to go the way Stiles expects comes when The Beta Byte Boys make their entrance into the conference hall and are immediately blinded by flashbulbs.

"Holy crap," Scott mutters, stumbling almost imperceptibly back into Stiles. "Dude, were you expecting this many people?"

"Um," Stiles says from behind the smile he's pasted on his face. "Definitely not."

The room is full. Like, fire hazard full. Crowded. Cramped. Claustrophobic. The air buzzes with low murmurs. Stiles stares at the crowd, blinking away the spots in his vision as best he can, and wonders if the entire media is here. He recognizes a few people, like Diana, who moderates the biggest of their unofficial fansites, and Kevin, who interviewed them for Entertainment Insider a few months ago and asked them the most inane questions ever. Mostly, though? Stiles can't even begin to guess who these people are, where the hell they're from, and why they'd care enough to come.

By the time they step up to the raised platform (not quite a stage, not to pop stars like the Betas) at the front of the room, the noise starts to die down, and the crowd starts to settle. Seats are taken and cameras are lowered. Stiles breathes a sigh of relief.

Except that then Derek enters the room, trailing several feet behind Stiles.

The room explodes.

The next few minutes are a confusing whirl of noise and activity, of flashing bulbs and jostling reporters suddenly all on their feet. Stiles is frozen mid-way up the steps to the platform, his mouth gaping in what is probably a very unattractive expression. He only moves when a warm hand—Derek's, he realizes, shit, what is actually happening here—presses between his shoulder blades and shoves, not roughly, but insistently.

Stiles trips up the last steps, managing to only cracking his knee once against the hardwood. He flails his way across the platform, slipping into the seat beside Scott. He ignores the way Derek draws out the folding chair beside him, how he slides gracefully into place at the long table, how his body is warm at Stiles's elbow, how his proximity raises goosebumps on Stiles's skin.

He ignores it, focusing instead on the clamor of the crowd.

The cacophony is still rising, but Stiles can pick out bits and pieces of things like, Derek Hale, are you kidding me? and Jesus, I thought he was dead or something and Lycaon was keeping it quiet, and Son of a bitch, Hale's assistant wasn't lying. It is him.

(That last one confuses Stiles. As far as he knows, Laura's been trying to keep Derek's new position quiet, and there's no way Natalia, Laura's personal assistant, would've let that spill. But maybe he heard wrong. Maybe it was a different assistant.)

The noise is reaching fever pitch, the mob mentality contagious and teetering on the brink of actually terrifying. Stiles hasn't felt this overwhelmed, this nauseatingly nervous, since the first time he stepped on stage in front of five hundred people. He's not alone, though, because when he looks to his right, at his bandmates (brothers), they're just as shaken. Scott is pale and wide-eyed as a deer in the headlights. Jackson's left eyelid is doing that not-so-hilarious-at-the-moment twitching thing. Even Danny, who's usually the steadiest of them, keeps having to paste on a smile that falls away the instant he looks back out at the cameras.

Laura's PR person, Stella, who's supposed to be moderating this thing, is trying to get everyone's attention, trying to get them under control, but she's so frazzled that she seems to have forgotten the microphone on the stage behind her and is instead yelling at the top of her lungs to "Stop! Everyone, please, calm down, this is—Calm d—Please!"

Unsurprisingly, it doesn't work. Stiles doesn't want to think about what's going to happen to her when Laura finds out.

And then, just as Stiles is contemplating the possibility of just grabbing Scott and bolting for the door, an angel descends from heaven.

Sort of.

If an angel even willingly took the form of Finstock, who leaps up on stage, glances at The Beta Byte Boys with a wild look in his eye, and blows his whistle.

The effect is immediate. Cameras are fumbled or dropped, hands cover ears, swears are let loose. The room goes quiet—not silent, but quiet—as, without looking back, Finstock snaps his fingers at Danny, points to the moderator's microphone, and jerks his finger back. Danny grabs the mic and tosses it over the table and at their manager, who catches it without looking.

"This thing on?" Finstock says, and nods, satisfied, when his voice comes back over the speakers. "Good! Now, listen up, dumbasses! You're here today because the boys've got some extra-special news to break. You probably already know what it is, but guess what? You're still gonna sit there, shut up, and listen, and then wait your turn for questions afterward. 'Cause if you don't, I'll drag you outta here myself and have you do suicides." He pauses. "The running kind, not the other kind. Not that you won't want to do the other kind after you're through with the first kind. Not that I want you to do the other kind, because I don't. Most of you. That would be bad."

Now the room is silent. It usually is, after one of Finstock's... speeches.

The silence seems to wake up the moderator, though, so she marches around the table and snatches her microphone out of Finstock's hand.

Stella clears her throat. "Thank you, Mr. Finstock—"

"I prefer Coach."

"Coach Finstock—"

"You can call me Cupcake, too, I wouldn't really mind."

Stiles tries not to put his head in his hands and laugh until he cries.

"Coach Finstock," Stella grits out, obviously still frazzled and definitely at the end of her temper. "Thank you very much for your help. I'll take over from here.

"Good morning," she says, turning her attention to the suddenly-docile crowd and ignoring the way Finstock meanders off-stage. "Thank you for coming to Lycaon Records today. We weren't expecting such an enthusiastic bunch!"

Ha. Ha. Ha. Understatement much?

"The purpose for today's press conference is twofold. First, we at Lycaon have the pleasure of announcing the signing of The Beta Byte Boys to our label. We have been following their work for several years, especially after the release of their record-breaking album, Crosse Roads."

Record-breaking in that it was the biggest and best-selling album in Beacon Hills Entertainment's history. Which wasn't saying much, considering the size of the label, but still. Completely awesome.

(Stiles will never forgive Jackson for the name, though. Never. It sounds like the title of a bad lacrosse movie, which of course meant that both Scott and Finstock loved it and Danny and Stiles were left out-voted and mortified. They'd tried to get Harris to force a change, but to no avail.

Freaking Harris.)

By the time Stiles tunes back in to Stella, she's started in on the second announcement.

"As I said earlier, we had two announcements today. The second relates to the man at the very end of this table, whom most of you will recognize as the wonderfully talented Derek Hale." The buzz starts up again, but is quickly silenced by a glare from Finstock, who is still looming beside the platform. Stella clears her throat. "It is my pleasure to announce that Derek will be working with The Beta Byte Boys in his capacity as a producer at Lycaon Records. It will be his first time undertaking a solo project, but he has studied under our senior producers for the past few years. That tutelage, in addition to his own experiences as a musician, make us confident that this partnership will be nothing less than successful."

Right, thinks Stiles. He can't help glancing at Derek out of the corner of his eye. He's like a stone, his eyes hard and staring at the door at the back of the room. Expressionless. There's no way of knowing what's going on in his head, and Stiles hates that, hates that he can't read someone, especially when it's Derek, who danced with him and kissed him and maybe, maybe, maybe, if Scott hadn't interrupted, would've—

Stupid. It's stupid.

Successful partnership. Right.

If that's going to be true, he needs to get over this. Fast.

Notes: As promised, the next chapter, within a week of the last one! Chapter title from "Pop", by *NSYNC.

The Q&A session is next! If you have a question you'd like (a reporter) to ask The Beta Byte Boys or Derek, feel free to submit it in a review. If I can, I'll work it into the chapter. If not, I'll find some other way to answer it.

Thanks to everyone who's read, reviewed, and followed. You're all so wonderful!