Truth be told, Stiles wasn't sure if Lydia and Scott were wrong…so to speak. Yes, when looked at in a certain light, Derek was a sort of constant factor in the crazy, violence that had become Beacon Hills. And it wasn't coincidence either. Far from it. Wherever Derek stepped, misfortune seemed to follow. The guy couldn't catch a break.

But it also wasn't like everything that happened was his fault. Sure, maybe if he hadn't bitten Jackson none of the kanima stuff would have happened—but then again maybe if Jackson weren't such an emotionally stunted douchebag with a Loki complex he would have just turned into a wolf like he was supposed to. And no one could blame Derek for getting involved with Kate because she was a manipulative bitch that took advantage of his innocence, so that was out. And yeah Scott blamed Derek for ruining his life—making sure he had no chance at all at a normal life by killing Peter—but the whole idea was a long shot in the first place. There was no definitive proof that it would have worked.

Yet…Derek hadn't exactly made any moves to redeem himself. In fact he made more problems: Isaac, Erica, and Boyd. And it's not like he's the winner of Alpha of the Year or anything—two of them decided to book it right out of town when things got a little hairy, Derek absolutely failed to help Scott control his abilities—instead Stiles had to do it—and he sort of indirectly killed Allison's mom. So Derek wasn't really a good guy—but he also wasn't a bad guy, which is why Stiles had a hard time justifying hanging out with Derek when everyone generally agreed that Derek wasn't someone they wanted to hang around. He must be missing some grand part of the puzzle here. That had to be the only explanation.

Stiles thought about this the entire drive to the home improvement store and thought about this while looking for Spackle and paint and thought some more about this the drive back to his house. And he was uncharacteristically silent the entire time, which made Derek increasingly nervous as the minutes passed without even the slightest sarcastic remark even when Derek went out of his way to avoid the only other customer in the store—an old lady with a cat carrier. And there were a lot of sarcastic remarks that could have been made about that. But as soon as the door opened, and Stiles set foot onto the blue carpet and spotted his dad's giant blue marlin above the dining room table he broke his silence.

"Sure you're scary and all, but it's not like you're some amoral, rabid beast!" he exclaimed as though they were having a conversation this whole time.

Derek coughed and nearly slipped over the neon green J&O Plumbers commercial leaflet that fell from the open door. "What?"

"It's true, it's true," Stiles said shutting the door. "You are rather terrifying—on first glance. Alright maybe the second or third glance, too—but that's not the point—"

"Stiles," Derek interrupted with a pointed glance to the stairs.

"What—oh hey Dad! Home early, I see." Stiles stepped closer to Derek—right in front of the massive hole in the wall. But it was too late by the way his father simply raised a brow.

"I forgot some papers," he said. "You have something you want to tell me?"

Stiles could practically feel Derek tensing up inside his leather jacket right next to him. "Er…like what?"

"Like how you decided to build a new window?"

Stiles tried to smile but it was more of a grimace. "It was, uh, an accident. We were totally going to fix it."

"We?" the Sherriff glanced at Derek. "You were here when this happened?"

Derek swallowed. "Uh, yeah."

"It's not even ten—how early were you here? No, don't answer that. I'm starting to get the idea that I probably won't like the reason. Stiles, can I talk to you in the kitchen for a minute?"

Stiles glanced at Derek and nodded. "Yeah sure. Is this an exact minute, though? We've got some stuff to do, you know, like manly stuff—"

"Stiles." He took him by the shoulder and steered his son into the kitchen. As soon as he thought it was far enough away he said, "Stiles, if something is going on between you and that Hale kid—"

"What? What are you talking about?"

"I'm not an idiot, you know. I can see how you might be attracted to—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Stiles interrupted, waving his hands. "Attracted? Yeah sure anyone who isn't blind can see how totally smokin' the guy is, but Dad c'mon. This is me we're talking about." Derek is so out of my league, it's laughable really. Not even to mention that he's Derek Motherfuckin' Hale.

His father sighed again. "What else am I supposed to think? You're suddenly hanging out with him and he's at our house early in the morning. Just….spare me the lies and tell me you're using protection at least."

Stiles nearly choked on his own breath. "What?" He could feel the heat on his face and the horror churning in his abdomen. Oh my fucking GOD. Derek had to be hearing this. He could probably hear China. "No! Jesus, no, Dad. God. We're not doing that, okay? Jesus," he hissed, glancing nervously in the general direction of the front hall. "We're just friends, oh my God." He put his hands on his face. "I can't believe—God. Why would you jump to that—No, I don't want to know."

His father colored a bit. "Well then what was he doing here early in the morning?"

Stiles tried to rub the mortification from his face. "Derek's an early riser—God not like that—he came by to…borrow a book and then on the way out I accidentally slammed the door open too hard and then our new window appeared. That's it."

And if he didn't already feel like shit for lying, he definitely felt like shit seeing the way his dad took the mortification of making such an outlandish assumption.

His father coughed into his hand. "Well then, erm, okay. Sorry—let's not. Okay. So you're the one that made that hole."

Stiles grimaced. "…Sorry?"

"I expect it to be fixed by the time I come home." He nodded, glanced away, and nodded again. "And I still don't know how I feel about you hanging out with Derek Hale, but I've got two unsolved murders and not enough time to deal with it."

Stiles nodded. "Noted."

His dad hesitated, nodded again, and started walking out of the kitchen.

"You got your papers?"

He waved the files in his hand and walked out the front door, giving Derek—who was standing awkwardly as far away as he could without being in the next room—one last weary glance before shutting the door. Stiles followed quickly behind, checking through the curtain that his father was truly leaving. He snapped the curtain shut and turned on Derek.

"You gotta stop showing up early in the morning. He thinks were fucking—" Stiles felt the waves of heat on his face. Goddammit. He huffed. He was not going to let that not so subliminal message get to him. Nope, he wasn't going to start thinking of him and Derek fucking—Goddammit.

Derek looked about as red as Stiles. He swallowed and looked heavenward and then at the door.

"No, you're fixing my wall."

"You know…they're not wrong."

"…what?"

"No, not…not about that." Derek was bright red. "Just. They're not wrong—about me. I-I'm not exactly good."

Stiles raised a brow. Good on to different subjects. "That's true. You're not." Stiles opened the bag they got from the home improvement store and tossed him the Spackle. "Let's face it Derek: you've done some shitty things. Like being generally creepy and ruining any chance Scott had of having a normal life—quit inspecting the damn can like its going to sprout wings—another of which was creating three betas out of a bunch of misfits and exposing them to the danger that has become Beacon Hills." He pulled the small can of paint out and put it on the cedar wood table. He raised his brows and tipped his head to the wall. Derek gave him a glare but got the hint. "I don't approve of ninety percent of things you've done since you got into town, Derek. But I think your failure in your misguided quest for power is enough of a slap to your pride, so I'm not going hold it against you anymore. And if it means anything at all: you might have done shitty things but I don't think your intentions were shitty."

Derek glanced at him, uncertainty in his eye. Stiles shrugged with a growing smile. "Besides, you're fixing my wall free-of-charge"

Derek turned back to his work, sculpting the Spackle over the damaged area with a neon orange plastic scraper. "…Thanks… I think."

Stiles grinned and slapped his shoulder. "Dude, it's cool. Everyone's done shitty things. Remember that time I dug up your dead sister and got you imprisoned for her murder?"

Derek was on instant glare.

"Good times."

Derek huffed and stepped back. It needed to set but it didn't look half bad. Derek nodded.

"Looking good," Stiles said.

Derek glanced at him. "I think so."

"Let's let it set while we watch—"

Derek grabbed his arm.

"What?"

He took a breath. "You were right about me. I...am lonely. Have been. And, I guess I'm pretty selfish and prideful. And not good. At all. It'd be better if you just told me to leave."

Derek was only an inch taller so they were within inches of each other, just staring for what seemed like forever. Derek wanted him to kick him to the curb because he couldn't do it himself. He was selfish enough to not do it himself, but worried enough to give Stiles that choice. Except it felt like the choice went deeper than that by the way Derek was looking at him—intense, searching, asking.

"Dude did you forget about the fact that I'm in the same boat? I'd rather hang out with your grumpy ass than just sit around this house pathetically moping about my life." He gingerly lifted his hand and patted the leather around Derek's shoulder. "S'okay, bro. You can stay—especially because you still have to paint over it."

Derek slowly uncurled his tense fingers from around Stiles' arm. For a second, Stiles felt weird with the loss of that dude's vice grip. As though nearly losing an arm because someone didn't know his strength was uncomfortable. But he got over the weird feeling just as quickly staring into the heavy gaze of Derek's. Slowly, he nodded and tried to smile at Stiles.

"Thanks… I mean that."

And it was that look—the soft look in Derek's hazel eyes brightened by his lightly tanned skin and black hair that hit Stiles like a ton of bricks. But it wasn't until much later, after Derek had left through his window that night, when he was watching a swarm of butterflies disperse as Derek jumped down, that Stiles recognized the feeling.

Blood pulsing hot whenever he looked at him. A strange magnetic tug inside his gut where a thousand butterflies took flight and made him shiver. The way he quite easily let Derek assimilate himself into his life. This thing…was a crush. He was flirting and now he was crushing.

This couldn't get any worse.