Sorry it took so long to get this final chapter out! I wanted to make sure it was full of Sterek moments and that I was happy with it. Writing this story has provided some lighthearted relief for me over the last few months, and I hope it's been enjoyable at least for anyone reading it too. I have a Theo x Liam story I want to do, which will likely be split into two 'books', but I'm gonna work on that in the background and concentrate on my Jessica Jones x Tony Stark story, cos that shit needs some serious brain power (which, btw, i'm not confident i have lmaooo).
Anyhoos, thanks for reading this story and i hope you enjoy this last chapter x
delayed shoutout to darkeyesgirl for commenting regularly - hope you enjoy the extra Sterek content! - and to matrix, who i forgot to reply to last chapter and want to thank wholeheartedly for leaving such a kind review (sorry for distracting you for 3 hours, even if you don't regret it!), and also to AgentAlexKrycek for the kind words too!
Step Twenty-Six: Z is for Zero Regrets
Derek pulls a dark, long-sleeved Henley from his wardrobe and tugs it on, running a hand through his hair to amend the slight tousling the action caused. He has tried to really make an effort this morning - he got as decent a sleep as he could, did a quick workout, showered, ate a healthy breakfast, had a coffee (even though his coffee never really hits the spot anymore), and watered his plants. He even washed the dishes he used to make his breakfast, and he made his bed and opened up all of his blinds to let some sunlight into his apartment. Point is: he has started his morning as productive and maximum-effort as he possibly can, and he's really hoping he can keep that energy going all day.
The majority of his days off are spent in his favourite armchair next to the big window in his living room, with the blinds half-rolled and most of the light in the space coming from the various floor lamps, ignoring any knocks on his door from salesmen or Girl Scouts selling cookies. But, today, it's going to be a little different. Willingly, though. Purposefully. Today, he's going furniture shopping for the reading space he planned up months ago. Things are moving swiftly in Books and he needs to buy in the furniture to decorate before the nook ends up an empty space of wooden floors and glass walls with nowhere to actually sit and read.
He decides against a jacket since there will, with any luck, be a lot of heavy lifting going on today to keep him warm, but he snatches up his wallet, phone, and the keys Theo has leant him. The delivery driver had dropped his Toyota Tundra off last night for Derek to use to transport the furniture back to the store, since his Camaro wouldn't exactly fit anything worthwhile in the back. Derek had offered to drive Theo back home since he was refusing any kind of repayment for loaning the truck in the first place, but Theo had dismissed him with a suspicious kind of nonchalance - and Derek had clocked the shirt and dress shoes, the lingering scent of cologne after Theo left, the nervous fidgeting before he said goodbye, and he has a feeling that Liam had something (everything) to do with it.
Theo's truck is bigger than Derek's Camaro, but he's a confident driver and he's hoping the stores he's selected won't have busy parking lots early on a Tuesday - it's not Books' official day off, but he figured it'd be a better experience shopping on a weekday than a Sunday, so he left Boyd in charge.
He has just twisted the key in the ignition, bringing the truck rumbling to life, when his phone buzzes in the passenger seat. He gives it a quick glance in case it's Boyd, and sees a random mobile number with a chunky preview of a text under it.
Curiosity wins out. Derek snatches his phone up to open the text.
"Yo dude my jeep is temporarily wounded but i was getting groceries and now i'm sitting in the parking lot surrounded by bags and there's ice cream in one of the bags dude and it's so freakin hot and i don't have enough arms to get the bags from the parking lot to my house and it'd be like a half-hour walk and everyone i know is either ignoring me or working and the tow truck driver just laughed at me when i asked if he could drop me off at my house so he needs to watch his back but also i literally have no way to get all this shit home unless i call a cab but my dad confiscated my card and he only left me enough money for the groceries so i'd have no way to pay for the cab so i'm seriously up shit creek here man".
Even the voice in Derek's head loses breath reading the text. He stares down at it, reading through it a second time as he huffs out a sigh. Then a second text comes through, and he bites down on a smirk.
"Help me obi-wan kenobi, you're my only hope".
Derek's fingers tap out a reply: "Which parking lot, Stiles?"
He hasn't even plugged his seatbelt in before an answer pops up on his screen, followed quickly by ":D!".
When Derek pulls into the parking lot, he spots Stiles instantly. The barista is stood in a parking space, agitatedly directing a minivan away from his spot to one further up the row, the open sides of his chequered shirt billowing with his emphatic movements. He has one hand tucked behind his back though, and Derek spots a bag of groceries swinging back and forth in its grip, peeking out behind his legs. When Stiles waves a hand dismissively at the honking minivan and turns away, he brings the bag round to his front. Derek realises he's keeping it out of direct sunlight - it must be the bag with the ice cream.
"Alright, you know what?" the barista demands loudly when Derek pulls up next to the parking spot. "I understand this is a pretty ideal spot for leaving your car, alright? I get it. But I've had a long freakin' day and I do not have the patience to explain to you-"
"It's barely 11am, Stiles," Derek calls out the window, leaning his elbow up on the door.
Stiles' jaw goes slack, his wide, golden-brown eyes snapping to Derek's face. "Uh, this isn't your car," he says, a frown scrunching his features as his head tilts. His mouth remains agape, but his lip curls with confusion. And then he lifts his free hand and gestures vaguely. "This.. I dunno about this," he muses to himself, his hand moving in a slow circle at the cab of Theo's truck, fingers long and crooked. "I don't like this. I don't think I like this." Then his head tilts to the other side, his eyes glancing over Derek's face, and his eyebrows lift curiously. "Actually, maybe I do like it. Do I like it? I think-"
"I thought you were worried about melting ice cream."
Stiles sucks his lips into his mouth, eyebrows shooting high on his forehead, eyes widening again. He makes a loud noise of agreement, humming past his captured lips, and ungracefully hurries to open the door behind Derek's. Derek stabs at the button to turn the truck's hazards on and takes a breath, preparing himself to be cooped up in such a small space with Stiles, alone. His chest hums with nervous anticipation and he glances in his mirrors to check for inconvenienced drivers to distract himself.
In typical Stiles fashion, the barista rips open the passenger door and hauls himself up into the seat, muttering to himself about "inconsiderate jerks in their jerk minivans" and "freakin' soccer moms" and being "stranded in an ocean of grocery bags", and the not-so-calm silence Derek had been enjoying is completely shattered.
He bites back a smirk and turns off the Tundra's hazard lights, checking the mirrors again before gently accelerating. "Seatbelt."
Stiles huffs petulantly but drags the belt across his chest. "How long are you gonna hold this over my head, then, huh?"
Derek stops at the exit of the parking lot, glancing at his passenger. "For as long as you need humbling. Which way?"
"Oh, right. Yeah. Uh, go left."
The sunlight spilling in through the windshield is bright and golden, and Derek can feel it stretching across his chest and shoulders, seeping warmth into his shirt and skin. It would be the perfect day to go hiking in the preserve, or to take a road trip somewhere - which isn't a craving that strikes Derek often, but it's also not often that he's sharing a car with someone he enjoys the company of so much that he wishes they weren't just doing something as trivial as giving the other a ride home. But he has things to do today, and Stiles himself has expressed his definite lack of interest in leaving Beacon Hills, so it's not like he's going anywhere anytime soon. Maybe Derek can get to that point with him, though, where he can text Stiles (because he has his number now) and propose a hike or a road trip - or, more likely, get swept up in something completely outlandish that Stiles has concocted and pretend to be completely unhappy about the situation.
"Take the next right," Stiles instructs, pointing at the junction ahead of them.
"Why did your dad confiscate your card, anyway?" Derek asks, following the direction.
"Uh, he got bored of delivery drivers knockin' on the door."
Derek throws him a bemused frown. "That's it?"
Stiles crosses his arms over his chest and slouches in the passenger seat. "There were multiple a day."
"For how many days?"
Stiles turns to look out the window, avoiding Derek's questioning gaze. "Eight."
Derek quirks an eyebrow. "I don't know if I should even ask what you were ordering."
"You know when you go on a trip to another state and you eat something you always eat back home, and it tastes completely different?" Stiles asks, the question bursting out of him as if suddenly desperate now to make Derek understand. Derek doesn't get a chance to give Stiles more than a frown. "I swear to god, dude, it's a thing. Alright? It's a thing. And one night I just- I dunno. I couldn't take the wondering anymore, y'know? I had to get answers. I couldn't sleep, man."
"You ordered something from every state?"
"He stopped me at twenty-three," Stiles mutters dejectedly, flicking his hand. "So, now I have to somehow come up with a result to this experiment with less-than-half the needed test subjects - go straight ahead at this intersection. I've got twenty-three boxes of Cinnamon Toast Crunch in my bedroom and I have to use them to come to a conclusion about the variation of flavour across fifty states - I mean, it's gonna have to be an estimation, can you believe that? All that work and I have to settle for a freakin' hypothesis. I wanted a solid answer, an unquestionable result. But no-"
"Cinnamon Toast Crunch," Derek repeats, his voice flat. "You ordered twenty-three boxes of cereal, Stiles?"
"Uh, it wasn't as simple as that, Derek," Stiles retorts defensively. His pale features are scrunched with offended indignation, and Derek would laugh if he wasn't so incredulous. "Take this left. No, it wasn't as simple as ordering twenty-three boxes of cereal. You can't order something like that online and specify which state you want it to come from. I had to hire people to buy the box in each state and drive it here, or mail it to me."
"That's insane," Derek frowns.
"Insane like 'oh wow, dude, that's crazy'?"
Derek gives him a flat stare.
Stiles huffs and rolls his eyes. "Go straight ahead again."
"No wonder your dad took your card."
Stiles' voice lowers into a mutter that sounds distinctly.. unhappy. "It's not my fault I fixate on stupid shit until my body feels like it'll literally implode if I don't do something about it."
Derek sighs quietly, glancing out the window at his side as he struggles to think of something to say. "So, what did you decide?" he asks quietly, awkward.
"What?"
"What hypothesis did you make?"
Stiles blinks at him. "Oh, uh. I dunno, it was kinda hard to settle on an answer."
Derek's eyebrows twitch upwards, prompting.
"But," Stiles concedes, and something brightens in his expression again. "Nebraska's doing something weird, man. I dunno what it is, but there's something a little off about their so-called cinnamon."
Despite his lingering incredulity, Derek grins.
"I think it might have crack in it."
And that manages to draw a laugh barking up Derek's throat.
Stiles regales him with all the nuances of flavouring in breakfast cereals, in the multitude of factories and each of their supply zones, peppering in some more directions to his house that Derek is loath to admit he nearly misses because he's too absorbed in Stiles' story. They eventually pull up to a humble two-story house, and Stiles orders Derek into the "Stiles spot" on the left-hand side of the driveway. He barely takes a pause in his sentence when he opens the passenger door and hops out of the truck, and he's lucky that Derek automatically copies his movements on the driver's side or he would have cut himself off when he slammed the door shut behind him - but, since Derek is a gentleman, thank you very much, and he moves to assist Stiles with the multitude of grocery bags, Stiles' story continues to have an audience who can actually hear it.
Between the two of them - well, mostly thanks to Derek's penchant for the gym - they manage to carry all the bags into the house in one trip. The kitchen is a decent size, but a little narrow, so Derek places the bags on the counters as instructed and then backs away to let Stiles in to unpack them all. The barista continues to ramble as he works, leaving cupboard doors hanging open at his shins and above his head (Derek has to nudge one closed with his foot before Stiles barrelled into it and broke it off the hinges, which Stiles of course did not notice), and the fridge opens and closes more times than Derek can count.
"You don't organise your fridge," Derek observes when there's a break in Stiles' monologue.
"Ugh, you sound like my dad," Stiles groans. "I don't need to organise it, okay? I know where everything is."
"But your dad-"
"Has to be supervised at all times in the kitchen in case he picks something he's not allowed to eat. Speaking of, would you fetch me a chair from the dining table?"
Derek's eyebrow quirks a little indignantly, but (no surprise, there) he moves to do as Stiles asked (ordered). The barista drags the chair over to the corner of the kitchen, clambers onto it, bundles up a mound of snacks and sweets into his arms, and stretches up to deposit them on top of the cupboards on the wall. He spreads them so they don't poke out over the top of the cupboards before hopping back down to the floor, sending Derek a wide, overenthusiastic grin as he pushes the chair back towards him. Derek huffs, rolling his eyes, but (again - he's pathetic) lifts the chair and brings it back to the dining table.
"You make a wonderful assistant, Derek Hale," Stiles comments, following behind Derek with handfuls of fruit to deposit in a wooden bowl in the middle of the table.
"Not how I expected my morning to go," Derek mutters to himself, standing with his hands on the back of the chair, glancing around the room.
Stiles spins suddenly, hands spread wide and flailing in the air. "Dude, oh my god, I'm so sorry! You have a new truck, you were probably going for a test drive or something when I texted, or-"
"It's Theo's truck," Derek clarifies, unable to stop the smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.
Stiles freezes, gaping at him. Then he blinks and his hands slap down against his sides, his face going slack. "Oh, uh, Theo, huh? You guys are like," he gestures vaguely, "sharing cars, or whatever? That's cool. That's nice. Yeah. That's uh- that's really.. domestic. Really nice. Yeah."
Derek's head tilts minutely, his eyes twitching. "He let me borrow it to pick up some stuff for the store. I think he went out with Liam last night so he figured he wouldn't need it."
Stiles' eyes narrow, his hands lifting to sit on his hips. He looks like he's trying to solve the mysteries of the universe. "Huh," he mutters. "So, uh- he just loaned you the truck, while he, uh- y'know, he's- he went to-"
"While he went on a date with Liam," Derek confirms with a nod, his voice slow and confused. "I guess he was confident it'd go well and he'd stay the night."
"And you," Stiles says, lifting his hands to rub them together awkwardly, his hip jutting out and his eyes narrowing questioningly again. "Are fine with that happening?"
Derek frowns, unsure whether Stiles thinks Derek is just overbearingly-overprotective of Theo, or whether he's trying to figure out if Derek is dating Theo. "Who Theo dates is none of my business," Derek responds, pushing off the back of the chair to stand up straight and face Stiles properly. "I'm not interested in him." And he grits his teeth and crosses his arms over his chest, because he's pretty sure he left a hint of an emphasis on "him", as if there's someone else he is interested in; but if Stiles is going to catch that, Derek should probably maintain their eye contact to avoid any miscommunication (because it's terrifying, and he has no idea if Stiles is even interested in him like that, but if there's the slimmest, most miniscule chance that he could be, then Derek figures he should probably leave some hints of his own interest).
Stiles' face morphs into something like understanding, his eyebrows shooting upwards as he pouts his lips and nods, even throwing in an upturned palm towards Derek. "Right, yeah. Sure. Of course. Not Theo. Just friends. Of course."
Derek feels his eyebrows and mouth twitch upwards, amusement warming his chest. Stiles' eyes flitter over his expression, his own lopsided smile growing on his face. The moment stretches out as Derek's chest warms further, his heart thumping against his ribs, and he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. His fingers twitch around his biceps and his arms loosen slightly from their crossed-over position. Stiles' upturned hand is still hanging in the air between them, as if asking to be held.
But then he rips it away from the No Man's Land between them and he clears his throat, bringing his knuckles up to his jaw to stroke along his stubble. "So, uh, what sorta stuff are you picking up for the store?" he asks.
Derek's arms tighten over his chest again, his gaze flicking around the room without really taking any of it in. "Uh, furniture, mostly. For a reading space."
Stiles perks up. "Oh, that sounds awesome, man. Great idea."
Derek glances at him, nodding his thanks. Stiles shifts on his feet as his hands seek each other out, rubbing them together as if nervous. Derek's gaze is drawn to them, to the stretch of forearm visible beneath the barista's rolled-up, chequered sleeves. The dark hairs stand out against Stiles' pale skin, and there's a hint of muscle flexing as he moves.
"You, uh- do you want- I could help you, y'know, with that. If you wanted. If you need help- want help. Since you helped me. I, uh- I kinda owe you, so. Yeah. I could help."
Derek's gaze flicks back to Stiles' face, noting the pinched skin around his eyes, the upwards twist to his eyebrows, the swipe of his tongue over his bottom lip. "You don't have to," Derek says quietly.
Stiles' eyes seem to analyse Derek's expression. "I, uh- it'd be fun, actually. It sounds fun."
Derek's eyebrows twitch upwards. "You're not working?"
Stiles' face brightens a little, his golden-brown eyes wide (and hopeful?) and warm. "Nope," he chirps. "Day off, nothin' to do."
Derek finds himself smiling. "Yeah, alright. Since you owe me."
Stiles grins. "Big time."
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
"You expect me to believe that you don't have the next step planned out?" Derek asks, an eyebrow quirked, as he shuts the driver's door behind him.
"I'm gonna go ahead and read between the lines here and take that as a compliment. So, thank you, Derek, for considering me to be someone so strategically gifted, so prepared, and intelligent, and handsome, I'm sure, and intelligent - did I mention prepared?" Stiles replies as he rounds the front of the truck.
"Struggling to think of positive attributes?" Derek smirks. "I guess you don't have many to choose from."
Stiles scoffs as they walk together towards the store, his shoulder brushing Derek's. "I have a plethora of positive attributes, thank you very much - and, by the way, your lack of contention implies that you do, in fact, think that I'm handsome, so no take-backs on that."
Derek decides to conduct his own little experiment, quickening his pace enough to get a couple of steps ahead of Stiles. He turns his head to throw a look over his shoulder at the barista, eyebrows twisting upwards slightly as he allows his gaze to purposefully drift over Stiles' face. "Yeah, you're handsome," he agrees, and he gives him the tiniest of smirks.
Stiles' eyes nearly bug out of his head as he gapes at Derek, and then he lets out a choked yelp when he trips over thin air. His hands claw in front of him for something to grab onto and Derek instinctively reaches out to offer his arm. Stiles latches onto it and nearly drags Derek down to the ground with him, but Derek plants his feet firmly and wraps his fingers around Stiles' elbow to keep him upright.
When Stiles finally gets his feet under him, he stands up to his full height again and turns his still-gaping expression up to Derek's face. Derek's eyebrows twist upwards, his smirk turned into something more mocking than flirtatious.
"Shut up," Stiles snaps petulantly, ripping his hands off of Derek's arm and dusting himself off, as if he got dirty in the first place. "Don't act like that wasn't exactly what you wanted."
"What, you falling for me?"
Stiles splutters indignantly, pushing Derek out of his way as he marches towards the store's entrance. "I don't know who the hell decided to give you so much arrogance today, but it is not working. It doesn't work for you. I like the Derek that was unaware of his insanely-good looks."
Derek tries not to grin as he follows after the barista. "Do you remember ranting about my appearance at me, the night of the fundraiser?"
Stiles halts after they make it through the store's lobby. "Biggest mistake I ever made," he mutters, lifting his hands to his hips as he runs his eyes quickly over the many displays across the shop floor.
Derek's amusement falters when he follows Stiles' gaze. "This is mine," he grunts, crossing his arms over his chest, when he spots an eager employee heading their way.
Stiles throws him a quick frown before realising what Derek is now trying to avoid looking at. "Oh, here we go."
"Hi, there! My name's Jacob. Is there something I can help you with today?" the employee beams, his voice loud and enthusiastic.
"Uh," Stiles says, eloquently.
"We just wanna look around," Derek interjects.
"Are you sure? If you have anything in particular you're looking for, you can let me know and I'll happily show you the various-"
"Actually," Stiles blurts, loud and sudden, startling Jacob mid-spiel. The barista has a hand lifted between them, an awkward expression on his face, and the idea behind his outburst only seems to develop fully after a quick glance at Derek's frowning face. "Y'know, I'd love to see what beds you have in store today. I have absolutely no idea what bed I want, so feel free to go wild, man. I'm all ears." He pats the employee on the shoulder as he turns him around and starts guiding him further into the store. A glance over his shoulder lets Derek give him a tiny smile, and Stiles responds with an exaggerated wink and a lopsided grin.
Taking a calming breath, Derek starts off in the opposite direction, his gaze honing in on all the different armchairs, stools, and regular seats spotted throughout the store. He hasn't got a particular style or colour in mind for the furniture. The way he first shopped for Books was simply browsing through different stores and picking out shit that he liked, regardless of whether it worked together or not. His criteria today is just: can someone sit on it comfortably for an hour? He's not looking for glamour or fashion; he is focused on comfort alone. Although, that doesn't mean he'll go for anything that strikes him as aesthetically unappealing - he's not that open.
He's about half-way round the shop floor when another employee approaches him, and he immediately tenses up.
"Hi there! Can I help you with anything?"
His jaw pries open to deliver a blunt refusal, but the employee speaks again.
"Oh, sorry! I see my colleague is with your partner already. I'll leave you to it."
Derek blinks at the woman's back, a little thrown. He glances across the store to see Stiles listening to Jacob enthusiastically - one arm is crossed over his chest, the other's elbow leaning on his forearm to cradle his chin in his long fingers, a thoughtful frown pulling at his forehead. He seems to be genuinely considering the bed Jacob is telling him about, asking questions and pointing to a bed they must have been looking at earlier as if pretending to compare. And then, when he catches Derek's eyes, he sends him a subtle "okay" hand-signal, another wink, and gestures inquiringly at a bed further round the store - further away from Derek's path, keeping Jacob as far from Derek as he can.
It might be the most thoughtful thing someone's done for Derek in a long time.
Eventually, he comes back around to the entrance, his neck craning to catch a glimpse of Stiles somewhere to indicate that he's ready to leave. The barista had spotted him first, apparently, since he's sauntering towards Derek with a bright smile on his face, Jacob following dutifully behind him.
"Well, I certainly have a lot to think about, Jacob, thank you. You've opened my eyes to the endless variety of bed frames and their ideal uses."
"It's a pleasure to be of assistance," Jacob replies cheerfully. "I just hope your partner felt he got a good enough look at them all on his own - though I'm sure you can fill him in on everything he missed!"
Stiles' eyes go wide again and he falters in his jaunty strides, his gaze snapping to Derek as if terrified that Derek's going to tear Jacob apart for insinuating such a thing. But Derek is now used to people labelling him and Stiles as a couple (and isn't that a sentence he never thought he'd think), so he reaches out to grab the material of Stiles' graphic tee and hauls him across the entrance mat towards him.
"Thanks," Derek tells Jacob, giving him a dismissive nod.
"Keep us in mind when you decide which bed you wanna go for!" Jacob smiles.
"What? Oh, uh, right. Yeah. Sure. Of course. Wouldn't dream of going anywhere else, Jakey-boy. No, sir. We'll come straight back here when we decide. On a bed. To share. 'Cos we're partners," Stiles rambles, chuckling awkwardly.
Jacob's smile falters, and Derek plants a hand on Stiles' shoulder to force him out through the exit. He may or may not be struggling not to spiral about why Stiles reacted so awkwardly.
"Right. No. Yeah. Too much. Good call. Abandon ship. Evacuate the dancefloor. Yup."
"Stiles," Derek says.
"Yeah, boss?"
"Shut up."
"Copy that. Loud and clear. Roger-roger. 10-4."
Derek huffs out an amused breath, letting go of the barista's shoulder. "Calm down before you short-circuit."
"Oh, no, I am way passed that, dude. I short-circuited, like, a long time ago. That bridge has been crossed and burned, no going back. Might as well throw me in the trash and get a newer model, at this point."
Derek opens the passenger door for Stiles during his little rant, and the barista clambers into the truck automatically, without realising. "Seatbelt," Derek says. Then, "Hands," because Stiles is continuing to ramble about the condition of his mental state, and his hands are being waved around emphatically, often out the open doorway. Finally, Derek has to just grab the barista's wrist and force his hand down into his lap before he can quickly retract his own arm and shut the door.
When he climbs in the driver's side, Stiles cheerfully meets his gaze and gives him a bright smile. "So, anyway, as I was saying. I don't have a next step planned out yet, because it's the final step. It has to be something completely awesome, or else the whole thing will have been an enormous waste of time."
Derek blinks at him. "What?"
Stiles gives him a look that says I'm judging you so hard, right now. "I'm not finishing the Big Plan full of regret, Derek. It needs to finish with a bang - like, on a high note. Y'know?"
Derek pulls his own seatbelt on and starts the truck, frowning bemusedly. "Sure. Makes sense," he responds, his voice stilted. "No regrets."
Stiles grins. "Exactly. No regrets." He beats out a short, quick rhythm on his thighs. "Also there's only so many words that start with 'Z' and I'm coming up with zilch when I try to make a plan based around them."
The employee at the next store they go to assumes that Derek and Stiles are a couple, too; but Stiles is prepared this time. He hits out with a "Bold of you to assume that I could get with someone like him," and throws Derek an over-the-top eye roll before leading the employee away from him again.
They visit three furniture stores and a rug store before Stiles hijacks the day and demands milkshakes, insisting they'll help get the "interior design juices flowing". He directs Derek to Shameless Shakes, assuring him that they'll get discounted prices because he "has a guy on the inside", and Derek finds himself barely huffing a sigh at the change of plans. He had hoped that he'd have found more furniture by this point; maybe a milkshake will lift his spirits (if Cora could hear him say that, if she could see him sitting in this ridiculously-pastel milkshake joint, she'd laugh until the end of days).
Lydia turns out to be Stiles' man on the inside, and she rolls her eyes and scolds Stiles for spreading false information about discounts and her ability to hand them out to her friends, but Derek definitely pays less than what the price on the board says, and Stiles is unusually quiet throughout the whole exchange.
"She's all bark, no bite," he whispers loudly to Derek when they carry their milkshakes over to a two-seater table.
"I could take you out without breaking a nail, Stilinski, and everyone knows it," Lydia calls from the counter, her head buried in a textbook even as she listens in on their conversation and makes another milkshake for the customer that came in behind them.
"Okay, she's some bark, some bite," Stiles amends, wincing slightly.
Derek smirks at him.
"You ever been here before?" Stiles asks, diving down to suck on his straw while he looks up at Derek, eyebrows raised almost into his hairline.
Derek maintains his smirk and tilts his head, his eyebrows quirking.
The straw pops out of Stiles' mouth noisily when he rips his head away, his expression scrunching. "Right. No. Of course not, why would you?" he says after swallowing his mouthful.
Derek grins and shakes his head, lifting his milkshake to take a sip. Stiles watches him the whole time with a small, excited grin, eyebrows lifting expectantly. "Tastes like diabetes," Derek intones.
Stiles' face falls with irritation. "You're a dick."
Derek chuckles, scratching at his chin. "Yeah, probably." Stiles mocks his laugh petulantly before diving back in for another sip of his own milkshake, and Derek is well-aware of how soft his expression is. "How long have you known each other?"
Stiles swallows his mouthful. "Who? Me and Lyds?"
Derek shrugs.
"Everyone?" Stiles interprets (correctly). "Since school, I guess. I mean, Scott's been my best buddy since we were kids. Like, young kids. But the rest of them only deigned to acknowledge our existence in high school."
"It's nice you've all stayed close."
Stiles scoffs and tosses Derek that lopsided grin of his. "I mean, some of them tried to escape, but I wouldn't let them. Others, like Jackson, I was perfectly content to see walk away. Erica's pros outweigh the cons, despite how snarky she is, and Isaac is, like, hanging by a thread. Always has been. Seems to thrive off of it, the sick bastard."
Derek laughs. "What about Boyd?"
Stiles winces when he takes too big a sip of his milkshake, briefly rubbing at his forehead. "Uh, I'm pretty sure Boyd hated everything about high school - including us. I think Erica managed to talk to him for a while, one time, but it was only while they were lab partners - as soon as the project finished, Boyd just slunk off into his dark corner again."
Derek frowns a little, stirring his straw around his milkshake. Boyd and the others would only have been a couple of years below Derek in school, but he had been too busy focusing on his basketball team and then recovering after the fire to pay any attention to the kids outside his grade. Maybe if he hadn't been so self-absorbed before the fire, he'd have noticed Boyd's isolation.
"He's happy now, though, right?" Stiles says, drawing Derek's gaze back to him. "He was probably smart to wait it out until we'd left school and matured a little." The barista gives him a soft smile, as if realising where Derek's mind had gone.
"Yeah, he seems happier," Derek agrees, drinking again from his milkshake.
"And, uh," Stiles says quietly, lifting his hand to run his knuckles along his stubbled jaw (and Derek's eyes track the movement carefully, wondering what the stubble would feel like against his own fingers). "What about you? You think you're happier? Not that you weren't happy before. Like, I don't mean you were depressed until we barged into your life, or something. Nothing like that. I, uh- I just mean, like- I didn't mean to-"
"Stiles," Derek smiles, shaking his head.
"Right," Stiles chirps, his head bobbing. "Shutting up."
"No, I just-" Derek sighs, leaning back in his chair. He shrugs, wincing slightly at the inherent aversion to being self-reflective buried deep in his bones. "I'm not gonna rip your throat out for asking me a question."
Stiles grins a little abashedly. "So, you have changed a little, then," he muses. "Think back to the first time we met in Deaton's - if someone told that-you that you'd be sitting in a milkshake joint covered in baby-blues and pinks, drinking an Oreo milkshake with me however many weeks down the line, what do you think you'd have said? Or done, since you were a man of even fewer words back then."
Derek chuckles a little awkwardly, rubbing at his jaw. "Yeah, I'd have struggled to believe that," he admits - even though, when he's really honest with himself, he'd been attracted to Stiles instantly, so he maybe wouldn't have been surprised to have learned that he'd still be interacting with the barista, only at how out of his comfort zone he'd go in order to have that interaction.
There's a strange expression on Stiles' face. There are teasing twitches in his mouth and eyebrows, some crinkles around his eyes, a tongue prodding at his lip cheekily; but he's looking up at Derek from his hunched position, and his eyes are open and attentive, flicking between Derek's with a gentle happiness that makes his stomach flip. They're such a warm, golden, whiskey-hued brown that they threaten to trap Derek in his admiration until he drops dead - and Derek doesn't care, because he'd happily spend his last moments locked in a silent, soft moment with eyes like that. They just seem so rich and deep beyond his comprehension, immeasurably warm even when Stiles is angry or offended or mocking - and they're focused on him, like he's worthy of it, somehow.
"You know your eyebrows say more than your mouth ever does?" Stiles asks, and his tone is teasing, but his voice is quiet and soft.
"I've been told they're expressive," Derek replies, leaning his elbows on the table. He gives Stiles a smile, small and a little hesitant. "You learned the language at all?" He'd certainly have been shocked to see himself being so soft, after so long being as rough-edged and abrasive as he could be.
The corner of Stiles' mouth pulls into his cheek with a kind of boyish charm, the other side of his mouth pulling downwards as if to try and subdue his reaction. "I think I caught on to the basics pretty quickly," he shrugs. "I'm moving onto the more advanced stuff, now. It's hard work."
Derek smiles, his eyebrows quirking.
Stiles grins around his straw. "Yeah, that's right," he answers smugly. "It's worth it, though."
Derek huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "So, what about you?" he asks. "You think your big plan changed you at all?"
"First of all: you definitely didn't capitalise 'big' and 'plan', there, and that's an issue, alright? It's Big Plan, not big plan."
"They literally sound the exact same."
"Alright, well, clearly I can hear a whole other dimension of sound that you can't, so, that's fine, I guess. We'll move past it," Stiles dismisses bitterly. "Secondly: I just wanna make a point of acknowledging that I was completely flawless before I embarked on this journey, and I did not need to change in any way, for anyone. Stiles Stilinski is a brand, a respected and world-renowned brand, and the fans are completely satisfied with how the brand is, and was."
Derek frowns with mock curiosity, tilting his head while he lifts his straw to his mouth.
"And third, you impatient ass: yes, I've probably learned a couple lessons that I should try to incorporate into my lifestyle as I continue to mature and grow into a fully-fledged adult."
"Like what?" Derek prompts.
"Uh, like never to trust the word of Jackson Whittemore," he replies, counting it out on his fingers. "Always perform any morally-ambiguous activities when Deaton is not in the coffeeshop. Don't give a bunch of hired actors your Facebook 'cos they'll definitely spam your page with abuse if you cancel the gig and refuse to pay them. Always splurge on the best weapons pack in an online game, because Aiden is rich, somehow, and you can be sure he's dropped some green for that shit. Only engage real-life enemies physically when Derek's around. Never tell Erica-"
"Wait, what?" Derek scowls indignantly, hurriedly swallowing his mouthful of milkshake.
Stiles blinks innocently. "Never tell Erica that she's-"
"Stiles."
The barista groans dramatically. "Fine, sourpuss. Only engage real-life enemies physically when Derek's elsewhere. Don't tell Erica-"
"Oh my god," Derek mutters, lifting a hand to rub at his forehead.
Stiles laughs. "Dude, I'm kidding, c'mon. My life flashed before my eyes that day, man. I don't wanna go through that again. I'll only ever engage someone physically if it's, like, to defend someone's honour or save their life or something."
"How noble," Derek intones, letting his hand fall back to the table.
"Seriously, though. I've learned that I need to really try to subdue my impulses, sometimes. Even though they're like.. ingrained in me. A little bit. A lot."
Derek's lips press gently together, taking a breath to give him time to formulate a compassionate response.
"Although," Stiles barrels on, wincing. "I am considering joining the force. Y'know, following my pop's footsteps and everything. I'm a pretty good detective, actually. I helped solve some of his cases. I wasn't allowed to look at the files, obviously, but.. I dunno how they ended up in my room, right? Ghosts, probably. He couldn't really argue too much when he realised I was right, so."
Despite the slight twinge in his chest at the thought of Stiles being close to danger in any way, Derek smiles. "You'd be a good cop."
"Yeah, I know, right? I'm just selfless like that, y'know? Always lookin' out for the little guy, just wanting to help everybody out. Friendly neighbourhood Stiles," he grins, shooting a finger-gun at Derek with a wink. "Although, I did also get swept up into this phase our school went through for a semester when they tried to peddle this green initiative. I was, like, out in the parking lot with signs, and there were stalls and flyers and shit. It was awesome, dude. We felt like we were changing the world. I think I'd be a pretty good activist, too."
Derek smiles over the table at him, unable to look at anything other than the bright, lively warmth in Stiles' eyes. The barista could be literally anything he wanted to be, Derek's sure. He's got the passion and enthusiasm down to an art, the desire to learn and do better. It's so admirable it makes Derek's chest swell - even if he has no right to feel proud.
"What about you? You hit the jackpot with Books, or is there something else on the horizon for Derek Hale?"
Derek drops his gaze to his milkshake, suddenly a little uncomfortable. "I dunno," he mutters. "My store's the best thing I've ever done." He rubs the back of his neck and chances a look up at Stiles, catching the patient and interested look on the barista's face. Derek smiles. "I always hoped I'd be able to do more with Satomi, when I was ready," he admits.
Stiles' expression brightens even more. "Like, with the orphanage?" he clarifies. "Yeah, dude, that'd be awesome. You'd be great. I mean, I saw you at the fundraiser talking to that kid - he was one kid one minute, and a completely different kid the next, just 'cos you spoke to him. There's definitely something there, man."
Derek smiles softly, a little bittersweet. "No, he was the same kid the whole time," he says quietly.
Stiles is silent for a moment, but Derek can feel his gaze. Then, "You saw it in him, right?"
Derek looks up again, his eyebrows twisting upwards a little as his shoulders shrug shallowly.
Stiles' face softens even more, his eyes so gentle and caring. "I get it," he murmurs.
The barista's hand is laid on the table, just a few inches away from Derek's, and his fingertips are tingling with the craving to reach for it. He wants to slip his fingers under Stiles' palm, stroke his thumb over the back of Stiles' hand and pull it close, count the freckles splattered over his skin.
But, no.
"Are you guys on a date?"
Derek nearly flinches. His gaze snaps to the counter where Danny is swapping places with Lydia, frowning over at Derek and Stiles with wary confusion.
"And we're done here," Stiles sing-songs quietly to himself, pushing his chair back to stand up. "Would you concur? Great. Excellent. Fantastic. Let's get the hell outta here, then." He swipes his milkshake from the table and starts to stride through the shop to the doorway, leaning in close to the counter to hiss something at Danny.
Derek picks up his own milkshake and follows after the barista, giving Danny a questioning expression when he sees the young man's contained delight in the grin he tries to hide.
He hopes Danny can't see it on his face that his heart is twisting worriedly at the thought of Stiles being so pissed off by that assumption.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
After they finish their milkshakes, Stiles insists on them popping into a thrift store instead of another chain, assuring Derek that the employees don't interfere as much as the rest they've dealt with today. Derek had never thought about using second-hand furniture before, and he ends up regretting his complaints when he sees the kind of things the thrift stores are selling. Nothing too flashy or pretentious - just items with history and character. Suddenly, the back of Theo's truck starts to fill up.
They stop at a parking lot to visit a taco food truck, and they eat standing against the truck since Derek has absolutely no doubt in his mind that Stiles would manage to spill something on Theo's upholstery. Then they visit a paint store, because Derek should "definitely put a new coat of paint on the coffee table" they picked up, and a toy store, too, since "there might be some kids sittin' around while their parent or guardian reads a book, dude". He picks up more than he thought he would, but he's happy with the choices, and Stiles' pride about being so helpful is amusing as much as it is aggravating.
But, eventually, their little adventure has to come to an end, because Theo needs his truck to get home tonight, and Derek needs to drop everything off at Books before that. He pulls up outside Stiles' house without having needed directions this time, and Stiles lingers in the passenger seat to finish his story about the time he and Scott thought they'd found a dead body in the woods, but it turned out to be a legless mannequin.
Derek is shuffled round to face Stiles better, his knee leaning up against the middle console. His left hand is still resting on the steering wheel, but his right is comfortably draped over the middle console - right next to Stiles', as it has been for the last fifteen minutes. Stiles is behaving a little abnormally, in that only one of his hands is gesturing emphatically as he narrates his memory of the fateful night of the Murdered Mannequin. His other hand, the one next to Derek, has twitched as if desperate to join the other, but it has remained right there, a hair's-breadth from Derek's, no matter how dramatic the storytelling got. And maybe it incites a spark of hope in Derek's chest.
"Well, this was pretty fun," Stiles sighs contentedly after a moment of companionable silence. "For repaying a favour, anyway. Thanks again for that, man. You seriously did me a solid. I'm gonna eat so much ice cream tonight."
Derek smirks, and he feels somewhat emboldened by that spark of hope. "Maybe next time you don't have to make me your last resort," he shrugs, gesturing his right hand. It drops back to the console a little closer to Stiles' than it was before.
"Yeah?" Stiles muses, quirking his eyebrows, his eyes dancing across Derek's face. "Well, maybe I hadn't actually asked anyone else before I texted you."
Derek's smirk falters, his expression loosening with gentle surprise. Stiles is watching him with a face that's borderline-vulnerable, open and exposed. He looks nervous, and shy, but also hopeful and happy and his eyes, fuck. Derek has never felt his body and heart crave someone so achingly before. It feels like there's something pulling at the centre of his chest, pulling him to lean across the console towards Stiles, and the longer he resists it, the more empty he feels.
Stiles must slip his hand closer to Derek's, because suddenly he feels the soft press of skin against the side of his palm, a pinky brushing up against his own, and a streak of pure, blazing heat surges up his arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Derek's pinky flinches a little, but it lifts up and slowly stretches over to gently lay on top of Stiles', tucking around the thin digit. Derek's heart is thumping erratically in his ears, in his throat, in his toes, and he watches Stiles lick his lips, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.
But then a light switches on in the window behind Stiles and Derek sees Stilinski's silhouette move through the house, approaching the window. He frowns gently, using every single ounce of his willpower to pull his hand away from Stiles' again. "Uh, looks like your dad's home," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
Stiles blinks, frowning, and then turns to look out the window. He lifts a limp hand to greet his dad when the Sheriff peers out the window at the truck outside his house, and then turns back to Derek with a somewhat awkward expression. "I guess I should make sure he hasn't found my stash," he mutters.
Derek can only stare at him, his brain screaming at him for ruining the moment.
"Uh, yeah. So, uh, thanks. Again. For the ride. And letting me tag along. That, uh- that was.. yeah. Thanks." He purses his lips, gives Derek an uncomfortable nod, and then turns to open the door and hop out of the truck.
Derek's brain suddenly boots up again when the door slams shut and Stiles goes to walk away. "It wasn't bold of him, by the way," he says loudly, almost wincing at how dumb he sounds. Stiles turns to look through the window at him, and Derek hits the button to roll it down. "It wasn't bold of him. To assume that."
He almost calls it a night and just drives off out of sheer embarrassment; but Stiles gazes up at him still, and his expression is loose, as if disbelieving. He knows what Derek's talking about. "Yeah?" he asks.
Derek nods, frowning. "Yeah. You, uh- you really helped me out today. You made it fun. So, thank you, Stiles."
The barista smiles up at him, the disbelieving curve still pulling at his lips. "You're welcome, Derek."
Derek smiles back at him, glad that he'll at least not go home kicking himself about letting Stiles walk away without seeing that smile again. "Good luck coming up with the last step. I hope it's good enough to avoid any regret."
Stiles beams at him. "You're gonna regret giving Scott your number thinking that he wouldn't share it with me immediately, despite you telling him not to. I'm gonna bounce all my ideas off of you, man. I hope you're ready."
Derek laughs. "See you later, Stiles."
"I mean it! You'll have, like, thirty messages by the time you get home tonight!" Stiles calls as Derek starts to pull away.
He laughs again, and his grin doesn't fade until he's a few blocks away from Stiles' house. He can't remember the last time he's smiled and laughed so much in one day - probably not since before the fire. And Stiles probably doesn't even realise the significance of that.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
Derek's brow scrunches with concentration and his head tilts to the left. Boyd, as intuitive as ever, shuffles to his right on the other side of the rug, watching Derek's face attentively. Derek's brow twitches upwards and his head straightens again, so Boyd nods and lays his side of the rug down on the wooden floor. Silently, they move to an aisle each and pick up an armchair.
Derek is glad that, despite his sudden social skills around Boyd and the Deaton's crew, he and Boyd can still enjoy a companionable silence, can still communicate without words when neither are feeling up to flexing that social muscle. Boyd's stoic quiet is reassuring to Derek, and a reminder that who Derek is at his core hasn't really changed in the last few months. He'd had a moment of panic, about a week ago, when he compared his behaviours now to how they had been this time last year, and he had worried that he'd been turned into something he didn't recognise, someone he never wanted to be - forced to behave in a way that allowed him to fit in better with a very specific social circle.
After his day with Stiles, his worries had been eased away. He hasn't been forced into changing anything about himself; Boyd and the others have just brought this long-forgotten side of him out into the sunlight again. They had barged into his life, yes, and presumed these roles of 'friends' without really blinking an eye or asking for permission, but the fact is that they have actually earned that title in the last few months. They never asked him to change, never told him to behave differently - hell, Scott had been inviting Derek to hang out before they'd ever connected on a level other than "Hey, here's your order!", "Thanks." They had seen him at his most bitter and antagonistic, and they hadn't been deterred in the slightest; they had just continued to coax this sociable side of him out through the smoke and the ashes and the grief and back into the light of day.
And when Derek looks over at Boyd carefully considering the placement of the armchair he's carrying, taking a genuine interest in the aesthetic of Derek's store, Derek can't find it in himself to feel anything other than gratitude.
Until the bell above the door tinkles and a voice batters down the aisles towards them.
"Good morning to this fine establishment and its enigmatic, reticent, dashing employees!"
Boyd places his armchair down at the edge of the rug. "He's like a walking thesaurus," he mutters.
Derek huffs out an amused breath as he straightens up to peer down the store. "Morning, Stiles," he says, lifting a hand.
The barista is in a plain burgundy t-shirt and jeans, his hair thick and fluffy and brushed away from his face, his jaw still lined with a short stubble - and Derek's heart thuds with painful fondness at the sight of him. "Hey, Derek," Stiles replies, grinning lopsidedly as he holds the door open.
"Stiles," Theo grunts on the other side of the door, his arms full of boxes. "I'll drop this shit on your toes if you don't open the door wider."
Stiles blinks and whips his gaze to the doorway, eyes wide with surprise. "Oh, right, yeah. Sorry, dude." He steps back and pulls the door open fully so that Theo can fit through the space.
"Derek, man, where do you want this stuff?" Theo asks.
Derek squeezes past the furniture in his aisle and strides up towards the counter to take a couple of boxes from Theo's arms. "These aren't parts of the stall, right? They can go in the staffroom just now. Stiles, there's a doorstop behind you."
Between the three of them, they make quick work of taking everything from Theo's truck into the shop. Stiles chatters animatedly the entire time, while Theo rolls his eyes or snarks at him or makes comments to Derek about how it's "way too early for his bullshit"; and Derek agrees that this amount of conversation, an hour and a half before Books even opens, is criminal - but, luckily, Stiles is in more of a storytelling mood than a conversational mood, and Derek finds that listening isn't half as bad as contributing, especially when it's Stiles' voice.
"Alright, who's gonna help me build the stall?" Stiles asks, his hands on his hips, as he stands next to the three pre-built segments of the stall.
Theo gives him a look. "You don't need help," he retorts, gesturing at the segments. "And Deaton is only paying me to deliver this shit, not to spend more time with you than necessary, so."
Stiles rolls his eyes, shooing Theo with a hand. "Fine, asshole. You can run back to HQ and your little dork boyfriend."
"Don't call him that," Theo warns flatly.
"What, dork?"
"Yeah."
"But he is one."
"I know."
"So?"
"So, that doesn't mean you can call him that."
"Oh, I see. It's a 'he's a dork but he's my dork so only I get to call him that' sorta situation, huh?"
"Exactly," Theo smirks.
"Y'know, I knew him before you did. He's our baby. Scott is literally his dad."
"Don't give a shit, Stilinski. If you hurt his feelings, I'll punch you in the throat so hard it'll shut you up permanently."
Derek's amusement falters enough to take a step between the two of them. "Alright, settle down."
Theo's lips press together as his head tilts, lifting a judgemental eyebrow at Derek. "Protective much?" he asks, his voice low and quiet.
Derek crosses his arms over his chest, his eyebrows pinching as a wry smirk pulls at his mouth. "You wanna run back to the threat you just made?"
A hand suddenly splays across his shoulder blade and a huff of air brushes his ear, his neck bursting with goosebumps. "Yeah, by the way - not very intimidating, Raeken. I've seen you go all soft and mushy around Liam, you're not fooling anyone."
Derek rolls his eyes. "Not helping, Stiles," he mutters.
"What, you think I wouldn't still beat your ass to hell and back?" Theo challenges.
"Enough," Derek bites out, exasperated. "It's too early for this shit. Go back to Deaton's, Theo. Thanks for the help."
Theo smirks, quirking his eyebrows knowingly at Derek again, but he snatches the keys to the truck off the countertop and turns to leave the store.
"Never stood a chance," Stiles comments with smug amusement, his body heat pulling away from Derek's back with a couple of firm pats to his shoulder blade.
"You're a danger to yourself and everyone around you," Derek sighs, turning to help Stiles assemble the stall.
Deaton had surprisingly agreed to set up a link with Books, per Stiles' suggestion. Derek had told him that he wasn't interested in taking any sort of payment for the set-up, that the potential increase in customers would be enough compensation (and he had hoped that it would allow for him to see more of Stiles, but that wasn't mentioned for obvious reasons). Deaton had agreed to the terms, happy to support another local business and hopefully draw in some more customers to his coffee shop due to the increased exposure, so they had agreed on trialling a small stall in Books with one of the baristas. Deaton had reasoned that Scott, his most trusted employee, was busy supervising Liam still, and had almost picked Erica to man the stall; but realised at the last minute that Stiles, while more clumsy and prone to distraction, also distracted Scott more than was reasonable. So, he decided to split the responsibility between Stiles and Erica - one would man the stall for three days, then the other would come in for the next three days. Theo had been hired to transport the coffee ingredients and assortment of muffins and cakes between the coffee shop and Derek's store to keep up a healthy supply, and they discussed the possibility of Stiles taking bigger orders like paninis and soups, with Theo running a sort of delivery service during the day.
With that and the new reading space, Derek is pretty confident that Books is going to become more popular - and that's a good thing, even if he wants to throw up a wall and recede so deep inside himself he can hear his cells working, just to avoid talking to customers.
"You decide on a title for the last step?" Derek asks once they've taken a step back to admire the assembled stall.
Stiles grins at the wooden structure, at the sign hanging at the top and the maroon panels lining the front. "Oh, yeah," he replies. "Step Twenty-Six: Zero Regrets."
Derek smirks over at him. "Creative."
Stiles gives him a short, playful glare. "Shut up. I couldn't think of anything else to do, and, y'know, we'd talked about ending the Big Plan without any regrets, and I just-" he clicks his tongue and gestures at the stall. "This just feels like the perfect thing to end it on. After all the drama and failures and mistakes, this actually feels like something we did right, and I'm proud of it. So, it makes it all worth it, you know?"
Derek's smirk softens when Stiles looks at him. "Yeah," he nods.
Stiles' smile is soft, too, and Derek's chest tightens a little, as if his fondness for the barista is expanding past his ribs and pushing at his skin. It spreads down through his body, flooding into his fingers and making them twitch with a need to reach out, to hold and pull close and protect and marvel, and he grits his teeth against the urge. Stiles' eyes flit across Derek's face, and he suddenly feels raw and exposed, and a heat blooms in his chest at the terrified hope that floods him suddenly - maybe Stiles can see Derek's feelings in his expression, maybe he'll realise without Derek having to agonise over the best way to communicate it verbally (and inevitably fucking it up), and the idea is somehow both horrible and wonderful at the same time.
Because he still isn't sure if Stiles reacts the way he does to Derek because he's physically-interested, or really, actually, interested-interested. Emotionally. Romantically. Whatever. Stiles' energy and mannerisms are too chaotic and sporadic to be able to interpret on a deeper level than what Derek is currently managing (barely).
He figures he should probably wait another couple of months, try and get a better sense of the young man, gather more information and investigate a little deeper, before he does anything stupid like make a move. Stiles may give off the energy of a panicked and tortured bisexual, but he's also the most alive person that Derek has ever met, the most emphatic and multilayered and chaotic, and that threatens to up-end any assumptions Derek's made over the last few months. He needs to get to know the barista better before he can feel confident in his analysis, at which point he'll either have to give up all hope of ever being a romantic candidate for Stiles, or he'll have to then start the arduous process of figuring out whether he's anything more than eye-candy to Stiles and whether he'll make an absolute idiot of himself if he ever worked up the courage to make a move.
The turmoil he's undergone in the few moments Stiles has been standing there, reading the language of Derek's expression, leaves his shoulders slumped and his jaw clenched. He clears his throat and nods one last time at the stall before he turns and walks back down the aisles to the reading space Boyd is still organising. (And he wonders if there ever will be a day that Derek will make a move on Stiles, because the thought is terrifying, and he feels painfully undeserving of the possibility, realistic or not, of ever dating the barista.)
xxxxxxxxxxx
The morning of Stiles' third day working the stall in Books, Derek has noticed a strange energy around the young man. He's been particularly fidgety today, particularly talkative, and Derek has spied him groaning to himself a few times as if in exasperation or anguish - he's not sure what sort of scale Stiles is working with today. Derek has tried to approach him, asking open-ended questions and engaging in discussions about favourite books or genres, but Stiles' expression seems to become more contorted and pained the longer Derek talks to him, so he has retreated (some might say with his tail between his legs, what with all the dejected energy around him) to the aisles of the store to organise his stock and leave Stiles be. He even threw a questioning frown at Boyd after he'd stood at the counter for ten minutes near Stiles, but had only received an identical expression in reply.
He's on the verge of texting Scott, wondering if there's perhaps some kind of protocol the others have concocted after years of being so close to Stiles and familiar with his behaviours, when a customer enters the store. He actually willingly seeks them out in an attempt to distract himself, showing them around the aisles and pulling certain books out as recommendations; but now he can feel Stiles' whiskey eyes following his every move, and it's setting him on edge. When he glances over at the barista, he sees an unfamiliar expression on his face, an unrecognisable depth to his eyes, and Derek's voice cracks suddenly mid-sentence, confusion twisting his eyebrows even as dread claws his heart - because is Stiles fed up of him? Is that what this new face is? An earnest, justified regret that he'll be spending three days every week in Derek's store, in Derek's company?
Maybe Derek should semi-retire and only work the three days Erica's in. Or he could leave everything to Boyd and say goodbye to Beacon Hills forever.
He trails after the customer as she wanders up to the counter to pay, struggling to avoid eye contact with the barista in the corner, whose hands are braced on the small counter of his stall as if facing some kind of grievous decision. He has to physically turn away and move a few steps down the aisle again to escape the tension in the air, imagined or not.
"God, I'm starving - do you guys know any good places to eat around here?" the woman asks.
Derek sees an opportunity and jumps on it, twisting on his feet to face her again. "Try Deaton's Dream Beans," he smiles politely, his muscles straining. "Best coffee joint in town." He just wants to prove to Stiles that he's good, that he's a friend, at the very least (and, fine, yes, okay, he genuinely believes that Deaton's is the best Beacon Hills has to offer).
The woman grins at him and nods. "Okay, great! Thanks." She takes the receipt from Boyd and happily leaves the store.
Derek sees Boyd glance between him and Stiles, quirk an eyebrow, and turn to walk towards the staff room. He even pushes the door over behind himself.
Derek's eyebrows furrow a little at the strange behaviour, at the quiet tension still seizing the air in the store, and his gaze searches for Stiles as if on instinct. He finds a pair of wide eyes staring back at him, a slack jaw and parted lips communicating shocked disbelief. For a moment, Derek forgets the angst he's suffered all morning. He can't help the amusement bubbling in his chest, nor the grin that easily spreads across his face, eyebrows quirking cheekily - because Stiles' expression is amusingly endearing and he put it there and that gives him a small rush of euphoria.
But Stiles' expression crumples hopelessly. "Aw, screw it," he mutters. Derek's grin falters, his eyebrows pinching with confusion and dread, but then Stiles is skirting the edge of his stall and marching towards him. "Don't punch me. Don't punch me. Don't punch me," the barista is chanting quickly under his breath, and it's only when his whiskey eyes drop lower on Derek's face and his head tilts minutely and his hands lift from his sides to reach out, that Derek finally clicks.
His mind seems to process everything at half-speed, his heartbeat tripping over itself, but his body moves swiftly when he steps forward to meet Stiles, one hand reaching to cup the side of his head while the other latches onto his hip. Stiles' fingers bury themselves in Derek's shirt and pull, as if Derek's at risk of floating away (which is ridiculous, because he wants to be as close to Stiles as physically possible). But then their faces meet and Derek is kissing Stiles - finally, finally - with a burning hunger and his fingers are lost in Stiles' stupid fluffy hair and he can feel Stiles' stubble scratching at his own and his body is on fire and he feels so dizzy that he thinks there actually might be a risk of him floating away.
His hand moves from Stiles' hip to wrap his arm tightly around his waist, crowding him in harder against his chest in an attempt to anchor himself to the barista, and one of Stiles' hands untangles from his shirt to scrabble up his chest, over his collarbone, and his nails scrape up the back of Derek's neck (and his knees nearly buckle at the sensation) until his fingers are burying in the hair at the back of Derek's head.
Derek can feel the soft, plump skin of Stiles' lips caught in his own, feels the puff of breath from Stiles' nose against his skin, the almost-frantic clutch of Stiles' fingers in his shirt and hair, and it nearly ruins him. Stiles' elbow is digging into his ribs, their hips flush, the weight of his arm comfortable on Derek's shoulder, and Derek's fingers press harder into Stiles' side. They're both breathing short, harsh puffs of air out of their noses, but neither seem to be inhaling properly, their chests too restricted to make room for the needed oxygen, and Derek wonders if people would understand if he died from suffocation just to hold on a little longer.
But he wants the chance to do this again (and again and again), and he'd feel pretty bad if he let Stiles suffocate, too, so he slowly tucks his chin in closer to his chest, and Stiles does the same, pressing his lips harder against Stiles' one last time before he opens them and draws away to heave in a breath. Derek's fingers loosen in Stiles' hair enough to slide his palm down over the barista's ear and his thumb can stroke gently (reverently) over Stiles' cheekbone, and he leans his forehead against Stiles', tilting it at a slight angle so that Stiles' breath is puffing against his cheek instead of his lips (because it really was almost enough to make him dive back in and risk suffocation). He can feel his heart battering in his chest, his blood pulsing loudly in his ears, and he has the startling realisation that he hasn't felt so alive in years.
Every single sense is flooded with Stiles - his warmth, his softness, his dumb cologne, his ragged breaths, the shape of him outlined in Derek's mind by touch, the taste of him on Derek's lips when his tongue swipes across them. He has never felt so consumed by someone, so enveloped and sheltered, and his fingers curl into his palm to draw the material of Stiles' shirt into his grip. He doesn't want to let go.
Stiles' breath shakes on his next exhale, then he inhales and his chest pushes his arm further into Derek's chest. "You didn't punch me," he murmurs, his voice low and scratchy and breathless. Derek opens his eyes and finds Stiles already watching him, his pupils dilated amongst a bright, golden-brown framed by fluttering, dark eyelashes (and since when were his eyelashes that long?).
Derek's eyebrow quirks, the skin of his forehead bunching slightly where it is still pressed against Stiles'. "Still got a few hours left," he responds, and he can hear the breathlessness in his own voice, the hoarse rumble of it vibrating from his chest up his throat. His eyes flutter shut when Stiles' fingers sift through his hair, gently tugging at his scalp, but he forces them open again because Stiles had started to grin and he can't miss that.
"Zero regrets," Stiles beams, and it's the most beautiful thing Derek has ever seen.
He lifts his chin again to catch Stiles' lips in another kiss, his hand gently supporting Stiles' head when he pushes in at a deeper angle. Every soft draw of their lips sends a sharp, electric zing through every cell in his body, his mind completely honed in on the sensation even as it threatens to vacate his head entirely. His stomach is swooping, his heart rapidly hammering against his ribs, and everything right down to his toes is tingling with unadulterated relief and contentment.
"Just to be clear," Stiles breathes out with a wince when he pulls back enough to make eye-contact again. Derek's heart stutters, waiting to fall off the ledge. "I'm a go hard or go home kinda guy, so, y'know, I am all in - like, just.. as far in as you can possibly get in this situation. I'd like to do this forever. With you. Exclusively. Please. For the love of god, please."
Derek can only grin and nod wordlessly, and Stiles' answering grin as he leans in again to kiss him is intoxicating. Stiles' other hand slides up over Derek's chest to loop his arm around his neck and Derek lets his own brush down Stiles' side until he can curl his other arm around his waist, too. Their bodies press together from hips to chests, their legs tangled together in such a way that he doesn't know where he ends and Stiles begins, and Derek knows without a doubt, without a single smidgeon of dismay, that he is well and truly lost on this guy.
And to think, he had almost thrown in the towel when he'd been interviewing for a shop assistant, had almost called it a day and saved himself any more hardship before Boyd had walked through his door. If he had, then he'd never have been worn down by Boyd, by Scott, by Erica and Isaac, by Stiles, and he'd have continued his life half-lived, oblivious to the possibility of being resurrected through exasperation and aggravation into a living, breathing, feeling human again. So, yeah, Derek thinks, with a warm, infuriating, beautiful, idiotic Stiles crushed against his chest, he really has a lot of fucking time for Vernon Boyd.