You know, when everything has gone to shit (read, there's a monster werewolf on a rampage, your little cousin keeps trying to kill you, a family of hunters keeps trying to kill your little cousin and the guy you like, not being sure if the guy you like is gonna be cool with your sexuality(or lack thereof)), sometimes the only thing you can do is indulge in the stereotypes.

"Que bonitos ojos tienes
Debajo de esas dos cejas
Debajo de esas dos cejas
Que bonitos ojos tienes…"

I hum along sleepily from where I lay on Stiles' couch. I'm on my side, facing the back of the couch, and have my earbuds in, because while I might be half drunk and in need of some old school music to soothe my soul, Stiles is not. And would only complain because he's a whiny face that doesn't understand the magic of mariachi.

A hand drops on my shoulder and I swat it away without opening my eyes or turning to acknowledge them. Him. Stiles. Little shit. Trying to kick me out already. I fed him. The hand returns, and I can just make out the low tones of a voice that doesn't quite fit Stiles as it gives my shoulder a gentle shake.

"Dejame en paz," I mutter, curling further into myself and burying my face into the back of the couch. But Stiles is a determined shit that doesn't know how to let a girl alone to wallow in her suffering, and he snatches the earbud from my ear. A fatal mistake. Though… maybe not for him.

"Que me dejas en pa-"

I turn, a complete 180, with the intention of slapping the hell out of him. However, the couch is not a bed, and there is a only so much a person can roll before they run out of couch. But instead of crashing into the ground, I land in a pair of arms, cradled against a chest far too broad to belong to Stiles. Also, his arms would have given out immediately. Also, he never would have tried to catch me.

I blink, trying to clear my sudden blurred vision, and look up.

"Lobito." I gasp in surprise and push against Derek's chest to get him to let go of me. "Qué-qué haces aquí?" I look past him as he frowns and places me on the couch and steps up from his crouch. Stiles stands a bit away, watching as he chews furiously at this thumb, like he isn't sure what to do about the werewolf in his house.

Which is dumb. Scott comes over almost every day?

"You've been drinking?" Derek asks. I look up at him, letting his words sink in before shrugging.

"Maybe? 't's fine, though. Aracely Maria Delgado can hold her drink!" I exclaim, pushing myself up to stand. But at some point during my doze, the Stilinskis built an incline into their floor, and I found myself stumbling forward. It is only because of Derek I don't crash into the coffee table.

"Aracely Maria Delgado might be out of practice," he says, steadying me with a hand on my elbow, and I go still at how he says my full name. Because it doesn't sound quite as horrible coming from him. Because he says it properly. With an accent. He looks down at me, amusement in his eyes, and his lips quirk up at the corners.

It does things to my heart. Which sucks, because men want more than hearts. Even probably lobitos with eyes worthy of the most beautiful malagueña salerosa. I pull away, not wanting his touch anymore, and make a production of straightening my sweatshirt to avoid seeing the confusion in Derek's eyes.

"Si no me quieres, ya me voy," I say, taking an uneasy step past Derek.

"Yeah, Scott already took your car," Stiles says, and I stop short. My feet stop, my body seems to want to continue forward, and once again, it's Derek that saves me from the curse of gravity.

"Scotty's here?"

"Was here. He left."

"With my car."

"He didn't want you driving." Stiles stops pointedly. "Because you're drunk."

"So I'm supposed to walk?"

"Don't be stupid," Derek cuts in. "I'm taking you home."

"I'd rather walk," I say sharply before I can stop myself, and he seems to draw back a bit at my tone. Stiles frowns in confusion, looking between the two of us. I clear my throat. "I don't wanna put you out of the way."

He hears the lie for what it is. "Ares-"

"Let him drive you home," Stiles cuts in. "I'm pretty sure my dad has deputies looking out for the jeep, so I can't take you, and you're not walking."

I look between the two of them. And I hate how Stiles has a point. "Fine."

I let Derek lead me out of the house and to the camaro. Once I'm situated in the passenger side, I put my earbuds back in and restart my music. I feel more than see or hear Derek as he slides in next to me.

He's still for a second, and I wait for him to say something, even with my music on. But he doesn't, and I close my eyes and rest my head back as he starts the car.

The car eases to a stop, and I'm pulled from my doze. I blink in confusion, because it's much brighter than it needs to be at the house. My surroundings slowly come into focus, and I frown, pulling an earbud out to look over at Derek, who is unbuckling his seatbelt and reaching for the door.

"This isn't the house?"

"I know, stay here," he says, catching my hand when I reach for the door to follow his lead. We're at a gas station, which doesn't make sense, because his tank is full. "I just need to get something."

I fall back into my seat. "Right back?"

"Right back," he promises, and is gone before I can say anything else. I watch as he moves around the car to the front of the store, and disappear inside. He left the car running with the heater, and the radio is playing softly. Not so loud as to be heard over my music. I reach forward and turn the tuning knob, wincing at the bouts of static and the rare Jesus channel. Which, wow. Didn't really think they existed outside of the south.

But soon enough I come across the channel I want, and I'm greeted with the one clear Spanish station that reaches Beacon Hills. The channel plays an advertisement for a carniceria a couple towns over, and I wonder if I can make it over some weekend. When we get past the werewolf problem.

I don't realize Derek's returned until he's pulling open the door and sliding back in. I turn to face him, and he holds out a bottle in his hand.

"What's that?" I ask, eyeing it suspiciously.

"Water," he says flatly, giving it a little shake. I narrow my eyes at the gesture. "Take it. Drink it. Sober up."

"I don't wanna sober up," I say, and I most definitely does not sound like a five year old.

"Why not?"

"Because."

"That's not an answer."

"It is for me."

"Ares."

I scowl, slouching into the seat and not taking his offered gift. And it makes me feel like a bitch, because he went out of his way to do this. Grumbling, I reach out and snatch the water from his hand.

"Thanks," I mutter, and he huffs.

"Are you mad at me?"

"No."

"Could have fooled me," he mutters, and maybe its because I'm not entirely sober, or because my time with Elliot has just fucked me up that much, but his tone only serves to aggravate me further, and I dig my ear buds back out, and turn up my music.

Out the corner of my eye I see Derek reach forward and change the radio.

The second time the car comes to a stop, we've made it to the house. The ride was quiet between us, a tense aura reminiscent of our first run ins after my finding out werewolves are a thing. The water is left forgotten in my lap, and it stays there in spite now, because I can feel the tell-tale twinge of an oncoming headache.

I take a second to put away my earbuds before reaching for the door handle, and I half expect Derek to say anything when I fumble with the lock, hands still unsteady. But he has his gaze fixed forward. Expression hard to read.

And as much I'm upset - why am I upset again? - I know my manners. For the most part.

"Thanks," I say, once I'm out and managed to not fall on my face. I hold up the water I didn't drink when he looks up at me. "For driving me home. And getting me water."

And his expression softens a bit, and he looks like he wants to say something, but I know if he says anything, I'll end up apologizing for my paranoia and shitty attitude, and I don't feel like admitting to being in the wrong, because what if I'm not in the wrong? I have a right to be wary. My track record with relationships proves as much.

I shut the door and stumble back before he can say anything. Just get inside, Ares. Get inside. Where you have a little cousin who thinks you hate him.

Fuck.

I make my way to the porch, picking each step carefully. The camaro hasn't left yet, and sober me would think it's sweet he's waiting for me to get inside. But I am not sober, and it only gives me a sense of anxiety. And maybe I can blame the anxiety and the alcohol sloshing in my empty stomach for not taking a big enough step climbing porch stairs. My toe catches on a step, and before I can right myself, I find myself on my hands and knees on the porch. My knee twinges in pain, a memory of my previous falls, and I'd be surprised if I didn't get splinters.

"Fuck," I mutter, trying to pick myself up,and behind me I can hear a car door open and Derek's alarmed voice calling my name. "Fuck," I repeat, because I'm not sober enough to deal with this. I push myself over and manage to sit myself on the porch in time to see Derek come to a stop before me.

"Hey, you oka-"

"Dejame en paz," I mumble, pushing his hands away, and this time he doesn't even try to hide his confusion, or the hurt in his eyes, and I want to stab myself in the neck. Because he's so much better than what I've had before. He cares. And he tries to take care of me.

And it just makes it worse.

"Ares, what…" I look away from him, and he sighs, but doesn't move from where he kneels in front of me. "What's wrong?"

"Nothin'."

He's quiet for a second. "Did you hurt yourself?"

I look down at my hands. "No."

"Okay." He pauses. "Ares… Did I do something…?" I look up at him, and have to look back down at his expression. Confused. Concerned. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him reach out, only to stop short and bring his hands back in. "Is this because I brought Scott with me-"

"No!" I shake my head and want nothing more than to slam into into a wall, because no, it's not his fault. "No, I'm not-I'm not mad at you," I assure him. "I'm just…" I groan and bury my face in my hands. Feelings. Feelings are the worst. The Sheriff's alcohol doesn't make them any better.

"Ares." Derek drops a hand on my shoulder, and I give a half hearted attempt to shrug it off. "Ares, what's wrong?" I rock a bit, trying to collect my thoughts. Trying to decide if it's worth trying to make my worries known. Derek decides for me, however, as he says, "I'm not leaving until I know you're okay."

I groan again before forcing myself to straighten, drop my hands, and look at him. His expression is stern almost. Mostly concerned.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't like people."

He blinks in surprise, obviously not expecting that. "Okay?"

"No, not okay." I huff. "I don't like people. Like like. It's not a thing I do." Understanding lights in his eyes, only to be immediately be replaced with hurt. Disappointment. And I hate it. Hate it. And I can't stop myself from reaching out and taking his face in my hands, and his eyes go wide in surprise as I pull him close. "But Derek Hale, I like you. Like like."

He stares at me, not saying a thing, and dread builds in my gut. Because he isn't reacting. But hey, if I misread the whole situation between us, at least I don't have to worry about my asexuality being a problem.

I start to pull away, because clearly I have made a mistake and need to get the hell inside and away before I make things worse. But he catches my hands before I can, his expression softening. He huffs, shaking his head before bringing up one of my hands. I go still, staring in wonder as he brings it to his lips, and presses the gentlest of kisses against my fingers.

"Ares Delgado, I like you."

"Like like?" I ask - hopelessly, helplessly - before I can stop myself, and a smile plays at his lips, like he can't believe he has to say it.

"Like like."

Los angelitos cantan. A delighted laugh escapes before I can stop it, and Derek rolls his eyes. But there's amusement there. And for a moment, I forget about whatever it was that bothered me earlier. I was upset earlier? Who cares, because Derek Hale officially likes me back. Like likes.

"Is that…" He hesitates. Reaches out and pushes back a stray strand of hair from my face, his fingers brushing against my cheek, like he had this morning. "Is that what had you upset?"

I nod. Because yes, this had been a subject of stress before. That and the whole ace-oh shit. I shake my head, despair welling in my chest, making it impossible to articulate my worries. That we'll get invested. That we'll be happy. That I'll tell him I'm ace and then we won't be happy. He won't want me anymore, because Derek Hale isn't the same type as Elliot, no where close. But in a way, that's worse, because then I can't hate him like I hate Elliot.

He senses my turmoil, he must, because he makes to cup my cheek, and I duck away, pushing him back and scrambling up.

"Ares, what-"

"You like like, but then you're gonna like like like, and I don't like like like, and you're gonna stop like liking me, and-"

"What does that even mean?" he demands, frustration seeping into his voice as he picks himself up and starts to follow me up the porch steps. "You're not making sense-"

"I'm asexual!" I exclaim, throwing my arms out dramatically, and he freezes where he is on the first step. "I'm ace. I'm not sexually attracted to you, Derek Hale, but that doesn't mean I don't like you, or, or don't want for you to be more than my bro, because I do." He stares at me in shock. Gone is the concern and confusion and frustration from before. Only wide eyes, hands fallen limp at his sides.

"Oh." He blinks, and doesn't say anything else. Just. Oh. Nothing in it. At least Elliot had emotion when I told him, even it if was anger. Annoyance.

With Derek it's just. Oh.

And it's so much worse.

I feel myself deflate. Shake my head, because this is what I expected, isn't it? For the like like to go away once I told him. Congratulations, Ares, you proved yourself right.

"I'm goin' to sleep," I say, unable to say anything else. Wanting to just be away from his silence. His oh.

It seems to knock him back to his senses. He shakes his head. "Ares-"

"Dejame en paz. Quiero dormir."

What I want is for him to elaborate on the oh. What I want is for him to fuckin' stop me and say, hey, being ace is totes cool, I still think you're great.

He doesn't, though. I guess even lobitos gotta draw a line somewhere.

(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

What better way to end the year than with good old fashion angst (i mean, I tried).

Catch y'all on the flip-flop, my dudes.

Translations

Que bonitos ojos tienes/Debajo de esas dos cejas - what beautiful eyes you have / under those two eyebrows
Dejame en paz - Leave me in peace/ alone
qué haces aquí - what are you doing
Si no me quieres, ya me voy - if you don't want me I'm leaving
Quiero dormir - I want to sleep