Title: All the Queen's Horses
Author: kototyph
Pairing/Characters: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1943
Warnings/Tags: Alternate Universe - HistoricalCrack Treated SeriouslyArranged MarriagePrinces & PrincessesForced Crossdressing
Summary: "You," Stiles says. "You… are not Lady Cora."
"No," the prince in his bed answers.
Notes: Originally posted here for ilokheimsins and the 2014 Teen Wolf Summer Exchange.

"You," Stiles says. "You… are not Lady Cora."

"No," the prince in his bed answers.

The prince. Not the princess. Stiles takes another slow step forward, feet sinking deep into luxurious carpets. "You… were never Cora," he hazards.

Derek's glare continues unabated. "No."

"This entire evening…" Stiles has a sudden, terrible realization, so terrible it makes him throw out a hand and clutch at a spiraling post of the tester. "This entire day. You weren't— when they didn't lift the veil, I thought it was some kind of northlands custom, but—"

"Technically, it is."

"I said vows to you!" Stiles exclaims. "We're— gods, we're married!"

"We are not married," Derek insists. He's oddly adamant for someone still clutching that pearl-weighted veil, dressed head to toe in fluttering white and kneeling in the middle of a bed strewn with rose petals. "You are married to Cora. When she returns to the palace, the agreement will be finalized and you will have your alliance."

"She's not even here?" Stiles says, voice cracking at the end like he's years younger. "How? Why?"

Derek folds his arms, and the satin bodice straining across his chest pops a series of stitches. "She disappeared sometime this morning, along with my elder sister and cousin," he says. Now that his face and form aren't obscured by the damn veil, his features are absurdly masculine. The wedding dress too is ill-fitting to the point of hilarity; his arms bulge against the dress' seams and his b bared shoulders are as broad as a carthorse's. Two hard, round objects have been stuffed down the neck to approximate a bustline, and Stiles finds the unyielding heft of them perversely mesmerizing.

While he's absorbed in the spectacle, Derek talks on. "She hadn't been found by the time of your arrival, and this union is too important to waste on some childish fit of pique. I was… nominated… to take her place. For the time being." His scowl deepens. "You were not supposed find out about any of this."

"She ran away," Stiles says hollowly.

"She is temporary unavailable," Derek counters.

"She ran away," Stiles says, louder, spinning and pacing away from the foot of the bed. "Along with the only other members of the royal family who might have easily replaced her. She probably never intended to marry me in the first place! Howexactlywere you planning on keeping that a secret?"

"We've been managing well enough," Derek snaps, though he's finally starting to sound a little embarrassed, fingers clenched in the tulle of his gown. "No one beyond my mother and uncle knows, and she has gone after the girls to remind them of their obligations. Peter found an accomplished cortigiana to approximate a wedding night—"

"Gods," Stiles yelps, spinning to face him, "you did what?"

Maybe there's a streak of shame in the man after all; Derek is having trouble meeting his eyes. "She's in an adjacent chamber," he admits, clearly uncomfortable. "Waiting on my signal."

Stiles' head is swimming with their handsfasting wine, and a strange, creeping sense of disappointment. He hadn't clung to hopes of romance in this treaty-marriage, but even though they've never met in person, he likes and respects the princess. Of the suits available to him in the small, incestuous royal court, he'd counted Cora among the least painful prospects. To know she'd rather abandon her home, and that the royal family was so bloody-minded they'd dress their son in bridal rags— "If I hadn't left the feast right after you, there would have been a courtesan waiting for me? On my wedding night?"

"Of course it sounds awful, when you put it like that," Derek mutters.

"Gods," Stiles says again, and allows himself to collapse into an armchair by the low fire. "Awful is one word, yes."

"She would have been very good to you," Derek offers.

Gods, he takes it back, the man is shameless, shameless. "Oh, I'm sure she's a consummate professional!" Stiles says with an edge of hysterical laughter. "I'm sure it would have been everything I could have wanted! Apart from actual consummation of my marriage, of course."

He drops his face into his hands. There's a supremely awkward silence, filled with nothing but the soft crackle of burning wood.

After a moment, tulle rustles in the quiet. "I… I should go," Derek says stiffly.

Stiles lifts his head to stare at him. "Go?"

Now the man outright refuses to meet Stiles' eyes, preferring instead to pluck at the lacy edges of the veil. "To change," he says shortly. "And, now that it's no longer necessary, to relieve Dame Reyes of her duty."

"Duty."

"Yes, duty," Derek says, eyes snapping up. He plants a hand in the plush coverlet and leans on it, petals pooling in the hollow around his fingers. "Duty to my family and the throne, which Cora abused and I had to make up for by putting on this ridiculous costume and letting you drag me around the dancing hall half the night like a prize sheep! Who taught you to dance, the village scarecrow?"

"Oranges," Stiles says bemusedly.

Derek squints at him. "What?"

"Your breasts," Stiles elaborates, "are orange-fruits. It's been bothering me. Whose idea was that?"

"They—" Derek sputters, and his ears flush unexpectedly and fantastically red. "It was what was at hand!"

Derek is a recalcitrant member of high society, Stiles knows. Reserved to the point of dourness, absent from parties and politics alike. Cora had referred to him in her letters as the maiden aunt she never wanted, and the gods know when Derek had visited the freeholdings as Queen Talia's emissary he'd made a complete enough ass of himself.

Under his bluster, though, he's always seemed like a decent person. And Scott likes him, strangely enough.

"I am not married to the princess," Stiles says with finality, and Derek's eyes narrow. "My father won't accept anything about this farce as binding to her. I am definitely, however, married to you."

"Lord Stilinski—"

"You married me," Stiles says, thinking aloud now. "You married me in front of queen and country. That's how he'll see it. And, Derek, this could actually be a good thing."

"Stiles—"

"It could be perfect!" Stiles says, jumping out of the chair. "The ideal political marriage, really. Neither of us have the slightest interest in each other's affairs—"

"Marriage without consummation is grounds for succession crises and forced annulment," Derek protests, sitting back on his heels. "We can't."

"Can't what? Consummate?" Stiles spreads his arms. "At this point, I'm willing. I was ready to try with Cora, who I've never met and who would apparently rather leave the country, and you were ready to send in a courtesan. How could this possibly be any worse?"

Derek gives him a flat stare. "Well, when you frame it that way," he says with heavy sarcasm.

"As if you have better prospects," Stiles scoffs. Cora had made good sport of that. "If you're so devoted to doing your duty, this would be by far the easiest way to conclude your damned alliance."

Derek frowns; thoughtfully, Stiles hopes, though he can't be sure. "Marriage between men is… rare."

"Not in the freeholdings, which your queen is so eager to ally with she approved this," Stiles says, waving at Derek's pearls and lace. "Do you really think she'll balk now?"

He's been pressing steadily closer as he speaks, and now he gets a knee on the bed and grabs Derek's shoulders. "If you're squeamish, we'll just mess up the room," he coaxes. "Rip this hideous dress and my shirt at little. Go to the antechamber and I'll, ah, add some additional realism—"

Derek blinks up at him. "How?"

"How—? I'm going to, you know." Stiles gestures at the front of his trousers.

The red flush from earlier is creeping steadily inwards. "Ah," Derek says, somewhat strangled. "Realism. I see."

"You should to, probably," Stiles says, still thinking. "We could leave marks on each other."

"Marks?"

Stiles presses a finger to the side of Derek's neck, just under his pulsepoint. It's beating strangely quickly, given the most strenuous thing he's seen the man do is shift his weight. "A kiss-mark," he explains. "Haven't you ever had one?"

"No," Derek says, leaning back. "I've never been kissed so hard it left a mark."

Stiles eyes him dubiously. "Have you ever been kissed at all?"

"What kind of question is that?" Derek asks with clear affront. "Of course I have!"

Balancing on one knee is getting awkward, so Stiles slides into a sitting position on the bed next to him. "Have you ever done more than kiss someone?" he asks. He's suddenly quite curious. The man is wearing white.

Derek lifts his chin. The fussy veil droops, clinging half-pinned to his short hair. "I don't see that it matters to this discussion."

"It matters, because," and here Stiles starts to ease close again, "if you're not squeamish, we could—"

But Derek has a hand slapped over Stiles' mouth before it gets anywhere near his own. "You seem to have a very high opinion of yourself," he says dryly. "I haven't agreed to any of this."

Stiles rolls his eyes as emphatically as possible.

"Stiles," Derek says with the start of a forbidding glower, and Stiles pulls his hand away impatiently.

"It's a good idea. Admit it."

"It's an idea worth considering," Derek says pedantically, sitting back on the bed. "Not jumping into head-first with no thought given to what might happen."

"I have no thoughts to give," Stiles says, following him on his hands and knees. "Really. I gave them all to marrying Cora, and honestly, I don't see how this would be much different. That must even be her dress you're wearing, it's tiny."

Derek looks down at himself and sighs, hands going behind his head to fumble with the buttons there. "I have no idea where they found this thing, actually."

"Then just tear it. You already tore your sleeves open," Stiles points out.

Derek's eyes drop to the gaping holes he's left under each arm. "I suppose you're right."

"Here, let me help," Stiles says, grabbing for the collar.

"I can get it myself," Derek protests, jerking away. Satin rips between them, and oranges roll out onto the mattress. "Oh, wonderful. My thanks for that."

"There's still plenty of dress to go," Stiles says, tugging the lace down Derek's arms.

At the far side of the room, the door opens.

Stiles eyes snap up to meet those of the Queen of the Northlands, still bedecked in her mother-of-the-bride finery. Under his hands, Derek freezes.

"… good evening," she says with aplomb. "We were getting rather worried, but I see you two have worked things out between you."

"Mother," Derek starts in protest, "this isn't—"

"I'll just leave you to it," the queen says, already backing out of the room. "Felicitations!"

"Mother! Wait!"

The door shuts. Stiles stares at the wood for a moment before turning and looking at Derek, who is clutching the torn bodice of the gown to his chest with a look of growing horror.

"I suppose that settles it?" Stiles offers.

Derek turns his horror-struck look on Stiles.

"Yes?"

"… gods help me."

Stiles leans in with a growing grin. "Yes?"

Derek slowly collapses back on the bed, hand over his eyes. "Fine, you insufferable— get off me!"

"Dearest darling husband sweet," Stiles coos, and actually feels Derek shudder in disgust. "I find I'm strangely looking forward to all of this."

"I married a madman," Derek groans.

"Yes, you did," Stiles says. "And as your lawfully-wedded groom, I feel we should revisit the issue of kiss-marks."