"So… how did it go?" It's lunchtime, and Scott's trying to wheedle answers out of Stiles, but he's determined to keep some semblance of a personal life. Besides, it's not like he's going to openly admit how much he likes having something special to withhold.

"I don't know," he says, grinning. "It was okay?"

"Come on, Stiles." Allison tries her hand at cajoling him into revealing something, but it's not going to work. "Throw us a bone."

"Nope," Stiles says, popping the 'p' as Derek had.

Both Scott and Allison groan, and Stiles laughs smugly. "You're being an ass," Scott complains.

"Sorry, but I can't really tell you anything." He shrugs apologetically. "I'm not even sure what we are, technically, and, well, I don't want to jinx it, or whatever."

Allison smiles and says, "That's cute," which elicits a scowl from Stiles. "What?" she laughs.

"I'm not cute," he grumbles. "I can be intimidating."

"Sorry, but no," she says, reaching out to rub her hand over his short hair; he ducks away. "You're like a baby deer."

"Scott, I blame you for this," Stiles says, glaring accusingly at his friend's sheepish face. "You just had to tell her all the weird things about me, didn't you?"

Scott apologizes, but Stiles is too happy about his date from last night to care. As the couple starts arguing about who tells who the embarrassing stories, he simply rests his chin on the heel of his hand, sighing contentedly.

"Holy – God!" Stiles moves his hand faster, groaning as he feels himself getting closer to climaxing. He's about to slide out of the chair, but he's too busy concentrating on the task at hand to care. He gasps, feeling everything begin to contract when his phone goes off, the vibrations creating a loud whine that makes him fall off of the chair. Fuck. He's feeling angry and resentful until he sees who it is that's calling. Then he's just mortified. Grabbing his phone with his other hand, he answers. "Derek!"

"What are you up to?"

"Um." He gulps, panic starting to take over as he tries to think of something else he could have just been doing. "I, ah, was just, you know… stuff."

"That didn't sound very convincing."

"Well, it's – it's just homework, really…" Stiles frowns as he looks over the books and papers lying pell-mell on his desk. He had been working on an essay for AP European History when the urge to jerk off had become unbearable. "Why are you calling?"

"Is your dad home?" It's like he's not even listening.

"No, he's at the station until six, why are you even asking – oh, my God." It suddenly hits Stiles that he's lying on the floor of his room, naked and still a little horny, talking to the very person his head had been full of moments before, and that said person is asking if there is any parental supervision nearby. He shudders.

"What?"

"Are you –" Stiles sits up, and his hand unconsciously goes to his crotch to cradle his dick. "Why are you calling me?" He can't help it – his hand starts stroking again, and his breathing gets heavier. He hopes Derek assumes he was doing something impressive, like working out.

"I…" Stiles can hear Derek's breathing get heavier, too. Oh, my God. "What are you doing?"

Stiles gulps as his erection becomes more pronounced. Damn Derek and his stupid, sexy voice. "I – I was just… just, uh…"

"Just… what?"

Now he can't breathe. "I, uh, I can't… say… exactly…"

Derek's voice seems like it's an entire octave lower as he says, "Were you thinking of me?" Stiles' heart skips what feels like three beats. "Would you like to know what I was just doing?"

Stiles finds himself temporarily incapable of speech as Derek murmurs, "I was just working on my Camaro. You know how it was really hot today? I was stripped down to my wifebeater and covered in oil and grease by the time I was done." He shivers as he pictures Derek bent over the inside of his car, jeans tight over his ass.

"I wish I hadn't told you about my thing for mechanics," he mumbles, but he continues to stroke, goosebumps prickling across his arms as Derek chuckles lowly. Good God almighty.

He goes on. "After that, I took a shower, trying to clear my head. I haven't been able to stop thinking about you all day. Every time I try, you manage to worm your way back into my head. It's driving me crazy."

Now it's all he can do to keep himself from passing out. "I got yelled at by my Econ teacher for not paying attention in class because all I could think about was how nice it felt kissing you," he says breathlessly.

Derek laughs softly, and Stiles notices the flirtatious edge to it. "Do you want to know what else I'd really like to do with you?"

"Do I have to ask?" Stiles is letting his voice grow somewhat husky, and he's pretty sure it sounds ridiculous.

"I'd prefer it if you did."

Stiles licks his lips. "What else do you want to do to me, Derek?"

Derek sighs, the sound hot and heavy in the receiver. Stiles shudders again. "I want to do so much with you, Stiles." Holy shit. "When I was in the shower, I kept thinking of the way you're always groaning when I kiss you, like you're constantly on the cusp of coming in your pants." His breath hitches, and Stiles feels his hips jerk into his moving hand. "Do you want to know what else I was thinking about?"

"Y-yes!" Stiles can barely breathe as he starts rubbing harder and harder.

"I kept imagining you were in the shower with me, and that I had you pressed against the tile with one hand on your neck and the other around your dick." Sounds of skin rubbing over skin come through the receiver, and for a moment the line is filled with nothing but the sound of heavy breathing on both ends. As it starts becoming too much for Stiles to handle, Derek murmurs, "I want to hear you groaning like you're out of control – what it feels like to have you grinding your ass into my crotch, and – fuck!"

There's a strangled cry as Derek climaxes; Stiles isn't far behind.

They're both quiet for a few minutes, each content with nothing more than the sound of the other breathing sleepily into the receiver. Finally, Stiles musters up enough energy to speak. "Derek?" he says softly.

"Yeah?"

"I hope it's better when we're in the same room."

Tired laughter. "I hope so, too." His voice perks up. "But not until you're eighteen!"

"Come on!" Stiles whines, but Derek is nothing if not adamant.

He has to go, then, and by the time Stiles has put his phone down and found some pants, his dad is coming into the house, shouting up the stairwell that he picked up Chinese on his way home. Stiles takes a moment to celebrate before making a quick stop in the bathroom to wash his hands. Then, after a cursory sniff to make sure nothing's too out of place, he's in the kitchen, picking through the big brown bag as his dad takes off his boots and hangs up his gun belt in the front hallway – something he's done since before Stiles could remember.

"You didn't get orange chicken?" Stiles exaggerates his disappointment, breaking into a laugh as his dad pretends to whack his shoulder. "Set the table," he says, and Stiles complies.

"So, how was your day?" his dad asks once they've settled into their respective seats at the table.

Stiles takes a sip of his milk, taking his time. "It was okay." He tries not to blush as his dad studies him.

"School good?"

"Just like every other Monday."

"Homework?"

"Not too bad."

"How's Scott?"

"In love."

His dad nods. "That's good." A moment of chewing, then, "How's Derek?"

"He's… good." There's a moment of eye contact that Stiles prays will never, ever happen again.

"Talk to him lately?"

He knows about what happened over the phone. "Um, we texted, a bit…"

"He's doing fine?"

"Dad, it's only been, like, a day since we saw each other. I doubt that much has happened."

"You'd be surprised how much can happen in one day. You and Scott used to watch all those John Hughes movies all the time, didn't you?"

"Yeah, in middle school, because we didn't have any money for anything fun, and between you and his mom the most recent movie was from before we were born." Stiles can't believe the things his dad chooses to remember.

"We had recent movies," his dad argues. "We had that copy of Finding Nemo until Scott broke it in half trying to see how flexible the disk was."

Stiles chuckles. "That's true."

"So I can expect to see more of Derek?"

Stiles stops chewing and watches his dad. "I… guess so. I mean," he looks down at his nearly-empty paper plate, "I'm not really totally sure what's happening between us." He looks up, catching the blue eyes he didn't inherit. "But… I think… I have a good feeling about it, if that's what you mean."

His dad smiles. "Just remind him that I carry a gun with me at all times."

He laughs. "Trust me, dad, he's aware of that."

The next few days pass. Scott's still oblivious to the world, too head-over-heels to really care about anything except Allison, which doesn't surprise Stiles at all. What does surprise him is the fact that he gets no word from Derek at all – no emails, no texts, no calls – nothing. He's worried it's because of what happened over the phone, that maybe Derek thought better of going out with an underage virgin whose first date had been with someone he'd met online. He wouldn't blame him for that – it's not like Stiles would pick himself as his first choice, either, but still.

He tries not to think about the possibility that Derek had only done this with Stiles as a – well – as an experiment. Maybe he doesn't like me that way, after all. And if Stiles is being honest, that hurts more.

He must be moping, because by Thursday his dad is asking about it over dinner. "You seem down," he says, eyeing his son carefully.

Stiles shrugs. "It's nothing, really."

"Are you sure? 'Cause when you normally make spaghetti, it has meatballs." Stiles looks up to see his dad twirling his fork pointedly through the decidedly meatless mixture of pasta and sauce.

"I…"

"Is it about Derek?"

Reluctantly, he nods.

His dad sighs and puts his fork down. "What's happened? Did he hurt you?"

"I – no, Dad. I'm fine, really."

The sheriff levels him a look. "You aren't fine."

"I just…" Stiles opens his mouth, then closes it. He thinks for a minute. "I just haven't… heard from him. Since Monday."

"How often do the two of you usually talk?"

"At least once a day?" He shrugs. "I mean, we usually text a little, just see what's up and all."

"And this hasn't happened?" Stiles appreciates the fact that his dad is pretending to understand the dynamics of a friendship that isn't based on face-to-face contact.

"No, which is what's weird. And kind of depressing, if I'm being honest." Stiles smiles, but his heart isn't into it. His dad sighs sympathetically.

"You know you can talk to me, Stiles," he says. "I may not completely understand what's going on, but I'm here for you, bud." He reaches across the table to grab onto Stiles' forearm reassuringly. "And if you want me to use my gun on that kid, all you have to do is ask."

Stiles laughs, looking away in embarrassment. "Does it really always have to come back to the gun, Dad?"

"As long as I'm a cop, of course it does."

"That's nice."

By Friday, even Scott has noticed that something's off. "Dude, what's wrong? Everything okay with Derek?"

Stiles scrambles to shush him, because they're in Chemistry and Mr. Harris has already given them the evil eye two times in the last thirty minutes of class. "Scott, I am not getting another detention because Harris decides it's been too long since the last time," he whispers furiously as he copies down the notes from the front of the room. "And don't mention Derek. Other people might get ideas."

Scott scoffs. "What kind of ideas?"

"I don't know, Scott, just… ideas!" He looks around, panicking, and notices that Danny has been watching them the whole time. He waves sheepishly.

"Stiles!" The aforementioned student closes his eyes and takes a deep breath as he waits for the urge to punch Scott in the groin to recede. Mr. Harris stops in front of his table. "Care to share with the class what's so important that you have to discuss it with Scott while everyone else is trying to take notes?"

Stiles looks up, meeting the cold gray eyes that remind him so much of a dead cat. "We… we were just talking about how awesome ionic bonds are, Mr. Harris."

"Of course you were." The teacher turns away, and Stiles and Scott collectively breathe a sigh of relief.

"I swear to God, Scott, if that had gotten me detention…" Stiles shakes his head and glares.

"Sorry."

Stiles doesn't talk to Scott for the rest of class, but by the time the bell rings, only a mild exasperation is left.

"So did anything happen with Derek?" Scott presses as they walk to lacrosse.

"Nothing happened with Derek. Literally," When Scott just looks at him he says, "Nothing has happened." He waits for the statement to sink in.

"So… that's why you're upset? He hasn't done anything?"

"Exactly, Scott, thanks for playing." Scott scowls, and Stiles ignores him. "It just sucks, because I thought I had a good feeling about what was happening." They turn a corner, and Stiles unconsciously starts to hold his breath as they pass Lydia Martin.

"I can't believe that, despite all this with Derek, you still get this way around her," Scott says once they turn another corner.

"I can't help what's been inside of me for so long," Stiles sighs. Another day ignored. There's always tomorrow. "Besides, since Derek's apparently out of the picture, I can go back to normal anyway, right?"

"I'm not sure that's for the better." Stiles knows Scott wishes he would leave his obsession with Lydia, but he also knows that'll never happen. At least it means his friend still cares.

"I'm not sure anything's for the better." Stiles sighs, and he knows he's acting like a moody thirteen year-old girl, but it really isn't his fault – it's Derek's. "I'm not sure anything will get better."

"Aw, cheer up." Scott punches Stiles' shoulder encouragingly. Stiles just scowls. "There are other fish in the sea."

"I'm not sure that there are any as attractive and sexy as Lydia or Derek, though." They're in the locker room now, and Scott's starting to give him weird looks, but he presses on. "I mean, I'm pretty sure I'll never react the same way to someone kissing me." He looks at his friend. "It was… it was probably the best thing I've ever experienced."

Scott nods knowingly. "I feel that way with Allison. Like, no matter what happens, as long as I know that she's with me, like, completely there for me, I can do anything."

Stiles deflates. "Thanks for being aware of how what you say affects me, there, Scott," he deadpans.

"Oh, my God, Stiles, I'm sorry –"

"Bilinski!"

Jesus Christ, what now? He turns to Coach Finstock and tries to look like he isn't in one of the worst moods of his life. "Yes, Coach?"

"Good news, you're on the field today." Coach claps Stiles on the shoulder, making him almost fall down. "You, too, McCall – don't look so shocked, you're playing dummy today!" He walks away, leaving them with their mouths hanging.

"Better luck next time, huh?" Jackson Whittemore's smirking from the other end of the room, wearing nothing but a towel. Stiles tries not to think about how nice his six pack looks by focusing on the fact that he looks like he's smelling poop. "I guess not all of us are cut out for first line duties." He chuckles at his own wit, and Stiles has to place a calming hand on Scott's shoulder because he looks like he's about to charge the star athlete with all of the force of an underdeveloped bull. "Leave it," he says.

Practice that day is awful. Finstock has Stiles and Scott set up as targets for the first line players to tackle and shove to the ground however they please. By the time it's over, Stiles is almost certain that one of his ribs was bruised in the process.

"That's it, I'm quitting lacrosse." Scott's throwing his gear down in a mini-tantrum as the rest of the team heads off to shower. "I'm so sick of Finstock degrading us like that. I had an asthma attack out there and he told me to rub some dirt into it! How do you rub dirt into your lungs?"

"Dude, I know." Stiles slumps against his locker and lets his head droop like a wilting flower. "I'm pretty sure Jackson broke something in my chest. Your mom wouldn't happen to be able to tell if one of my ribs is split in half, would she?"

Scott just shrugs. He winces as he takes off his practice jersey. "Do you think Coach would mind if I switched into something like art?"

"There's always floral design," Stiles says. "I hear they'll take just about anyone."

"Flowers can trigger my asthma, though." Scott looks disappointed.

"Sorry." Stiles hears the sounds of male bonding in the shower come to a slow-down and starts to hurry.

"What's the rush?" Scott's watching the entrance to the showers, debating on whether or not it's worth facing the humiliation.

"They're finishing up in there, and I don't know about you, but I am not going to be here to take more of Jackson's crap." Stiles gives up on getting out of his lacrosse uniform on time and starts shoving the rest of his clothes into his gym bag – school's over in a few minutes, anyway.

Scott groans, deciding to follow Stiles' example and grumbling to himself as he does so. By the time they're leaving they can hear Jackson whooping as he leaves the showers. "Glad we missed that," Scott mumbles.

Stiles isn't paying attention, though, because he's looking at his phone, at the message from Derek.

From: Wolfman

Stiles, I'm so sorry for disappearing like that. Is there any way I can make it up to you?

He doesn't realize he's doing nothing except staring at the screen until they've reached the Jeep and Scott's asking if he's ever going to unlock the doors.

"Stiles, what's wrong?"

"I… it's nothing." He unlocks the car and climbs in. While Scott gets himself adjusted, he responds.

Derek, you've got some 'splainin' to do.