AN:
You are not required to read this series in order, but it is suggested you do so if you enjoy knowing what the bloody hell is going on.
Starring:
Mieczysław "Stiles" Stilinski as Norville "Shaggy" Rogers
Scott McCall as Fred Jones
Lydia Martin as Velma Dinkley
Allison Argent as Daphne Blake
And, last but not least, Derek Hale as Scoobert "Scooby" Doo
*kicks stereo, starts playing Scooby-Doo theme song*
"Why did you do it?"
Stiles looks up from the frosted rim of his milkshake and peers over at Derek. "Hmm?"
Derek huffs and sets down his fork, his order of steak and eggs long gone. He pulls another plate closer and picks up a cheeseburger. Derek leans back against the slick vinyl of the diner booth they'd commandeered, grease dripping slowly down his hands. "Why did you help Argent? It was dangerous, what you did. And it's not like you two are friends or anything." He pins Stiles with a searching stare. "So why'd you do it?"
Stiles takes another sip of his vanilla shake and sighs. "Because I could, Derek. There isn't some hidden motive here. I knew what he wanted." Stiles picks at his fries. "I saw him for who he was. I figured out what he was going to do. If I knew all of that and did nothing, I don't, I just—"
Stiles runs his hand through his hair and down his face, his fingertips finally resting to tap nervously on the tabletop. Stiles closes his eyes in frustration. "If I knew all of that and did nothing, what kind of monster would that make me, y'know?"
He snaps his eyes open when he feels Derek's large, warm hand engulf his own.
Derek's light green eyes are soft in the din of the restaurant. "I understand."
The edges of Stiles's lips twitch up into a small smile. He can't hold the earnest stare for long before he clears his throat awkwardly, his fingers tingling pleasantly from underneath Derek's. His smile turns into a teasing smirk. "Not that I don't enjoy holding hands with you, Derek, but you're getting burger juice all over me."
Derek's entire body jerks back in surprise. They both look down at their hands and spot the shiny patches of grease on their skin. Derek fumbles for napkins from the dispenser and shoves them at Stiles, whose soft laughter has grown into outright giggling.
Derek scowls at him but says nothing as he picks up his burger again. He looks away from Stiles as he takes a savage bite.
In the midst of his teasing, Stiles makes a note that werewolves can blush.
Good to know.
Stiles slurps around the dregs of his shake, a smug smile still on his face. "You're cute."
Derek chokes on his burger.
When all is said and done—more specifically, when crazy stalkers have been lobotomized, and hamburgers consumed—Stiles drops off Derek at his house in the preserve.
Derek tells him his parents are home. He parks his Jeep at the end of the lane, the ridiculous gate for entry closed and locked.
In the dim lighting, Stiles can just barely see Derek raising an inquisitive eyebrow when Stiles walks him around the gate and up the Hales' ridiculously long driveway—seriously what is wrong with rich people, paying for inconvenience?—all the way to his doorstep.
Stiles has given up the pretense that he cares about who knows how he feels about Derek.
"I'm a gentleman." Stiles gives him a small smile and shrugs, his hands swinging nervously back and forth as he rocks on his heels. "How else did you expect me to end our date?"
There's that blush again.
It reaches Derek's ears this time.
"A date, huh?" The big guy glances towards the door and then back at Stiles, his eyes going curiously heated.
It seems Stiles isn't the only one to break away from their quiet and hiding routine around the Hale house.
Stiles takes a step forward and meets Derek's intense gaze. "A good one, in my opinion. A little mystery, a little crime, a little dinner." He ducks his head. "Perfect recipe for romance."
Another raised brow. "A little crime?"
Stiles scoffs under his breath. "Okay, a lot of crime. But what is a crime but unrestrained passion? See, romantic."
Derek huffs. "Didn't really get that vibe from Matt's warehouse. Or his van."
"Oh come on, with all of those candles and condoms, you didn't feel any passion?"
"Can't say that I did. I did pick up on the psychosis, though. The zip ties made it pretty clear." Derek's lips twitch. "I also got a little hungry."
They both deadpan, searching each other's faces before the atmosphere cracks, both of them breaking out in hysterical laughter.
"Th-the zip ties!" Stiles wheezes, curling in on himself to rest his hands on his knees.
"He was so stupid." Derek chokes out.
"So stupid." Stiles agrees.
As their laughter winds down, Stiles can't help but stare at Derek's happy, flushed face. At the sight of it, he doesn't even try to stop his next impulsive move.
"But I was being serious," Stiles says, darting forward to kiss Derek's cheek.
Derek whips his head to look at Stiles in surprise, his eyes wide and mouth parted softly.
"It was a perfect first date," Stiles continues. "To me." He brings up his hand to Derek's cheek and palms it gently before pulling back. "Thank you for helping me today."
Derek doesn't say anything in response, but he hasn't taken his eyes off Stiles.
Stiles walks down the Hales' front porch and turns back to Derek one last time. "Goodnight, Derek."
When he makes it back to his Jeep and hops in the cab, Stiles can just make out Derek's figure leaning against the porch railing watching him as he drives away.
Two days later, Stiles listens to the news as he cooks dinner for himself and his dad.
Allison Argent has been found and returned to her family.
Matt Daehler has been arrested.
He's also in the hospital due to a mysterious and traumatic brain injury. Also, four broken ribs.
He can't help but smirk as he chops an onion.
His dad walks in the door as he starts heating up tortillas in a pan. Stiles can hear the sound of the gun safe opening, the clicking of the safe's combination lock.
He doesn't look up from the pan as his dad enters the kitchen and grabs a beer from the fridge.
Stiles feels eyes on his back and the steady presence of his father leaning against the kitchen counter. "I've been watching the news." He waves his spatula in the direction of the TV. "Good day at work?"
He hears a contemplative hum and finally glances over his shoulder, giving his dad a questioning look.
The Sheriff looks him over and nods, taking a swig of his beer. "It was a good day. Not all cases get closure like this."
Stiles bobs his head agreeably. "It's tacos tonight. It'll be a few more minutes if you want to change."
His dad peaks over his shoulder. "Looks good, Stiles." He pads out of the kitchen and heads towards the stairs.
Stiles lets out a relieved sigh and starts grabbing plates from the cabinet.
"Oh, and Stiles?"
Stiles freezes and looks over at his dad who had backtracked into the doorway.
"Yeah?"
"I'm proud of you, son."
Stiles splutters, almost dropping the ceramic in his hands.
"Next time, remember not to scheme in front of any surveillance equipment."
Stiles groans, knocking his head lightly against the wall.
His dad smirks. "You forgot about our Ring camera." Then he leaves the kitchen once more, the tread of his footsteps calm as they echo up the stairs.
"Foiled by a $70 doorbell," Stiles mutters into the wall. "Damn you, Best Buy."
On Monday, Derek joins Stiles under his favorite tree for lunch.
Stiles passes him a packet of chips as Derek sits beside him, idly wondering which of their behaviors—Derek's presence being rewarded with food, or Stiles being trained to keep extra food in his backpack—is Pavlovian.
As he watches Derek crunch away, Stiles decides that it's definitely Derek.
Because, hello, werewolf.
They eat in companionable silence, despite the burning gaze of Cora Hale. And half of the school's lunch population.
As the five-minute bell rings, Stiles gathers his trash and looks over at Derek. "Tomorrow?"
Derek nods. "Tomorrow."
Derek joins him for lunch every day after.
Stiles receives two dozen yellow roses.
The card tucked away is signed by each member of the Argent family.
Stiles doesn't know what to do with the gratitude, but he puts the flowers on his windowsill.
They smell nice.
Scott invites Stiles over after school one day to play video games.
In the middle of Super Smash Bros. decides to give in to his curiosity. "Hey man, what'd you do with that van?"
Scott looks sideways at him, his Link defending himself against Stiles's Peach on the screen. "Matt's van?"
Stiles snorts, Peach becoming even more ruthless. "Yeah, his chariot of depravity. I haven't seen it around town."
Scott nods solemnly. "It was super creepy, dude. I sold it for scrap. Got five hundred bucks for it." He presses the buttons on his controller furiously. "I gave half to Allison."
Stiles smirks victoriously and Scott groans pitifully as Peach executes her final move and Link flies off the platform.
He looks over at Scott as he rolls around on his bedroom floor in defeat. "Wanna play again?"
Scott pauses in his dejected wriggling and smiles up at Stiles. "Sure. But you can't be Peach again."
Stiles shrugs and agrees. "That's okay."
He selects Kirby, to Scott's incredulity.
"Don't knock it. I might surprise you."
"Uh-huh."
"You're doubting me."
Scott laughs and picks up his controller. "It's your funeral, dude."
Five minutes later, Stiles and Kirby reign as champions, lording their victory over the corpse of Scott's Donkey Kong.
"I hate you," Scott pouts.
"No, you don't."
Scott smiles sheepishly, eyes as bright as the sun. "No, I don't."
Lydia smiles at him when they see each other during passing periods.
It's the same smile she had back when she wore orange knee socks and had a chin-length brown bob.
The smile doesn't make his heart beat any faster. It doesn't make his stomach flutter, or his palms sweat.
It's the same smile.
But, he's not the same Stiles.
He's now a Stiles with a Derek.
It's also a new (and in his opinion, improved) Lydia.
And Stiles likes this new, new version of her.
So he smiles back.
Stiles raises Derek's tutoring rate another dollar.
Derek didn't actually do anything this time, but Stiles is still baffled and a little irrationally angry over how stupidly long the Hale driveway is.
Stiles had sweated, thank you very much.
Since that night, the gate at the end of the lane is always curiously open to him when he drops Derek off.
He still raises the rate, though.
It's the principle of the thing.
Stiles doesn't end up going to Homecoming.
He ends up on his couch, watching the Halloween series with the lights off and his head resting on Derek's broad shoulder.
Derek eats two whole pizzas by himself.
Stiles is in love.
Stiles gets through seventeen of his dad's cold case files by the middle of October.
Colorful sticky notes litter the reports, and Stiles feels accomplished.
There's also an itch under his skin that he can't pinpoint.
He's missed something obvious.
Stiles doesn't understand what he's missed until he comes face-to-face with Isaac Lahey.
Idiot.
Stiles is an idiot.
The data dump of Matt Daehler's laptop—courtesy of the lovely Danny Mahealani—was thorough.
Thoroughly gross and full of stalkerish photos and, legally, child pornography, of course, but it was also thorough enough to have all of Matt's data for the short time Stiles needed to investigate before he had to destroy the illegally obtained information.
That included a very detailed manifesto plotting his revenge against Coach Lahey, the coach of the high school's swim team.
The document included what could be loosely described as a "story," but what, grammatically, was actually a run-on sentence that spanned nineteen whole pages describing how a young Matt had been drowned by high school kids at Mr. Lahey's house, only to be resuscitated and threatened into silence.
It also included notes about Coach Lahey's family—two sons, one dead and one who, apparently, got beaten like a dog and locked up in a freezer for regular time-outs.
A freezer.
Matt had even broken into Mr. Lahey's house and taken photographs.
Because of course he did.
Matt had also never told anyone or done anything about it.
Because of course he didn't.
Originally, Stiles had skimmed through the manifesto, paying more attention to Matt's pictures of Allison which were, unfortunately, the focus of his ADHD-enabled hyperfixation.
But, he had read the story briefly, and he'd seen a photo of the freezer. These facts hadn't clicked together in his mind as important at the time, but like most things he fixated on, they were stuck somewhere in his brain.
And they didn't click together until one late night at the local 24-hour Wal-Mart.
Stiles grocery shops at night on weekends at the local Wal-Mart because no one is ever there except him and the local weirdos.
And apparently, Isaac Lahey.
Stiles turns an aisle and spots him, all tall and lanky limbs, standing in the first aid section and staring down a package of bandages.
Stiles spots rubbing alcohol, pain relievers, and super glue already in his handbasket.
The red and raw tips of Isaac's fingers peek out from the edge of his jacket, and every few seconds a small tremor makes them twitch.
And then it clicks.
The information he'd skimmed through in his rush to help Allison comes skittering back into the foreground of his mind.
Stiles gags and wheels his cart toward the front of the store.
He pukes in the men's room, whatever victory high he'd been riding over those seventeen cold case files crashing as he realizes a person he's known—however tangentially—for seventeen years has been suffering in silence.
Stiles gets home later than usual that night, ice cream a little too melted but still comforting on his tongue.
He doesn't sleep.
He can't get the innocuous picture of the freezer out of his mind.
"You look like shit, Stilinski," Cora announces as she tosses her backpack on their lab table. She straddles her stool and leans into his face.
He looks up from his nap and scowls. "You should know that I have both the knowledge and the willpower to kill a man." He gives her a manic grin. "And I'm enough of a feminist to be okay with killing a woman, if necessary."
Cora leans in closer and matches his grin with one of her own. "Ditto."
He stares her down for a few more seconds before groaning out, "Touché." He turtles his head back in his arms and prays for silence.
Cora just laughs at him.
Derek can tell that something is wrong with him, but he doesn't ask because he knows Stiles doesn't quite know what to say.
Stiles knows that Derek knows all of that because he starts walking Stiles to his classes, their shoulders gently bumping into each other and the backs of their hands touching.
Again, Stiles is in love.
He spots Paige Krasikeva giving him dirty looks from down the hall.
Stiles also sees her cornering Derek near the gym, her big, dumb cello case in one hand and the other twirling her stupid, curly hair.
Later that week he sees her slip a note into his locker.
It's just typical mean girl stuff, with a dash of homophobia to keep things fresh.
Stiles keys her car two hours later.
Allison Argent joins them for lunch under the tree.
She settles onto the ground next to Stiles gracefully. Both she and Derek do their weird nod of acceptance to each other (Stiles will be getting to the bottom of whatever the hell that's all about, they're both so weird and so obvious about it).
Allison looks at Stiles, who hasn't glanced away from Isaac for the last five minutes.
"You're watching Isaac Lahey."
Stiles takes a sip of his lemonade and still doesn't look away, his mind still whirling with plans and possibilities. "Don't say that like I'm some creep in the bushes outside his house or something. I'm just thinking."
Allison tilts her head. "You're watching him how you watched me."
That breaks his concentration enough to get Stiles to give her a look.
She shrugs and takes out a bowl of pasta salad from her lunchbox. She stabs her fork into a noodle and tomato, a frown on her face. "Is there something wrong with him?"
Stiles can feel Derek's eyes on him.
"Yeah," Stiles mutters. "Yeah, I think something's wrong with him. I think something's been wrong with him for a long time, and nobody's ever noticed."
Allison's eyes go hard, her grip on her fork tightening. "Do you need any help?" she asks quietly.
Stiles pauses, bottle of lemonade at his lips. "Do you want to help?"
"Yes."
Stiles jerks his head over to look at Derek, who had answered the question with a strange amount of conviction. He offers Stiles an apple.
Stiles takes it and savors the crunch of the first bite between his teeth. He settles himself back on his palm and agrees. "Well, alright then."
All three of them go back to the diner where Stiles and Derek had their first date (and their fourth, seventh, and ninth but who's counting?—okay, maybe Stiles is counting).
Stiles tells them about what he had seen on Matt's laptop and what he'd managed to put together with his own new investigation.
He pulls out copies of quashed noise complaints from the Lahey's neighbors and Isaac's hospital records, which was a distressingly long list of hairline fractures along his body, and most disturbingly of all, his hands.
"How did you get this?" Allison asks, equal amounts of horror and admiration in her tone.
Stiles flips through his notepad as Derek glares at nine-year-old Isaac's x-rays. "I tagged along to the hospital with Scott one evening when he went to bring his mom dinner." He gives Allison a knowing look. "He's a really caring guy like that, our Scott."
Allison blushes into her chocolate milkshake.
Stiles smirks at her while continuing his explanation. "And while I was there, and while Scott may or may not have run interference, I happened to wander into the file room. And the file room happened to have a copy printer in it." Stiles shrugs. "The security in small-town hospitals isn't really an issue. It wasn't like there was a beefy Russian guard with a gun sitting inside, or a grid of lasers, or even a biometric door lock." He snorts. "The door wasn't even locked at all. It was propped open with a brick, which now that I'm saying all of this out loud, I'm realizing is a horrifyingly terrible system for keeping medical records safe."
Stiles eyes his ill-gotten gains thoughtfully. "I'm not sure how to bring this to anyone's attention without incriminating myself. Or making it harder for future Stiles to solve crime."
Derek snorts, mouthing "solve crime" to himself with a mocking smile on his handsome face.
Stiles scowls at him. "Hey, I commit crimes so that I can solve other, more illegal crimes."
Allison grins around her straw. "Aren't all crimes illegal?"
"There's a spectrum."
"You're on the spectrum."
Both Allison and Stiles turn to look at Derek in shock.
Stiles splutters. "Was that a gay joke or an autism joke?"
Derek hums. "Probably both."
Allison bursts into laughter, dimples appearing on her cheeks.
Stiles wipes a fake tear from his eye. "Baby's first burn." He reaches out to pinch Derek's cheek hard. "They grow up so fast."
"I thought you said you weren't the creep in the bushes outside of his house?" Allison asks from her spot in said bushes.
Stiles rolls his eyes, for annoyance but also because there's a leaf particle in his eye, fucking bush.
"I'm still not, because technically, we're in the bushes outside of his neighbor's house."
And it's true. The three of them are wedged in the foliage of—surprise, surprise—the town's resident douchebag, Jackson Whittemore.
It's their second time crouching in these particular bushes.
They'd tried the day before, but they made the mistake of going when it was still a bit too bright outside. One of the neighbors had called the police when they saw Stiles fall out from his hiding spot after his leg fell asleep.
Thirty minutes after his fall, he'd heard his father's voice.
"Stiles, what are you doing in the bushes with Allison Argent and Derek Hale?"
Stiles had slowly risen from his hiding place, hair askew and knees aching. "Just a standard HOA greenery inspection, Johnny Law. Don't worry about it."
The Sheriff had looked deep into Stiles's soul before sighing, nodding, and then walking back to his squad car. As he opened the door and ducked inside he had given Stiles a mild look and said, "Just make sure to call me when I should start to."
The three of them had learned from their mistake and came back the next night when it was dark outside.
So, they're waiting for just the right time to call it in to Stiles's dad and stick around to make sure nothing got hushed up or minimized as a simple noise complaint. The thought of those few complaints still makes Stiles's stomach turn.
It's also no surprise that none of those few reports to the police about the Lahey house were ever called in from Jackson and his family of rich clowns, given how they all live wedged so far up their own asses. Stiles assumes that Jackson's family probably can't hear Isaac's tortured screams over the sound of their own voices talking about yachting or whatever. After all, Stiles has only been squatting in this bush for twenty minutes and he can hear the fighting going on inside Isaac's house very, very clearly.
That theory is solidified in Stiles's mind after all three of them watch as Jackson walks down his driveway in a silk robe (such a douche) and throws his trash away in the garbage bin.
They all see Jackson frown in the Lahey's direction, but all hope that Jackson is a real boy rather than a lizard person is swiftly dashed when he scoffs and mutters, "Usually he's done by now. Some of us need to sleep at night."
Before Stiles can even comprehend that awful, ugly pair of sentences, he sees Derek dart from behind the bushes and rush Jackson from behind. A powerful and precise hit to the head has Jackson crumbling to a heap at Derek's feet.
Stiles watches in fascination as Derek drags Jackson by the arm toward the garbage, a flashback to when Cora threw Jackson into a recycling bin at school replaying in his mind.
Derek opens the lid and dumps Jackson's limp body inside before shutting it.
"What the hell was that?" Stiles whisper-shouts in awe as Derek stealthily prowls back to his spot.
Derek shrugs and the bushes rustle. "Trash."
"Trash?"
Derek nods, eyes glittering in the dark. "Trash."
Allison holds out her fist for Derek to tap.
He does.
Stiles is painfully in love with Derek Hale.
It's then that Isaac's screams turn into pleas to let him out that Stiles speed-dials his dad.
He picks up on the second ring. "Stiles?"
"Dad," Stiles breathes, suddenly glad that talking this out with Allison and Derek has him asking his father for help. "Dad, I need the police and an ambulance. Somebody's being hurt."
They stick around long enough to see the paramedics lift a shaking Isaac onto a gurney, the flash of blue and red lights illuminating the night sky.
They stick around long enough to watch as the Sheriff himself ducks a wild punch from Coach Lahey, the man's glasses lopsided and a twisted snarl on his face.
They stick around long enough to hear the crack! that echoes when Stiles's dad breaks Mr. Lahey's kneecap with a harsh swing of his baton, a second gurney appearing as the man sprawls out on the street in pain; the Sheriff ends up cuffing him to the railing and reading him his rights, a dark look on his face.
They don't, however, stick around to help Jackson climb his way out of the garbage bin.
When his dad comes home from work in the early hours of the morning, he takes one look at Stiles and wraps him in a hug.
Stiles can't help but hold on tight.
Scott calls him four days later to tell him that his mom has taken temporary guardianship over one of her patients.
Scott has been trying to coax him into playing Guitar Hero, but they've only managed to get to Mario Kart.
He invites Stiles over to play with them.
Isaac ends up winning seven of the twelve rounds they play.
Over the next few weeks, he sees Lydia and Allison sitting with Isaac during lunch.
He can't help but wonder what the hell they talk about.
Probably cardigans.
He starts chuckling to himself, and Derek opens one eye, pinning him with an inquisitive look from where he's resting his head on Stiles's stomach.
Stiles just grins at him and keeps running his fingers through his hair.
The sheer amount of physical evidence against Mr. Lahey winds up pushing his case through the court system at hyper speed.
It also helps that Isaac found the courage to offer up testimony against him, too.
He's still living with the McCall family and seems happier than Stiles has ever known him to be.
His happiness might also be because Stiles had taken him out to the preserve one evening, with Scott, Lydia, and Allison riding along in his Jeep.
They'd met Derek a few miles past that godforsaken driveway, all of them walking into a clearing where the remains of Derek's old house still stood.
Derek stands at the edge of the ruins, his hands tucked into his jacket pocket.
He's standing next to a beat-up old deep freezer.
The freezer.
Isaac stalls for a minute, before he looks from the freezer to the gallon of gasoline Allison had carried with her.
Allison sidles over to Isaac and props the canister at his feet before stepping back.
Derek walks up to Isaac next and wordlessly offers up a cigarette lighter.
Isaac's hand, no longer cracked and bandaged but still shaky, takes it.
They all stand back and let him decide.
By Stiles's count, it takes 67 seconds for Isaac to douse the freezer in gasoline and set it on fire.
It's as haunting as it is beautiful.
They watch silently as the fire continues to rage. Scott wraps an arm around Isaac's shoulder when he begins to sniffle.
Stiles shrugs off his backpack and takes out the skewers and marshmallows he packed. He skewers one up and goes to stand on Isaac's other side. Isaac chokes out an incredulous laugh when Stiles slips it into his hand.
"I'm sorry about your shitty dad, Isaac."
Isaac looks down at the skewer and back up at Stiles. He offers him a bitter, watery smile. "I'm sorry about my shitty dad, too."
Stiles counts committing cathartic arson as another date.
Group dates count, after all.
Their twenty-second, to be exact.
It's on their twenty-third date that Derek finally kisses Stiles.
They're standing on Stiles's front porch, fireflies in the air.
For a moment, Stiles faintly recalls a warning about cursed Ring cameras, but when Derek wraps his arms around him and nuzzles at his jaw, he can't seem to find it in himself to give a damn.