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"Remind me again, why I couldn't get camouflage for this?"
Stiles is panting; his teeth gritted around the words as he scales the side of a brick-faced building, fingers tight around a rope that had taken him three tries to secure. It's not his fault, though. He's usually dispatched to cities with fire escapes or low-hanging awnings he can freehand. But not this town, no, because that would make things too easy.
Beacon Hills is all single-story buildings set too far apart on a semi-busy main street. It's too open, too smooth, and it sets Stiles on edge. Stealth isn't the issue, not really. For all Stiles is a walking disaster with a caution sign practically stuck to his back if he has coffee in hand; he knows how to blend in and disappear in a crowd. There are no crowds here, though, and brushing off the odd look or two that gets sent his way isn't going to work when there's not a fashion tragedy every five feet walking around on neon stilettos to redirect them.
Stiles keeps telling R&D they need to update the uniform. He'll agree that the pink lining and heart accents are cute, but having them attached to the black tactical-style jacket and boots don’t help him maintain a low profile when surrounded by flannel and jeans. He'd tell Lydia too, but he values his tongue a little too much, and the last time he'd made a gentle suggestion, she'd flipped her hair and threatened to cut it out of his mouth.
"Because," Kira sighs, the weight of trying to keep the peace while being stuck as Stiles' handler dragging her tone down, "this is the big one, Stiles. It wouldn't be a good test for your wings if it was easy ."
He'd like to argue, hoisting himself over the ledge of what once might have been one of those pottery decorating places, that easy is one thing, while sending him to an assignment with no camouflage, no fake I.D. cards, and no idea of who his target is, is another.
"I bet Scott got to use special equipment for his graduation." Stiles mutters, dusting off his knees and keeping his crouch low as he moves to the street-facing side of the roof. He can't help but make a dig at his best friend, especially not when it's Kira stuck listening to him. Insulting her boyfriend, even in a fond or offhanded way, tends to keep their conversations rolling, and that means Stiles is entertained while he waits.
"You know that R.E.A.P.E.R. tests are different, Stiles."
He can almost feel her eye-roll.
"Now buck up! I see you're in position."
Stiles sees it too. His visor, pink (because why wouldn't it be) and covering from just above his eyebrows to the tops of his cheeks, is the only piece of tech aside from his rifle that he'd been allowed to take with him, and the minimap he has pulled up is blinking, his icon overlapping the heart marker for where his target should appear soon.
Lowering himself to his belly, Stiles shrugs his rifle off his shoulder and checks that his cartridge is full and ready. He doesn't understand why they haven't developed a weapon with a capacity for more than one hit, but Danny, head of R&D and the bearer of most of Stiles' weedling inquiries, always gives him the same bullshit answers of 'It's tradition Stiles,' and 'When you figure out a way to prevent full spell deployment per-capsule, you let me know.'
"Do I finally get to know who I'm pointing at?" Stiles asks, clicking off the safety, easing the muzzle onto the ledge, and eyeing the coffee shop across the street. There's no sight attachment for him to stare down, but with the visor and the laughably short distance between the buildings, Stiles doesn't need it, even if he thinks it would make him look cooler.
He hears Kira sigh again, long-suffering and probably inwardly celebrating that if all goes well, this will be the last time she has to live in Stiles' ear.
"Sending the file now. Initiating minimal contact until assignment completed."
Stiles grunts in acknowledgment and watches as a little loading bar appears across the middle of his visor. He adjusts his finger, laying it on the side of his trigger as he watches a group of teenagers, huddled together and laughing, enter the shop. He thinks he's alone as the file reaches 79% uploaded, but Kira speaks again, previous professionalism replaced with a soft optimism.
"Good luck."
There's a faint ping, and the absence of Kira is undeniably final, as an electric humming that had become white noise since he was deployed is replaced with silence.
It's just him, his training, and whoever Derek Hale, male, 31, is.
The profile is taking up the left half of Stiles' view, transparent enough that he can see most of what's going on below, but solid enough that he can blame the squint he's adopting on the midday sunlight. It's a name, sex, and age at the very top, then the edges of a photo that Stiles has to reach for the side of his visor to scroll and see more.
When Stiles sees Derek's face, he has to suppress an appreciative whistle. The man wasn’t turned toward the camera, but Stiles can see the light color of his eyes, not enough to guess the color but enough to be impressed with how they contrast his black hair, dark stubble, and tan skin. There's a ruggedness to him, a set to his jaw, and holy hell; those brows look like they're about to crawl off his face to commit some crime. How this man needs a C.U.P.I.D. Stiles can't fathom. At least, he can't until he inches the profile down and reads the short, bulleted backstory that some field agent has compiled for him.
Immediately his stomach rolls with nausea. First girlfriend? Paige, no last name provided, dead. And it was rumored Derek had something to do with it. Second? A woman twice his age while he'd been sixteen, unidentified, had trapped his family inside their house and burned them alive. Then, only three years ago, after a string of mixed and matched one-night stands while he'd been living in New York, a woman who had too many names for Stiles to be willing to commit them to memory had attempted to sacrifice Derek for some undetermined ritual.
Jesus Christ. Screw not having background information or the best tools; Stiles wasn't sure a love shot and subsequent throwing of potential romantic partners at Derek's feet is going to cut it.
Just as he's about to get to the last part of the admittedly sparse profile, Stiles catches the shine of a leather jacket, a blur of black, and his attention is immediately redirected. His eyes zero in on the stretch of sideway outside the coffee shop, and his breath catches. There's no mistaking it; even from twenty-five feet away and elevated, it's him.
Derek is walking into the shop, hands in his pockets, just as stiff in the shoulders as he was in the picture, and Stiles feels a low thrum of excitement down his spine. He exhales slowly, feels each muscle in his body relax in steady, practiced increments, and waits.
There's no way to catch Derek before he goes inside, he hadn't seen him soon enough to try, but Stiles is confident, maybe overly so, that he'll catch him coming out. He'll have at least three seconds from when Derek reaches the exit to when he walks back out and then another two, if Stiles is lucky, for Derek to pivot and head back the way he came. Simple enough. It would have been better to hit him before, give him a chance to run into someone already inside, and save Stiles the trouble of hunting down potential matches to make the love shot work, but he's never turned his nose up at legwork before, and he's not going to start now, not when he lives for the action, for the exhilaration of finding someone just perfect enough that it sticks.
Stiles takes to counting each person that walks by the spot his vision has narrowed down to, comparing it to the sound of birds he hears chatting away in a large tree nearby to keep himself from fidgeting. It's another downside to not being assigned to a target in a metropolitan area; there's less to keep the hyper-attentive parts of his brain distracted while he slips into the headspace his training had painstakingly forced into him.
Thankfully, he doesn't have to wait long.
A shadow passes in front of the cafe door, and as it comes into focus on the other side of the glass, Stile's finger slides to his trigger like it's second nature.
At one second, he inhales, blinking once to wet his eyes. Seconds two and three pass, and he holds the air in his lungs, Derek stepping back into the sun, a coffee in his left hand, his phone in the other. He's frowning down at it as though offended by whatever he's seeing. It provides Stiles an additional second he doesn't bother to use. On the fifth, he exhales slowly and squeezes.
The sound his rifle makes is high-pitched, bright, and cheery to match the whizz of bubble-gum pink as the love shot fires. He knows it's going to hit, so sure of his aim and the familiar sensation of kickback, then, right before it does –the bullet spinning so that the tail ends split and it takes on the approximation of a heart– Derek's head jerks up, and he springs to the side.
Instead of striking Derek’s heart, the shot goes wide and smacks into the meat of his shoulder. It lands in the print of a twice beating heart, luminous against old leather, and then sinks uselessly into the material only to dissipate without taking effect.
Stiles stares dumbly at where his shot had hit, where he'd missed, and feels a cold sense of dread trickle like ice from the top of his head down to his stomach. Derek stares at the place, too, before his chin starts to tilt up. Stiles sees it happening as if in slow motion, and just before Derek's eyes can land where he's popped over the ledge, Stiles throws himself down, wincing as his elbows smack hard and his rifle clanks beside him. It's useless now anyway; his one shot for the day wasted because Derek had dodged. And what the hell was that?!
Pulse beating wildly in his ears, Stiles fumbles for the side of his visor, Derek's profile still taking up the left half, and scrolls to the few lines he hadn't managed to get to. His whole body freezes when the words, all caps, bright red, come into view.
CAUTION: WEREWOLF - DESIGNATION: ALPHA
That explains some things, Stiles thinks with a hard swallow. He rolls onto his back, willing his heartbeat to become steady, for the adrenaline to temper out, before carefully sitting up and inching his way back to the roof's edge. It's probably not his most brilliant move, but he can't help himself. Stiles peeks down to the street below.
It's empty.
"A werewolf?!" Stiles's voice is raised, a frantic curl to his question. He's pacing his hotel room, holding his headpiece like a phone out of habit.
"You didn't read the briefing?" Kira asks. She sounds genuinely surprised, and for some reason, that sets Stiles off into a fit of giggles that border on hysterical. He's still coming down from his miss hours before, working and reworking the moment between shot and dodge; how if he'd been a second slower, his and Derek's eyes would have met, and no doubt with his super Alpha werewolf vision, he would have spotted Stiles easily.
"Oh, I read the briefing," Stiles hisses once he's caught his breath, "but you think, just maybe, the fact I was sent on assignment for a G.Q. model Alpha werewolf would have made the top of the list of things I needed to know?!"
It's not Kira's fault; Stiles knows that. She's been stuck on handler duty for the last six months since her big 'knocked up with your best friend's baby' announcement went down. She wasn't the one to organize Derek's profile, and it wasn't her call when she was allowed to send it to him, either. This was his wings assignment, his last one before he graduates to a full-time, no-babysitter-needed C.U.P.I.D. Still, he wasn't allowed to talk to anyone but her about it, not with details, at least.
"I mean... you did hit him, right?" She's trying for careful optimism, and Stiles melts a little – begrudgingly– at the tone.
"Yeah, got his shoulder." He'd been so close.
"Well, there you go! That means you can hit him for sure."
Stiles wishes it were that easy, but he'd been operating under the assumption he was working with a human, albeit one laden with the most traumatic love life he's ever read about, but human nonetheless. It had made him confident, self-assured that there was no way he would miss, and now Stiles knows better.
"There's always tomorrow," Kira offers, softer this time. She's gained Scott's second nature of being able to tell when Stiles's mood is taking a turn for the worse. Not for the first time, Stiles is thankful for that.
When Scott and Kira met, he'd been worried that a blank space in the place his longest friend had been would appear. He'd been surprised that, instead, he'd needed to make more room for Kira to occupy.
She's right, Stiles thinks, stopping at the foot of his bed before sitting down. There's a new determination in his voice when he replies, "Yeah. Tomorrow," in agreement.
They exchange goodbyes, and Stiles’ hand falls from his ear, landing on the butt of his rifle where it's resting against his thigh. He takes it, lays it across his lap, and examines the cartridge still clipped into the body. It's re-charging slowly; he can see the spell's light beginning to simmer at the bottom.
Stiles tightens his grip and touches the edge of his visor, pulling Derek's profile back up. He has roughly twenty hours until he can take his next shot. That will have to be enough time to come up with a new game plan, this time, with all the information in the mix.
Regardless of Stiles having more information, more time, and a much-improved awareness of the situation he was heading into, it doesn't make any damn difference.
His second attempt at hitting Derek is done in a similar fashion to the first. Stiles gets up high, chooses a location with a lot of foot traffic to keep his scent from sticking out, and waits.
The grocery store is taller than the old pottery place but doesn't hinder Stiles' aim much. What does is that Derek is accompanied by three other people, his pack, if Stiles were to take a wild guess. Still, he only pays them the attention needed to mark how they move. There's enough space between where they're clustered together and where Derek's stalking ahead that he's not worried about them getting in the way.
Stiles has a plan, and from the time he hucks a rock and dings the car three spaces in front of where Derek's parked, and he squeezes the trigger of his rifle, it's going perfectly. The alarm of the Toyota he's dented blares, covering the sound of his shot. He guides his aim to account for Derek ducking, but then, because some deity out in the universe wants Stiles to fail spectacularly over and over again, the blonde girl at Derek's shoulder lists hard and knocks into him. They go down in a heap, and Stiles watches with horror as the love shot soars between their two bodies and lands right between the eyes of the black man bringing up the rear of their group.
Any chance that its presence goes unnoticed is nonexistent; the lanky man next to Stiles's unintentional target squints as the heart imprint begins fading and draws attention to it with a loud "What the hell is that?"
Stiles watches Derek pivot and knows that the heart doesn't disappear fast enough, but Stiles certainly does, rifle over his shoulder a second later as he tears off toward the back of the grocery store roof he'd scaled an hour before.
Attempts three and four, as much as Stiles tries to switch up his methods, even crawling under a station wagon to try a trick shot he'd been practicing, all end the same, with the notable difference of Derek being much quicker to seek him out when Stiles ultimately misses. By his fifth attempt, Stiles's frustration is mounting, and as much as he'd love to deny it, it makes him sloppy.
When Derek evades at the very last second, scowling hard at the tree where the love shot embeds itself, Stiles finds himself at his wit's end. He stands up from the bush he'd been hiding in halfway across the park and throws his hands up.
"Are you fucking kidding me?!"
Blazing red eyes strike him like a physical hit, and Stiles feels the animal instinct of flight overtake him a moment later. He takes off in a dead sprint toward the crowd of people clustered where a group of street musicians are performing, ducking between a family in matching t-shirts. He can almost sense Derek, but by the time he's a mile away, wheezing so hard he thinks he's going to lose his breakfast, there's no one pursuing him.
'Well,' Stiles muses to himself, trudging back towards his hotel room in defeat, 'there goes the element of surprise.'
By Stiles' seventh try at hitting Derek, he's been in Beacon Hills for over ten days (allowing himself a weekend to recharge and pretending it's to throw Derek off), and he's given up all pretense of stealth. Derek's seen his face, and at this point, it's unlikely the werewolf doesn't know his scent too. Stiles figures a direct method is the best way to go now that he doesn't even have his dignity to lose.
Apparently, he'd miscalculated that too because all it earns him is a twisted ankle and a dry cleaning bill he just knows Lydia will back-charge him for when Derek chases him down a ravine. The river had softened Stiles' fall and carried him to safety since there was no way he was going to get away from a pissed-off Alpha on foot, but it had left him muddy, soaked to the bone, and entirely done with this assignment.
"I don't know what I'm doing," Stiles admits, face smooshed into his pillow. It's the middle of the night, and he feels a little bad for calling Kira, but he's tired and growing more defeated by the day.
"Do you want me to put Scott on?"
"You're not allowed to." It's said as begrudgingly as he can make it. Stiles sighs, rolling over onto his back to stare at the ceiling. If he kicks his feet in childish anger, he reasons that Kira can't see him do it.
"It's just so annoying. I mean, it would be one thing if I was messing up, taking stupid shots, or hitting people I shouldn't be, but I'm not!" Not intentionally, at least. "I climbed a tree the other day, Kira, a tree ." Stiles begins to work himself into a fit. "If this assignment wasn't some overly cautious runway model, werewolf jerk, I'd have it in the bag! But no. It's all, ‘one chance a day,’ ‘stick to the script,’ rules, rules, ru-"
Mid-rant Stiles cuts himself off, a lightbulb practically snapping to life above his head.
"Stiles?" Kira asks, voice concerned at his sudden silence.
"I know you're not in the office, but can you patch me into recruitment?"
There's a beat; long enough, Stiles knows that Kira is probably exchanging looks with Scott. He can almost see it. A raise of her brow. 'What is wrong with your best friend? ' only for Scott's fond shrug of 'I don't know, but what can you do about it?'
"Sure," comes Kira's inevitable reply. "Do I want to know what you need them for?"
A grin, wide and a little sharp at the edges, curls onto Stiles' face as he sits up and reaches for the visor on his bedside table.
"Don't worry; I just need to look at the handbook."
It's something every trainee gets on day one, a thick tome that covers all positions across the agency, and while Stiles had only given it a cursory read, much like the rest of the greenhorns he'd been shuffled around with, he remembers something toward the back, that if Stiles is right about, Derek's going to wish he'd let Stiles shoot him that first day.
By day twelve, Stiles has Derek's weekly schedule down almost to the minute.
Derek runs his territory lines around the preserve from six to seven every morning. Then, he'll head for whatever construction site he's meant to be at, often with one of his betas trailing along. He has a meal at the local diner three times a week and crams all his errands into Sunday afternoons. As far as Stiles can tell, the coffee shop on Thursday is Derek's one indulgence outside of his work, training, and sleep lifestyle.
Stiles has used his day and a half, from the moment he'd gotten his hands on a digital copy of the handbook, to plan. The best time to strike is in public; Derek's unlikely to cause him bodily harm with spectators around. And if he's as weary as Stiles is with this whole cat-and-mouse chase, Stiles knows he'll be too tired to not, at the very least, pretend to hear him out. With all that in mind, Stiles, clad in a pair of jeans he's smuggled from the hotel lost and found and his uniform jacket- because if he's going to be playing by the rules, it means playing by all of them- struts into Mindi's, the retro style mom and pop place that Derek frequents, and locks eyes with his target.
Derek is already glaring at him, his jaw tight and forehead furrowed. From how his eyes rove over Stiles as he approaches, Stiles assumes he's probably trying to see where he's keeping his rifle. It forces Stiles to fight back the grin threatening to break his carefully neutral expression.
Not waiting to be invited or shown to a table, Stiles swings into the booth across from Derek and drops down, folding his hands in front of him. Derek mirrors him, sitting back and trying to stare Stiles down in what might have intimidated Stiles if he weren't well acquainted with the expression already.
"No gun today?"
Stiles is as surprised at Derek breaking the silence first as he is about the lightness of his voice. His whole demeanor screams dark and brooding, so Stiles doesn't think he can be blamed for expecting Batman and getting Clark Kent instead.
"Why? Are you actually going to let me hit you this time?" It would make things a whole hell of a lot easier.
He's unsurprised by Derek's eyes glowing scarlet and the peek of fang he flashes when he growls. There's a moment where Stiles can see Derek tensing like he's going to leap over the table, but he's saved by a waitress coming up, notepad at the ready. Her name tag, covered in stickers, says Cindy.
She looks between them, and Stiles plasters on his friendliest smile. If she's affected by his presence, she doesn't make a show of it, but he can already guess the news she'll take back to the kitchen with her. Loner Derek Hale seen with a strangely dressed young man; what a scandal.
"What can I getcha, fellas?"
Stiles opens his mouth but doesn't get a chance to answer.
"Coffee."
Cindy raises a brow at Derek's clipped tone but doesn't comment. She glances back at Stiles, and he tries again, only to be foiled by Derek and his surly tone a second time.
"Just coffee." He's very intently not looking at Stiles. "Please." It sounds painful for him to say it, and Stiles feels bad for Cindy, so he doesn't push the issue, just smiles at her again until she scribbles Derek's coffee request and walks away.
With a frown, Stiles turns back to Derek and immediately swallows a yelp as a hand fists into the front of his jacket and pulls him up from the booth. They end up nose to nose, Derek's face going in and out of focus as Stiles blinks, gaping fish-mouthed in surprise.
It's possible he was a little quick to assume Derek wouldn't try to maim him with witnesses around.
"I don't know who you are," Derek starts, "but you and whatever hunters you brought with you need to leave ." He's all threat, and yeah, okay, the glare up front and personal? It's intimidating.
"Oh-kay," Stiles chokes, trying for levity and probably missing by a mile.
He tentatively reaches for the fingers curled into his jacket, failing to pry them away.
"Look, I'm not a hunter. I can barely kill spiders! So if you could maybe dial back the'I'm the Alpha' schtick so I can explain, that would be really cool of you, man…" Stiles peters off as he goes, eyes flicking between Derek's hand and his stoney face, and doesn't bother holding back the exaggerated sigh of relief when Derek's grip falls away, allowing Stiles to drop back into his seat.
He adjusts the collar of his jacket, thankful the zipper is still intact. Stiles doesn't want to think about how much Lydia would make him grovel to get it repaired.
"Explain," Derek bites out, arms folded over his chest again.
"Right, yeah, gotcha," Stiles says, clearing his throat. He straightens up and tries for an air of seriousness because Derek hasn't left Stiles with the impression that he'd appreciate his normal smart-ass with a heart-of-gold demeanor. "My name’s Stiles. I'm a C.U.P.I.D. in training, and I've been assigned to help you fall in love."
Stiles could have seen it coming, Derek blinking once, face not moving, before he was out of the booth and tossing a five on the table, making his way for the door purposefully. But, in Stiles' defense, he thought that Derek being a werewolf and all would mean he could handle a blunter delivery.
Apparently not.
"Hey!" Stiles calls after him once he's out of the diner, trying not to run flat-out to catch up with the other man who really shouldn't be able to make walking fast look so flawless. "Dude, ignoring me isn't going to make me go away."
When Derek whirls on him, Stiles is expecting it this time and manages to hop back to avoid the clawed fingers from getting a hold of his jacket. Stiles raises his hands in the universal 'hold up, we don't need to get violent about this' gesture.
"Would killing you?" Derek asks, his teeth bared, much more pointy than the last time.
"Uh, no?" He's not entirely sure what the agency's policy is if an assignment kills their cupid, but he's also running this new approach on a technicality and not much else, so Stiles isn't looking to find out.
Derek's expression goes from an impressive mix of hot, potential killer to something akin to wordlessly saying Stiles is an idiot. It would offend Stiles, but he's used to it, and anything calling Derek's eyebrows out of attack mode works for him.
"So, just to get this straight, you're some godling sent here to shoot me with a love potion by force?" Derek all but spits out the accusation, and it's an honest fight for Stiles not to roll his eyes.
They really need to get a better PR team if that's the kind of outdated crap people are working with these days.
"Dude, that is so 700 BC. First," Stiles holds up his index finger, "no godlings here. I'm, like, ninety-six percent human. Don't ask about the four percent; we do not have the time. Second, you're making it sound way more creepy than it is."
Derek cocks his head, all 'What part of magically inducing someone into a state of infatuation isn't creepy' and Stiles offers a slight grimace. It's not like he doesn't see Derek's point of view, but if he'd just let Stiles hit him a week ago, they could be finishing this whole circus.
"It's not like Bam! You fall in love with the first person you see or anything. It just kinda opens you up to the possibility, you know? I mean," Stiles shrugs, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. "Who doesn't want a chance at love?"
Where Derek had been progressively relaxing out of his maim first, ask questions later posture, Stiles' question has him tensing right back up. Before Stiles can back-peddle, Derek is strutting away again, this time successfully making it into his car before Stiles can stop him. He peels out of the parking lot; Stiles left floundering in the dust.
Stiles stands there, staring at the open road where Derek had disappeared, and squares his shoulders. If Derek Hale thinks he's going to give up because of some heavy-handed threats and the inability to weather a monumentally dickish attitude, he's got another thing coming.
Stiles is pretty sure his next move isn't actually cheating. He's only limited from using company resources, just like the rule book says he's only technically meant to keep his presence hidden from humans on assignment, so intercepting Derek's betas and bringing them into the fold of why he's stalking ( "It's not stalking, it's asset management." ) is probably above board. That's what Stiles plans to say when Lydia rips into him after he turns in his report, anyway.
It's another calculated risk talking to them all at once, but Stiles doesn't have the time to wine and dine each of them to join forces with him for the greater good of their Alpha's love life. Shockingly, perhaps for the first time since he'd been sent in, something works.
Erica is the most willing to help, and she's downright devious when Stiles explains what he needs to do to complete the assignment. Boyd, more neutral about where he falls on the helping Stiles meter, keeps her in check, for which Stiles is very grateful, and though Issac, sharp cheekbones but soft hesitance, is the most unsure, he falls in line with the others. It's actually a bit heartwarming when Stiles thinks about it. Sure, there had been rounds of laughter, and some pointed remarks about Derek's literally tragic forays into romance, but he can tell that beneath the snark, they want Derek to be happy.
"I mean, maybe if he gets laid on the regular, he'll finally chill the hell out."
In their own special ways, at least.
Getting in with the pack puts Stiles on the attack again. Issac lets him know where they're going to be and puts him into Derek's line of sight. Boyd slips him Derek's coffee order which Stiles takes to leaving on Derek's doorstep before he gets back from his run. And Erica is basically his new best friend, inviting him to join their huddle on lunch breaks or table when they're out for food.
He ends up thrown against the wall of Derek's house with an arm thrown tight over his throat. Stiles had expected it sooner than the week it had taken for Derek to break, but what comes as an even greater surprise is the coffee cup in his hands not ending up on the ground or crushed between them, given Stiles is the one holding it.
"You. Need. To. Leave." Derek punctuates each word. Stiles can almost see the periods. He relaxes further into the side of the building, easing some of the pressure from Derek's hold.
"Told you already, man, you're not shaking me." There might be a cold pit in Stiles' stomach, but he's not backing off, and Derek needs to know that.
The reality must finally catch – Stiles has wormed his way in, has utilized Derek's pack against him on this one front, and isn't so easy to scare.
Stiles watches Derek's face go through a complicated array of frustration and anger, then, slowly, his eyes stray down, and he heaves a sigh so heavy that his shoulders don't come back up when he's done. Derek's arm falls away from Stiles’ throat, and Stiles keeps himself against the wall on the off chance that Derek changes his mind.
"What exactly do I need to do to get you gone?" Derek is talking to the forest floor, but Stiles doesn't blame him. He also doesn't want Derek to see the grin that begins to stretch across his face before he can get it under control. He enjoys his teeth where they are.
"Thought I told you already, dude," Stiles says because even when he knows he shouldn't, he can't help himself. Derek's eyes are their fuck-off pretty hazel but no less piercing without the tinge of Alpha red. "Okay, okay, geez. Can you lay off the laser eyes?"
Derek doesn't reply, but he does take a small step backward, and Stiles can relax a centimeter more.
"Look, all you need to do is fall in love." Stiles makes jazz hands, forgetting momentarily that one of them still has Derek's coffee, almost upending it. At Derek's further souring expression, Stiles scoffs and continues, pushing the paper cup toward Derek's chest, hoping the caffeine might make him a little less surly. "Not like, all the way in love. Which I know doesn't make a whole lot of sense, but honestly, that is not what they pay me for. It's more like you need to get to the point where falling in love is an inevitability? Climbing up to the top of the mountain and seeing all the world or something."
After another push from Stiles' hand, Derek takes the coffee but doesn't drink. Instead, he squints at Stiles almost thoughtfully before saying, "You're not exactly selling this."
Stiles gapes because Derek doesn't need to be rude about it.
"Dude, general rule of thumb is don't talk to assignments at all. So sorry for not having the pitch down."
"Stop calling me ‘dude,’" Derek says, then, curious and a bit softer, "So why are you talking to me, then?"
Stiles rolls his eyes so hard they threaten to pop right out of his skull.
"Because someone isn't letting me do this the easy way."
"I'm not letting you shoot me." Derek's back on the defense, and Stiles tilts his head back in a mockery of pleading to the heavens to just give him a tiny fucking break.
"Right. Got the memo on that pretty much right away. Just means we skip to step two and go old school." Stiles reaches forward and, maybe misguided, slaps Derek's shoulder. He pulls his hand back right away when Derek looks at it like he's considering its value removed from Stiles’ body and goes to walk around the werewolf. Now that he more or less has Derek's agreement, Stiles has real planning to get a jump on.
Just when he's at the tree line surrounding Derek's house, he's called to a halt.
"Stiles," Derek's turned to face him but is looking at the cup in his hand like he's just realized what it is. Stiles feels pinned when their eyes meet across the clearing between the woods and the house. "Thanks for the coffee." And then, in a blink, Derek's gone through his front door, leaving Stiles to recover.
An itch runs across his back, and Stiles pivots hard on his heel, rolling his shoulders to dispel the sensation. Derek's angry, standoffish, and a bit of a dick, but there's a rogue element to him, a stilted kindness that Stiles has caught glimpses of from his interactions with the betas and through his not-stalking. If he weren't such a big pain in Stiles' ass, Stiles might even say that working with him could have the potential to be fun.
A few things become apparent to Stiles when he tries to ease Derek into public situations to seek out potential love connections.
First, Beacon Hills is not flush enough with eligible parties to fill more than the two cooking classes and one lunch mixer Stiles drags Derek too. It's a too-small town, and every other person Stiles considers either knows Derek or knows the rumors about him, and neither works in their favor.
A stranger has more potential to become a match than someone Derek already knows, since Stiles wouldn't have been sent out in the first place if there was a possible connection ready and available. And if someone already had ideas of who Derek was, then it would be harder to change their mind. So, Beacon Hills was depleted as a source far too quickly for Stiles' liking. But he was smart. He'd prepared for that outcome.
What Stiles couldn't prepare for but was proving to be the second, more pressing challenge was Derek himself.
Now, Stiles wasn't under the impression that Derek would make it easy for him; he hasn't since the first day, and it would actually be concerning if he were. It was less of Derek trying to veto every idea Stiles proposed and more that when Stiles got Derek to the location or event and did his best wingmanning, Derek was sort of... hopeless.
Stiles was practically lining up suitors left and right! A librarian who read the same things Derek did, a bartender who went running for fun, and even an omega drifter passing through that Derek wouldn't have to ease into the idea of werewolves! All were eventually turned away because Derek couldn't string more than three sentences together to keep them around, the ass-end of a conversationalist.
No wonder Derek's only relationships lasting longer than a five-minute conversation involved ulterior motives and ritualistic sacrifice.
Immediately after Stiles has that thought, he feels bad, even if it's true.
Stiles has been on the Earthly plain for four and a half weeks, and it's been two weeks since Derek finally caved and let Stiles, more or less, have a go at his love life.
What does Stiles have to show for it? Nothing!
Or, he supposes, when he looks at the facts through a less frustrated lens, not exactly nothing.
Each encounter leaves Stiles with a little more information about Derek than he had before. Like how even though Derek gets up early and has a crazy metabolism, he doesn't like to eat breakfast. How Derek prefers lakes to the beach, but he still lets the puppies drag him to the coast every other weekend because they like the salty air and chasing gulls as a change of pace from deer and the occasional mountain lion. Or how even though Derek's floor-to-ceiling bookshelf is stocked with Brontë and Steinbeck, Stiles has caught him on multiple occasions thoroughly engrossed in a bodice ripper.
Each tidbit that Stiles learns, he sets aside, hoping to utilize it at a later date, convincing himself that holding onto the information, obsessing over it all just a smidge, is part of the job.
If that means he has to come up with more and more outlandish justifications for why he remembers and finds it endearing that Derek can't stand when homeowners want him to install floating stairs because "they're a deathtrap waiting to happen, Stiles," or that Derek likes bubblegum toothpaste because it's what his cousins used to use, that's between himself and an increasingly amused Kira.
Stiles has been updating her daily, possibly abusing the fact that she technically has to pick up when he calls a little much, but the betas are indifferent to his bitching now, and Kira at least pretends to care. She also reminds him gently of the nearing deadline of his assignment. It makes Stiles cringe each time, chastised and disappointed in equal parts.
At first, Stiles hadn't given it much thought. He'd been sure that two months was plenty, almost too much time, then he'd been too focused on getting Derek on board that he couldn't bother caring. Now Stiles is in the middle, and it's looming over him in a way that makes his stomach heavy. Stiles, at the end of the day, isn't even worried about himself. Sure, if he fails this test, it sets him back six months, and he'll have to re-up some of his certifications, but more than that, if he fails, it's not just himself that has to deal with the fallout, not anymore.
There's one thing Stiles has learned about Derek that he almost wishes he hadn't. It had taken most of the unsuccessful outings and a few pack nights Erica had dragged him to for Stiles to clock it, and when he did, there was no putting that genie back in the bottle. Because as much as Derek generally sucked at human-to-sometimes-human interactions and was deeply uncomfortable in most social settings that put him at the center, Stiles is pretty sure the reason that Derek's unconsciously pushing away the people sent his way is that he doesn't think he deserves it.
Where Stiles has read Derek's file and seen the aftermath of each significant love in his life as accidental and tragic, Derek carries the guilt of each one like a layer of armor, and three sets are apparently more than enough to reinforce the idea that maybe, he's simply not meant to love.
Stiles thinks that's bullshit, a notion which grows in intensity every day he watches Derek with the pack or when he talks to the workers he oversees on construction sites. Hell, Stiles has seen Derek drop a whole five extra dollars in the barista's tip jar when a customer was rude, just to make up for something that wasn't his fault. If anyone deserves to have someone to take some of their burdens (and pay the much overdue attention to the glory of Derek's abs), it's Derek.
Still, knowing that and being able to deliver are two different things, and Stiles, sitting at Derek's dining room table, head pillowed in his arms as he groans lowly, is running low on steam.
Back-to-back events on the weekend look promising, a county fair and a food truck contest, but Stiles knows Derek will hate the crowds and the noise. There's a book enthusiast swap meet one town over, and Stiles is tempted to bring that up, but then he recognizes the cross streets and realizes it's in Mitchell Pack territory. Small as it is, it sounds like too much hassle. A friendly pick-up game of lacrosse piqued his interest, but then he thinks about the fact that the Betas will more or less demand to all go, and no doubt someone will end up hurt when the pack's competitive group mentality kicks in.
Stiles groans again, more of a pitiful whimper this time, and feels the start of a headache creeping behind his closed eyes. A hand, large and warm, lands on the nape of Stiles's neck before it carefully slides down and scratches lazily between his shoulder blades.
"Ugh," Stiles lets out, a sound halfway between a grouse and a moan. He arches back into the fingers he knows belong to Derek.
A week ago, he might have guessed it was Boyd with his silent kindness and the careful attention he pays to those around him, but by now, Stiles is overly familiar with the thump of Derek's boots, the smell of old leather, and the weight of his palm. And it’s not even a surprise because Derek, when he knows you’re not trying to kill him, you’re friends with his pack, and you’ve made it a goal to amuse him even at the expense of yourself (like Stiles is prone to doing), is actually not the worst when it comes to easing aches and mitigating pains.
"Rough day?" Derek's tone is amused, but Stiles can tell he's being sincere. He sighs.
"No, it's just– hey, get your hand back here," Stiles is pretty sure his hotel has switched detergents in the last few days because his back has been itching like crazy, and as much as it's a comfort to have Derek's mindless scratching it's also a physical relief he needs to combat it. "Feels like I'm looking for a needle in a stack of needle clones."
Derek's hand, which had lifted momentarily, returns to Stile's back, and Stiles fights to suppress the pleased shiver that wants to run down his spine in tandem with Derek's fingers. The other man hums then plucks Stiles' visor from the top of his head where it had slid up during Stiles' pity party. It forces Stiles' face out from the circle of his arms so he can protest visually, mouth pulling down in a frown.
"You're done for the night," Derek says, serious but not in the demanding way he gets when Stiles shoves him around because he knows Derek won't actually hurt him.
Stiles shakes his head and tries to make grabby hands for his visor even while Derek holds it away from him. He could easily grab them if it didn't threaten the loss of Derek's continually scritching fingers. As it is, Stiles wiggles and tries not to whine like a child at the injustice of the situation he's been put in.
"C'mon Derek, I'm trying to w- okay! " Stiles yelps the last word as the hand Derek has on him inches back up to his collar, and he's bodily pulled from his seat and nearly off the ground itself.
Manhandled would not be an inexact descriptor for the way Derek roughly, but still carefully so as not to knock Stiles into anything, drags him from the dining table to the living room couch and deposits him there. He follows Stiles down, and Stiles figures if Derek's going to inconvenience him, he should be free to do it right back. Immediately, once Derek's next to him, Stiles turns and kicks his legs over Derek's before going for his visor, still in Derek's grasp.
Derek looks at him, a brow raised, chin tipped down in a silent 'Really?' while keeping it out of reach.
Stiles huffs and digs his heel into Derek's thigh until Derek grabs his ankle firmly to stop him.
"You’re holding my very important equipment hostage." The visor is more than that. It's the only way Stiles has to get in contact with headquarters. It's access to mission funds. It's his safety net as much as his most valuable tool. Yet, he doesn't feel the need to try and tear it away from Derek, only feebly trying to steal it back. He knows it's safe in Derek's hands.
"Call it an incentive to stay put." Derek reasons, setting the pink glasses on the coffee table in front of them, just far enough from Stiles. He probably knows Stiles will be too comfortable, now that he's not trying to imitate a shrimp at the dining room table, to waste the effort of getting them back. Not while Derek's looking, at least.
Stiles laughs, head shaking in a quiet kind of exasperation as he relaxes deeper into the couch.
"But I was gonna get started on your dating profile," it's too easy and way too funny to see the color drain from Derek's face before he realizes that Stiles is lying. Stiles thinks it's worth getting hit with a pillow, extra werewolf strength included.
"Do it, and I'll kill you," Derek huffs and Stiles rolls his eyes.
There's one of Derek's almost hidden smiles at the corner of his lips, and it feels like a victory to have been the cause of it. Stiles would fist-pump, but before he can, Derek drags the blanket off the back of the couch and drapes it over Stiles' shoulder, tossing him the remote.
"I'm ordering pizza. Pick something to watch in the meantime."
Stiles blinks at Derek's back as he gets up to grab the pizza menu off the fridge. Isaac had put it there with a magnet when, two weeks prior, Stiles had complained about having to dig it out every time he wanted food. Something warm and comfortable rises in Stile's chest; it's been a long time since he's had someone outside of Scott, Kira, or his dad looking out for his well-being.
He and Derek eat pizza (supreme, because if Derek insisted on getting all the meat, Stiles' compromise was all the veggies be included) and watch Die Hard 2, commenting on the rehashed plot but laughing at all the parts they're supposed to. When the third one– because they'd stumbled into a marathon apparently– starts to roll the opening, Stiles feels his eyes grow heavy, fingers loosening around the half slice of crust held up to his mouth. He doesn't know when he forgot to keep eating it, but Derek seems to, snorting and shifting Stiles's calves which had ended up on his lap again.
Stiles makes a half-confused complaining sound in the back of his throat, but then goes hushed when Derek comes into view, taking the scraps from his fingers and tucking Stiles's hand beneath the blanket he's swathed in.
For a few long seconds, Derek lingers there, Stiles watching him through mostly closed eyes.
"Go to sleep Stiles," Derek says, low and soft, and Stiles hums, his eyes falling the rest of the way shut by the gentle command.
He hears Derek slip away and smiles, that warmth puffing up feather-light around his ribs for a second time that evening.
It's right on the edge of sleep, thoughts slowing down and falling neatly into a place where they usually rush and blow past one another, Stiles realizes, his heart giving a singular hard thud, that the sensation Derek's inspiring is not the same kind of comfort his closest friends and family do. This affection is greater, sharper; it makes his stomach squirm in a facsimile of distress.
It's a unique tenderness Stiles seldom feels, and it wakes him up with a lurch because... oh. Oh no.
Realizing he's caught feelings for Derek doesn't actually change Stiles' plans too much. He's a professional and loyal (sometimes to a fault if anyone asked Scott), which means knowing that he cares about Derek, that he likes Derek a lot, only adds to wanting Derek to be happy. If that includes setting him up with someone he can fall in love with, Stiles will do that because it's his job and also, now, his duty to this person he's grown overly attached to.
If anything, when Stiles wakes up from his sleep on Derek's couch the next morning, back aching and in desperate need of a scratch, Stiles is invigorated to do an even better job! He won't fail Derek. He can't.
That mentality only lasts a weekend of Stiles dragging Derek to everything he can, running the both of them ragged. Derek doesn't say anything, but Stiles can see by the end of Sunday that he's as exhausted as Stiles feels and that it's not working. It's disheartening, but even so, there's a blip of those warm fuzzies when Stiles sags against his hotel door.
Derek had dropped him off from a late-night improv comedy workshop, and when Stiles, trying hard not to pass out in the front seat, had asked, voice cautious, if Derek was upset at him, Derek's eyes had gone wide, and he'd rested his hand against Stiles' shoulder.
"No, Stiles, I'm just," it was clear Derek was searching for a word to soften the blow, "just tired. You're doing good."
And how Derek had known Stiles needed to hear that, even though it was objectively a lie, Stiles doesn't know. Maybe it was his scent, or that as much as Stiles could read Derek like the back of his hand now, Derek could read him just as easily.
Stiles makes it a point to scale back the outings after that and focuses on taking Derek out to the park for walks or the coffee shop, leaving the out-of-town trips for his days off and spending more time pouring over the kind of activities Derek would want to go on.
Stiles' planning shifts from getting Derek in front of as many people as possible to getting Derek to smile more, to relax the semi-permanent rigidity of his shoulders. Even though it means Stiles isn't accomplishing his mission, is going to be the butt-end of Jackson's jokes, Scott and Kira's pitying looks, and Lydia's barely restrained ire, it won't matter. If Stiles does even a tenth of what he needs to, there's a chance he'll leave Derek more open to the idea of love, or maybe with a new hobby. Stiles will take either outcome if he can't have the one he wants most.
When Stiles has less than five days left before he has to go back to home base with his metaphorical tail tucked between his legs, he takes one look at the three-stage agenda for the day and then at Derek and crumples up the sheet. It's a little selfish, Stiles knows, but his new plan is enough of a group setting, at least for a little while, that he doesn't feel too bad about it, and the look on Derek's face when they're two hours away from Beacon Hills and at the entrance of the Muir Woods National Monument, is worth it. The view of trees, so tall he can scarcely see the tops and lush greenery, has him a bit wonder-struck too.
The activity is a forty-minute walk around the base of the trails, a team game of identifying species of moss and flowers, and a brief history lesson about the land and the conservation efforts made to maintain it. Derek is having a blast; he doesn't express this, but Stiles can tell with the eager way he keeps drifting towards the trees and the paths they haven't gotten to walk yet that he's eager to explore. Stiles can also see that their tour guide, a young woman, probably just under thirty, is interested in him.
She's not overt about her staring, and she doesn't slack off with her talking points or in helping the other groups just to get Derek's attention. Still, with Stiles training as a C.U.P.I.D. for so long, it's left him with an almost sixth sense for sussing out attraction. She seems nice, outdoorsy, and not pushy, someone who would probably tease Derek about his taste in music or poorly hidden reading habits but not in a mean way. She looks like a secret night owl who enjoys stargazing and hot coffee.
It sours Stiles' stomach, but he swallows down the bitter taste and knocks his shoulder against Derek's, nodding in her direction as she goes around, shaking hands and thanking the other five groups for their time. Derek's eyebrows do the scrunchy thing they usually do when Stiles is being a little dumb, but Stiles only wiggles his in return, a slight smirk on his lips as he tips his head toward the woman making her way to them.
Derek looks at her, then at Stiles, then repeats, blinking like he's surprised by Stiles’ silent implication. He doesn't have a chance to say anything, though, because she's in front of them the next moment, beaming, hands in her smart-looking khaki capris. The little badge around her neck says Emmy, and Stiles feels a little bad that he'd brushed her off so completely he couldn't remember it without checking, knowing she'd introduced herself before.
"You guys gonna stick around and hike the trails?"
Stiles can see she's curious and wants to know if Derek will be lingering, waiting for an opening but not trying to be so forthright. It's a good move, perfect for someone who doesn't do well with direct flirtation like Derek.
"We were planning on it," Derek replies after Stiles nudges him as subtly as he can in the ribs. Emmy seems pleased by the answer if her smile is anything to go by.
"The trail off on the right is probably my favorite. A bit for the more advanced crowd since it's on a decent incline, but you can't beat the view at the top, that's for sure." Her eyes don't leave Derek at all, and Stiles considers taking a few steps away. It's clear she's anticipating for Derek to catch on, to ask her questions, or maybe see if she'll join him. Stiles nearly facepalms when he doesn't.
"We'll keep that in mind, thanks." He nods and doesn't say anything else.
Stiles knows that Derek can tell she's interested, knows that he'd have to notice whatever scents she was unintentionally giving off, so he's flummoxed when that's it.
It's awkward for a moment, Stiles ready to blurt anything out to get Derek's ass in gear, to jump on a golden opportunity in the making, but he doesn't get the chance. He watches Emmy's shoulders slump, her smile going a bit embarrassed. Stiles can't tell if it's at herself or Derek's total ineptitude.
"Well, you two stay safe and have a good rest of your time on the trails." Then she's gone with another tip of her head. When she's entirely out of sight, Stiles whips around and slaps Derek's shoulder, his hand immediately throbbing. It's not nearly as satisfying knowing the smack probably felt like an annoying breeze to the werewolf and nothing more significant.
"Dude, what the hell? " Stiles hadn't even really planned to find potential matches for Derek here, yet one had flounced right up to them, no interference from Stiles necessary!
"What?" Derek scowls, and god, he's being obtuse. Stiles doesn't get to tell him that to his face, however, since when he opens his mouth Derek is already stalking toward an opening in the trees to the left, leaving Stiles to scramble after him.
"Geez, you're hopeless," Stiles mutters. When he remembers that Derek can hear him even at a whisper, he blanches and tries to correct, "I mean not like, hopeless hopeless, just, challenged?" He winces. He wants Derek to stay encouraged, and with Stiles' deadline coming up and no future love of Derek's life on the horizon, he's not sure he's going to manage.
Derek shakes his head but slows enough that they're shoulder to shoulder and bumps them together. From the corner of Stiles' eyes, he sees the faintest upturn to Derek's lips and knows his terminal foot-in-mouth disease hasn't caused any real harm this time.
They walk silently for a little while, and Stiles is grateful for Derek's choice of the less intense path. He's not unfit by any means; training and scaling buildings and, brief as it was, running away from Alpha werewolves had the advantage of keeping him in shape, but it'll probably take a few hours to complete the circuit. He's been feeling lethargic from swapping his badass field agent moves for scrolling groupons.
Eventually, because it's him and silence truly is Stiles' worst enemy, he can't help but ask, "So what was wrong with Emmy?"
"Who?"
Stiles's step falters as he comes up short, and the force of it sends him pinwheeling until Derek fists a hand into the side of his jacket and makes sure he doesn't faceplant into what looks suspiciously like poison oak. He snaps his head to Derek, incredulous, and tries not to focus on the solid grip on his flank.
"Our guide? The girl who was all but begging you to invite her to walk the advanced trail with you?" Stiles feels slightly like he's been slapped because Derek looks genuinely confused. Like he really doesn't remember the sporty, nice-looking girl who was clearly attracted to Derek had spoken to them, and that's just– "Oh man, you are hopeless."
Derek rolls his eyes hard with a scoff and lets Stiles go, doing a poor job hiding a smirk when Stiles almost stumbles again. The tops of his cheekbones color, though, so Stiles knows he's at least a little ashamed at having missed the blatant interest where Stiles hadn't. They start walking again.
"Seriously," Stiles sighs, "she would have been down. We can probably go back and say I couldn't cut the kiddie trail, and you'd be happy for her to show you around." He hates the idea of it, his stomach rolling with jealousy, but he powers through with a wide, encouraging smile.
Derek looks at him, and the bastard has the audacity to shrug. Stiles groans in frustration, obnoxiously loud, because he knows it will hurt Derek's ears. He stops to stab an accusatory finger at Derek's chest.
"Do you enjoy making me suffer? I didn't even have to, like, step on anyone's toes or spill pasta sauce all over myself as an excuse to get away this time! She didn't even look twice at me, and you just don't even wanna try?" Stiles doesn't want to be angry, but a spark of it wells up beneath all the other twisty feelings he wishes weren’t there. It's not even that Derek's been a bad sport about everything. He humors Stiles' planning and events and has conversations he clearly doesn't want to. Stiles will readily say that even if it's badly done, it is Derek's best attempt. But that doesn't mean it doesn't feel like pulling teeth.
When Stiles meets Derek's eyes, he deflates. There's a slant to his brow and a downward curve to his mouth that Stiles has learned doesn't mean anger.
"Sorry," Derek offers, tight and uncomfortable. It's too much like a kicked puppy, and Stiles is only so strong. He tips his head back to look at the canopy of lush green and heaves a heavy breath. He flattens the finger still poking at Derek to rest his palm on the other man's chest, patting it twice.
"Don't sweat it, Derek." Stiles can't keep the wistfulness from his tone, but he starts down the path again. "Probably just means I'm not the C.U.P.I.D. for the job, is all!" He tries to be cheerful when he says it because Derek can't see his face while he's two paces ahead, and it might be enough to convince him that Stiles is okay with that fact, seeing as he's living proof it's not that Derek's unlovable, Stiles is just not cut out for this mission.
Stiles hooks a turn in the path that promises a decent overlook through a low cropping of branches and pretends he can't feel Derek's weighted gaze on his back.
It's impossible to keep himself from speaking to try and reassure. At the end of the day, Stiles has made promises, and it's looking like he won't be able to keep them.
"But hey, you're not going to have to worry about that soon anyway, so– oh wow, this view is good." Stiles breaks off as his thought derails, pushing through the rest of the trees and into a clearing large enough for maybe four people.
A flat slab of extending rock over a small ravine offers a closer look into the deeper preserve closed off to hikers. A well-maintained wooden barrier blocks its edges, and three different plaques are screwed into its base, no doubt filled with information about the wildlife and its history. The scenery is still all greens and browns with slanting rays of midday sunlight, but it's almost secluded given the high tourist foot traffic, a peaceful hush allowed by the coverage at the entrance.
Stiles turns to look at Derek, to point out how neat it is, but the expression of confusion furrowing the other's eyebrows has Stiles mirroring him.
"What?" He asks when the silence stretches, and Derek continues to stare.
"What do you mean I'm not going to have to worry about it soon." Derek finally says, his jaw looking strained as he somehow bores his eyes even harder into Stiles'.
It makes Stiles feel examined, pinned beneath Derek though they aren't touching, and he stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets to stop them from waving around to dispel the jitters working under his skin. He shrugs and turns his head away, willing the peaceful sway of the thinner trees to give him some of their calm.
"Oh, uh, well–" Stiles scuffs his boot against the stone. He was going to tell Derek; he had to. It would have been rude to just poof out of his life after almost two months of near-daily communication, but it doesn't stop Stiles's stomach from trying to eat itself. He didn't want to admit failure, but what else was this? "My assignment's got a deadline, and it's comin' up. They'll call me back to H.Q. So you won't be dealing with my constant field trips or the bad dance moves or having me interrupt super important werewolf training, even though I stand by my argument that throwing the pack around likes sacks of potatoes isn't even training –" Stiles takes in a breath, realizing only then that his shoulders are bunching hard. The buzz in his veins is morphing into an itch, and he's not breathing all that well, lungs feeling like they're collapsing.
It's sinking in, really, really sinking in now. Stiles isn't going to get to bring Derek his coffee in the morning, once a bribe and now a habit, he won't get to cheer on Issac and Erica when they try to tackle Derek to varying levels of success, and there won't be any more falling asleep at Derek's dining table and finding himself on the couch or with his jacket over his shoulders.
Still, this isn't about him. It's about making sure Derek knows that no one is giving up and that Stiles doesn't want to. The smile he adopts is wobbly. He attempts to ignore the frustrating pressure behind his eyes.
"But hey! They're probably gonna assign you a real agent with full credentials who's gonna kill it. And don't even worry about them trying to shoot you cause the report I'm going to have to write will say right at the top, 'Do Not Try to Shoot! You Will Miss!' All big letters and everything." Stiles risks spastic arms to punctate his assurance with appropriately jazzy hands.
Derek is still staring at him when Stiles manages to face him again, but there's something slack in his expression, a soft, sad openness to his eyes like he's... surprised. Like he hadn't realized that there was an expiration date to Stiles hanging around, and now that he's being confronted about it, he's–
"You're leaving?" Derek's voice borders on timid, and Stiles didn't know it could sound like that.
Derek steps forward and reaches to cross the small distance between them like he's going to take Stiles's hand. He looks up from where his fingers are almost about to brush Stiles's own, and Stiles is paralyzed by the heartbreak in his hazel eyes.
But then their hands touch, just faintly, and the itch that Stiles had thought was a reaction to the anxiety bubbling within him turns into a full-on burning, like ants biting from the tops of his shoulders down, and he springs into motion, shouting in surprised pain. Derek staggers away from him, and Stiles is distantly grateful because he would have broken a flailing elbow on his jaw if Derek hadn't, entirely uncoordinated as he tries to tear his uniform jacket off of himself.
"Stiles-" Derek's voice is pitched high in startled concern, but Stiles loses track when he finally manages to get his outer layer off, jumping around like that might dilute the intense sensation spreading from the middle of his back down.
"Fuck. Fuck, fuck, shitting fuck! " Stiles tries reaching behind himself, wiggling and panting hard. His skin is on fire.
Twisting around, dizzy with pain and fear, it's no surprise Stiles' knees give out on him, and he goes tumbling to the ground, saved only by Derek lurching forward and catching him by the elbows, guiding the both of them to kneeling as gently as he can manage. It's for the best because it allows Stiles to throw his weight onto Derek and curve his spine as something pushes from inside. He bites on the leather of Derek's jacket and clenches his fists against Derek's chest, the blood rushing in his ears so loud he only catches every other increasingly panicked call of his name.
Something rips, and Stiles has no idea what it is because all at once, as the audible tearing sound pulls his focus, it brings with it a sense of euphoric relief, the pain of before melting as if soothed.
Because nothing is stealing his attention anymore, Stiles is able to take stock of whatever the hell that was, and he realizes there's something heavy pulling on his shoulders. Since he can feel Derek's hands still curled around his arms, he sits back, blinking away the remainder of the tears he hadn't known he'd been shedding.
The first thing Stiles sees is Derek and the awed expression on his face as he looks somewhere behind Stiles. Then, when Stiles tries to find out what he's seeing by turning his head, he catches a blur of white that wasn't there before, and it spooks him. He startles hard because, apparently, the weight tugging him down is a pair of wings. They snap open in response to his surprise, and it sends Stiles careening backwards. Derek stops him from tipping over entirely, but only just.
Understanding comes a moment later, and Stiles, unable to look away when Derek's gaze drifts back to him, slaps around for his previously discarded jacket. He gets a hand in his pocket and around his visor.
"Are those-" Derek ignores Stiles' movements in exchange for looking at the two new limbs protruding from his back, and Stiles doesn't blame him. He thinks it's the shock from the transformation, what he believes might have caused it, but he's got a one-track mind and needs to know if what just happened really did.
"Wings, yeah, I gotta-" He gets the visor on and fumbles for the switch at the side. It powers up, and Stiles stares, breathing impossible as he waits for the sensors to kick on and scan Derek's face. His held breath leaves him in a single, hard woosh.
Assignment Completed: Derek Hale has Reached Threshold Levels of Love
Stiles, wings flared out, puffing and dropping new feathers, can't stop a beaming grin from splitting his face. Derek, still obviously confused about what was happening but seemingly realizing that Stiles is fine, maybe better than fine, matches him far more tentatively.
As Stiles slides his hands up, cupping them around Derek's stubbled jaw, there's only one thought going through his head as he pulls the werewolf in.
Lydia is going to kill him.
Lydia, surprisingly, does not kill him. Oh, she's angry, fuming even, her cheeks making a valiant effort to match her perfect strawberry curls. Still, when Stiles is recalled to HQ, Derek gripping him tightly so he doesn't get lost in the cross-dimensional shift, she doesn't level a weapon at him that isn't her dagger eyes.
"You weren't supposed to make him fall in love with you, Stiles."
That, Stiles admits with a sheepish smile, is true, but he's also quick to point out that technically it doesn't say anywhere that it doesn't count. Because Stiles had checked after the fact, scrolling the handbook with his visor and learning on the fly how to react his wings and then annoying Derek the entire way back to Beacon Hills by materializing and dematerializing them every few seconds to see how fast he could.
Much like the human loop-hole Stiles had exploited (and hadn't the admission of that made a vein pop on Lydia's temple), nothing in the rule book says that Derek's level of love for him isn't valid. However, Stiles does get a lecture on how the reason for no direct contact with assignments is to prevent things like this from happening in the first place.
When all is said and done, though, it's still a hair's breadth above board, and Stiles is officially, no recertification needed, a full-fledged C.U.P.I.D.
Much to Lydia's obvious pleasure, it brings with it a one-way ticket to the Earth office and, to Stiles' dismay, a mountain of paperwork.
He walks away, all in all, satisfied, hand in hand with Derek, and fighting back a swell of pride when, after they're dismissed, he catches the tale-end of Lydia muttering about how they're going to have to 'Re-write the whole goddamn book' just because of little 'ol him.
Stiles's fancy new feathers give him the clearance to move between plains, so he doesn't have to do much more than wrap his arms around Derek and give him a cheeky little "Hold on, big guy" before they're blinking out of the lobby of Headquarters and into Derek's empty house.
Not bothering to back away, in fact, he makes the circle of his arms thrown over Derek's shoulders tighter, Stiles pulls them chest to chest and smiles at the soft exasperation he's met with.
"So, what happens now?" Derek asks, his hands running gently up and down Stiles' flank, keeping Stiles snug against him.
"Mmm, right now?" Stiles waggles his eyebrows and delights when it makes Derek snort. He tips forward and presses a kiss to the underside of Derek's jaw, then follows it up with another to the scruff on his cheek. "Right now, we're going to make use of the fact that the puppies aren't here, and after that," he grins, wicked and teasing, "I'm going to take you on a date."
Derek rolls his eyes, but his hands slide to Stiles' thighs, lifting him easily from the ground.
"No more dates," he gruffs, and when Stiles tries to argue and point out that, really, anything done for the sake of accomplishing his mission should not be counted, Derek doesn't let him. He kisses the words right out of Stiles' mouth, and Stiles figures, yeah, maybe they can take a break from outings for a while.
Stiles thinks he and Derek will have plenty of time to work it out.