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He’s dreaming. At least, he’s pretty sure he is. It’s the only reasonable explanation, Stiles decides, as he watches Derek close the distance between them. His footsteps are practically silent despite the crunchy branches and leaves carpeting the forest floor.
“Stiles.” His voice is soft. Concerned even? And that’s why Stiles is sure he’s dreaming.
Stiles blinks wide eyes at him, reaching his hand toward the werewolf, realizing in the moment that he’s mirroring Derek’s actions. Warm, sure fingers wrap securely around his forearm, steadying him. Oh, he’d totally been swaying on his feet hadn’t he?
“Stiles?” Derek tugs on him a little and Stiles stumbles forward into a muscled chest. His breath hitches and stops, catching in his throat and he cranes his neck back as far as it can go. A move he almost instantly regrets because his gaze collides with Derek’s and under the filtered moonlight, Derek’s eyes are a beautiful hazel-gray. That hitched breath? Yeah, maybe not coming back any time soon.
“Hi,” Stiles squeaks as Derek’s second hand catches his other arm, holding him steady while Stiles’ legs do their best to hold his weight up properly. They’ll get the hang of it again. Probably.
Derek shifts one hand to cup Stiles’ elbow his own forearm under Stiles’ to better support his weight and reaches up with the other hand to pull something from his brown hair. Stiles goes cross-eyed when Derek holds up a white trumpet-shaped bloom in his fingers.
“Whazzat?” Stiles asks, reaching up clumsily to take the flower, but instead his hand just catches around Derek’s and he freezes. Derek raises his brows at him, his eyes darting to their clasped hands and back up to Stiles’ face.
“Are you okay?”
Stiles means to say: yep, totally fine, why do you ask? He really does. But what comes out of his mouth instead is, “I think I love you.”
Derek’s eyes widen and he jerks his hands back. Without the support Stiles topples over and he hits the ground with a thump.
He startles awake, his face pressed to carpet, panting heavy breaths as his heart races in his chest. It takes awhile for it to slow as his mind plays the confession over and over: I think I love you, I think I love you, I think I love you….
When he can breathe somewhat normally again, Stiles reaches for his phone to check the time--0438--and notices the glass of water on the nightstand next to where his phone has been plugged into a charger. He climbs back up onto his bed and chugs the entire thing before collapsing back under his covers. He must fall asleep quickly after that because the next thing he knows, sunlight is pouring in through the window.
And that’s when the memory of the dream resurfaces and his heart pounds.
Oh my god, what had he even eaten to trigger a dream like that? Hadn’t it been spaghetti night? And while he attempts to recall the details of the previous evening, he realizes that maybe...just maybe...it hadn’t been a dream after all.
He nearly falls out of bed—again—when he fumbles to dial Scott. “Come on, pick up, pick up!”
“Stiles? Are you okay? How are you feeling?” Are Scott’s first words when he answers.
They do not provide Stiles any sort of comfort. “Please tell me we weren’t actually out in the preserve last night and that I didn’t confess any sort of love for Derek.”
“Uhhhh, what?” Is Scott’s articulate response. “I mean, I can’t say we weren’t in the preserve because we were. Do you not remember? Do we need to go see Deaton?”
“Scott! The love confession!”
“What love confession?”
“The one I made for Derek!”
“You confessed love for Derek?”
Stiles squawks indignantly. “What? No! At least, I don’t think I did. That’s why I’m asking you!”
“Why would you confess love for Derek?” Scott counters.
Stiles groans and pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Time for a different tactic. “Okay forget that. What the hell happened last night and why do I feel like I’m hungover?”
Stiles can practically hear Scott’s sympathetic wince. “Deaton said you’d probably feel like that. Okay so, you’re a bit foggy then?”
“Only a lot. Maybe start with the beginning. I remember spaghetti and that’s about it.”
Scott huffs a breath and then launches into an explanation; his meeting up with Derek and Scott and then hiking through the preserve. Scott tells him that Stiles had almost stumbled into a fairy ring, marked not by mushrooms as per the usual, but just unnaturally darkened grass. Easy to miss unless actively looking for. Which Derek had been. He’d shouted a warning, which had worked for Scott but Stiles had been too close. Derek had caught the back of his shirt and yanked him away.
Stiles had fumbled, stumbled, and sprawled through a thicket with a yelp. When he hadn’t returned Derek and Scott followed after, finding an incline on the other side and Stiles sprawled on the ground among the roots of a tree overflowing with flowers and several of those blooms peppering his clothing.
That’s when Stiles realizes that his dream had sorta been a memory, minus the confession.
“So you’re telling me I really didn’t tell Derek I thought I loved him.” Stiles states again, for the record. Because he has to make sure.
“You really didn’t dude. Why do you keep asking that?”
Stiles drags a hand across his face. “Weird dreams. Must be the creepy fae flowers. Did Deaton say anything about lingering affects?”
“Just the headache. Grogginess. Do you need to go see him? Do you want me to come get you? I’ll come get you.”
“No no, it’s fine. I’m fine!” Stiles reassures him. And with a promise that he’ll update him should that change, Stiles hangs up the phone.
But Stiles doesn’t feel entirely fine. Or rather, he’s not convinced he’s fine. He needs a head-scan or something, because for some reason he genuinely feels like he has...feelings for Derek. Big ones. Except...he hadn’t had those feelings yesterday. He picks up his phone again, stares at it for a moment, hesitates, and then shoots off the text before he can change his mind.
~So, did you recognize the fae flowers last night?
Derek’s responding text is quick enough that Stiles almost drops his phone in surprise when it blips.
- Why.
~Because.
If Derek is going to be difficult well then two could play at that game.
- What did you do? Do not go back there.
~ Nothing! And Duh. Look, do you know what it’s called or not? You know. For research.
Stiles doesn’t get an answer right away, and he wonders if it’s because Derek is staring at the phone screen, trying to decide if he should answer or not. Or if he just got distracted with something else. But a few minutes later, his phone pings a response:
- Angel’s Trumpet. But more.
Stiles’ subconscious mocks the name of the plant (devil’s trumpet more like it) and zeroes in on the ‘more’--realizes he doesn’t want to inquire right now and chalks the ‘more’ up to fae side effects. Instead he abandons the phone in favor of his laptop and begins researching. Everything he finds is falling strictly under the Gardening department and should he ever want to plant the stuff he now knows:
The flowers come in shades of white, pink, orange, red, or yellow and can reach up to 30 centimeters long. They’re best grown in a pot so they can be brought inside, can reach up to three meters high (the one from last night had been bigger he remembers) and apparently the flowers smell pretty good. He also finds that pretty much every part of the plant is poisonous when ingested, which according to Scott, he hadn’t actually done.
So it seems that right now, his issue is purely magical and fae-driven. And as far as he’s concerned, there would be no leaving this alone hoping it wore off. There would be no risking the side affects lingering, which means to undo it he probably needs a sample. And if the plant was able to put him on his ass the way it had, perhaps the stuff could become beneficial for the pack in the future.
Stiles grabs his keys.
***
Stiles is actually caught off guard when Derek’s car rolls up next to his before he can even unbuckle his seat-belt. He’s not, however, surprised to find Derek already scowling at him from where he’s currently leaning a hip against the toyota with crossed arms as he climbs out of the jeep.
The scowl deepens when Stiles’ eyes meet his. “What?” He squawks indignantly. “I told you. Research.”
“That’s what Google is for,” Derek counters, pushing off the hood of his car and following after Stiles when he starts heading into the preserve. “Which can be accessed from the comfort of your own bedroom. Or a smartphone. From anywhere not near the faerie circle.”
“Obviously.” Stiles doesn’t bother pointing out that he had obviously started with Google; it went without saying. He’d been team researcher for years. And he kicked ass at it. But there had only been so much he could find and a sample was required for further analysis. And cures. “Why are you here Derek?” Stiles asks, aiming for nonchalant and maybe even a little challenging. He’s not sure if he has succeeded.
Derek shoots him a look, Stiles returns it, and surprisingly enough Derek talks first. “You’re serious?”
Stiles answers with a one shouldered shrug.
“All right,” Derek says like he’s gearing up for a fight. Maybe he thinks he is. “You know, and I know, that no amount of discouragement would have prevented you from walking your trouble-magnet ass through the preserve to try and find that tree, ergo walking straight into additional trouble. So. It’s either saving your idiot ass now via prevention, or saving your idiot ass after the fact, which would probably be a hell of a lot messier and even more of a headache. It wasn’t actually a difficult decision.”
Stiles blinks at him, his mouth parting slightly. Derek had talked about his ass. He’d thought about his safety, and he’d used ergo in a sentence without a second thought. And it was sexy. “I think I l--,” Stiles slaps a hand over his mouth. Had he seriously been about to say what he thought he’d been about to say?
“Stiles?” Derek’s eyes dart down to Stiles’ chest where his heart is a thundering stampede beneath his rib-cage.
Stiles peels his fingers away from his mouth and squeaks, “I gotta go.” He makes an abrupt one-eighty and starts marching himself back to the jeep. Meanwhile he panics. Internally of course, because any sort of outward rant would be overheard by the stupid werewolf Stiles keeps trying to confess love for.
He stops dead. Oh god, he loves Derek doesn’t he? Except...it’s not really a surprise right? Not totally. The crush was old news, but when had undeniably attractive and the appreciation of a dry but amazing sense of humor turned into love? And why the hell was he seemingly losing his brain to mouth filter? So lost in his racing thoughts he doesn’t realize Derek has followed after him until a firm hand drops on his shoulder and gives him a gentle shake. “Stiles!”
“Oh my god, what?” Stiles snaps. Derek looks a little taken aback and he immediately yanks his hand away, but the expression melts so quickly into a scowl Stiles isn’t entirely sure it was there at all.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“A lot,” Stiles says on a sigh. The first being this sudden love for a certain sourwolf. And then he has another epiphany. “I need to talk to Deaton.”
Derek’s lips part, like he wants to say something, except no words come out.
Stiles steps around him, muttering to himself as he does, “Yep, Deaton. Wonderful plan, maybe he can explain what the hell is going on.”
“What the hell is going on?” Derek asks, falling into step with him. “Did you brain yourself this morning falling out of bed?”
“Probably. Hopefully.”
Derek blinks at that. And seriously, the idea—accurate or no—of Derek not liking the concept of Stiles welcoming injury to his person should not be giving him the warm fuzzies. Or butterflies in his stomach. But it does. Because he loves him. Or rather whatever mojo the fairy flowers had is making him think he does. Which means there must be a cure. And he needs to get it, fast. Because the last thing Derek needs is Stiles’ flower power feelings all over him.
“You probably should see Deaton.”
“Already a done deal big guy, don’t you worry your pretty little head.”
“Should you be driving?”
“Drove here didn’t I?” Stiles points out. “If you’re so worried, you’re welcome to follow behind. But I’m driving myself.”
To Stiles’ genuine surprise, Derek does follow Stiles to the veterinarian's office. Stiles leans forward to turn on his radio in case any more confessions or uncontrolled verbiage slips out of his mouth. He’s never actually tested the hearing range of werewolves while driving like this (he files away that idea immediately. There will be walkie-talkies and snacks), but he’s not going to risk anything right now.
Derek is parking just as Stiles steps out of his car and so he walks over and mimes rolling the window down. When Derek does, Stiles leans in on his forearms. “Do you want to hold my hand while I go inside too?”
Derek pins him with a cold glare and Stiles feels like an ass. “Sorry. Just, doctor patient privilege okay? I can call Scott if you’re that worried. Are you worried?” He adds with a teasing lilt.
The glare deepens, but the frigidity is gone. “Call Scott.”
Stiles’ heart flutters into his throat. Derek is worried? “I think I--” Stiles intentionally breaks out into a forced coughing fit. “Yep. Calling!” He says, throws another cough in there and determinedly ignores the perplexed look Derek is now regarding him with. Like he genuinely thinks Stiles has lost it. Stiles thinks the werewolf might be right as he makes a show of lifting his phone to his ear. “Bye Derek!” And he races inside.
Deaton is giving shots to a kitten when Stiles meanders in and he can literally feel the moment his own face melts when his eyes land on the fuzzball.
“Stiles,” Deaton greets, running rewarding fingers down the kitten’s spine while disposing of the needle appropriately.
“Can I?” Stiles requests, holding out eager hands. The druid gives him a considering look, must recognize Stiles’ desire for an emotional support animal moment, and gently deposits the feline into the crook of his arm.
“Would I be correct in assuming your presence here has something to do with last night’s events?”
Stiles coos at the kitten, rubs his cheek across the top of its head and grunts the affirmative. “Yeah. I think I’m drugged.”
“Pardon?”
“Scott said I’d feel groggy,” Stiles continues, “which I did. But there are other lingering side effects. Well. One.”
Deaton doesn’t say anything, but the look on his face is of partial patience and partial urging Stiles to get to the point. But like many, he knows that sometimes one just has to let Stiles talk.
“Okay. Right. So. Suddenly I feel like I have feelings. Romantic ones. For um...Derek. And also lack the motor control to like...not try and constantly confess my love? To him?”
Deaton blinks at him, his face betraying nothing. “There is a lot to unravel there, Stiles.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I’d rather you tell me actually. Perhaps start at the beginning? And take a seat while I look you over again.” Deaton holds his hands out for the kitten, but Stiles angles his body, curling protectively over the animal while clutching her gently to his chest. Deaton lets him keep her and gestures to a chair, silently grateful that today’s appointments are drop off only.
“I don’t remember much of last night,” Stiles confesses, scratching absentmindedly under the kitten’s chin. He smiles, just barely, at the clumsy purrs the action awards him. “I called Scott and he filled me in on the bulk of it. I did some research on the flower; didn’t find much of anything outside of gardening tips. However; twice now, and there’s no way of saying this without it sounding awkward, I’ve almost told Derek that I think I love him. Like the words fly out of my mouth before I can filter them.”
The first look that steals across Deaton’s face is fleeting before he wrangles it under control, but Stiles catches it anyway: you filter your words? Why yes Doc, there’s actually quite a bit of filtering before he opens his mouth thank you.
The second look though, is lingering and thoughtful. Deaton takes a breath before asking, “Where were you when these exchanges occurred?”
“Uhh, like physically?”
“Anything you can recall. Where you were, what led up to these...confessions.”
Stiles frowns, feeling like he’s being subtly mocked somehow. He has bigger issues though. “Well first I dreamed that I told him. Under the flower tree. The first actual one though, we were about to head into the preserve. You see, I was going to get one of the flowers and Derek was there berating me about it, calling me an idiot.” It’s here that Stiles swears he hears a hint of a snort from the druid, but he presses on, “And then the second time was just outside in the parking lot. He followed me here and I dunno, seemed concerned I guess?”
Deaton’s chin dips as he processes the info. “Nothing sounds particularly alarming from what you’ve told me.”
“I’m alarmed!” Stiles quips.
“Out of the ordinary,” Deaton revises. “Aside from your uncontrollable urges to confess,” he adds before Stiles can object again. “I do believe your instincts for a sample were accurate. Though I would advise against going alone this time.”
“I wasn’t alone,” Stiles grumbles.
“And that would be because of Derek’s admirable foresight,” Deaton says. He holds his hands out for the kitten and this time Stiles surrenders her, if a bit reluctantly. “Bring a sample to me after hours and perhaps take a few photos of the area. Thorough ones.”
“You have an idea of what’s going on here?”
“Perhaps.”
Stiles huffs out an impatient breath through his nose, but stands to head out to do just that.
“And Stiles?” Stiles pauses in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder as Deaton places the kitten into one of the vet kennels along the wall. “Remember not to go alone. Just in case.”
“Yeah Doc, got it.” When Stiles steps outside he finds Scott sitting on the curb waiting for him.
“All good?” Scott asks, twisting around to look up at him.
“What are you doing here?” Stiles says instead.
Scott stands, brushing off the back of his jeans before shoving his hands almost sheepishly into his pockets. Suspicious… “Derek called me.”
Stiles blinks. “He called you?”
“Well, texted.” Scott takes his phone out so Stiles can read the message thread.
Stiles went to Deaton’s.
“And that’s all it took for you to come?” Stiles asks.
“Uh, yeah dude. You were unconscious last night and kinda weird this morning. Of course I’d come check on you. Everything okay?”
Stiles sighs and rakes frustrated fingers through his hair. “It’s a long story. How about I tell you on the way to the flower tree.”
Scott tilts his head in confusion. It’s ridiculously adorable. “The flower tree? As in the flower tree?”
“You didn’t hear when Deaton and I were talking?” Stiles inquires, assuming Scott had gotten here pretty quick. He turns to look for his bike, but minus his own jeep the parking lot his empty. “Did you run here?”
Scott shrugs a shoulder. “Couldn’t find my keys quick enough.”
“Under your bed last I saw.”
“Ah. But yeah, no, I didn’t hear.” Scott pulls earbuds out of his pocket by way of explanation. “Doctor patient privilege and all that.”
Stiles slings an arm around Scott’s shoulders and pulls him in. “You’re literally the best bro that ever bro’d. You know that?”
Scott mirrors the gesture and gives Stiles’ shoulder a squeeze. “To the tree?”
Stiles steers them to the jeep.
* * *
Derek is already at the edge of the faerie circle when Scott and Stiles arrive. Stiles stumbles a step at the sight: Derek’s broad back on perfect display what with his arms crossed over his chest in front of him.
Stop it Stiles!
“Why are you here?” Scott asks, saving Stiles from asking that very question. For the second time that day actually. Apparently today was a day where he’d just be running into Derek a lot. Despite wanting the biggest distance ever to avoid any verbal mess ups.
Derek turns his head slightly to be heard better when he answers, but keeps his attention on the circle. “Figured you two could use the backup in case there were any repeats of last night.”
“How’d you know we’d be back here?” Stiles asks, pulling out his phone and snapping some photos of the area as promised. While not of the tree itself, it was possible Deaton might want to see the circle. And he’d rather have the photos and not need them than need them and not have them.
“Knew you would,” Derek answers, finally turning around and slowly unfolding his arms. “You can’t leave anything alone. But at least this time you didn’t come on your own.” He nods a greeting at Scott.
Stiles rolls his eyes and does nothing to hide the action. Let Derek know what he thinks of that comment. Let them all know! “What is this, babysit Stiles day?”
“Isn’t that every day?” Derek counters.
Stiles is actually a touch offended at that comment. He is a strong independent human, he doesn’t need no werewolf. Liar his subconscious internally shouts, Liarrrrr.
Finally he says, “well you’re fired. You’re a horrible babysitter. Ten out of ten do not recommend.”
Derek scowls at him.
“What?” Stiles replies, “I literally got flower drugged on your watch.”
“What about Scott then?” Derek challenges.
“You were closer,” Scott immediately accuses in his own defense. “And out of all of us, Stiles is best babysitter.”
“Damn straight.” Stiles holds out a fist without looking as he snaps a final photo with his other hand and is incredibly satisfied when Scott’s fist bumps his in solidarity. He turns toward the thicket he remembers being told about earlier that morning. “This the way to the tree?”
“Well I’d prefer to go around,” Scott shrugs. “I guess you could go through it if you want, but you’ll run the risk of falling into it again.”
Stiles huffs a breath. “Fine, you lead.”
And Scott does. Stiles follows after him and he feels a subtle shiver run down his spine when Derek brings up the rear. When they reach the tree, Stiles is actually a tiny bit underwhelmed. It looks extremely normal, aside from the fact that he knows this particular species of plant should not be so massive.
Stiles fishes a Ziploc bag out of his pocket. “All right let’s get this over with,” but before he can even step forward a hand drops on his shoulder and pulls him back.
“Hold it.” Derek’s hand drops back to his side after Stiles flails back and whirls on him.
“What. Now?” He hisses.
“As you mentioned earlier, you’ve already been doped up on these once,” the werewolf points out with a frown, “and you don’t seem to have fully shaken the affects.”
Stiles opens his mouth to object; he is just fine thank you very much, but Derek seems to anticipate a snarky response and presses on quickly. “I don’t think you should get any closer.” Derek looks to Scott for support.
Scott hesitates, like he’s momentarily thrown that Derek is looking to him. But then his eyes sweep to Stiles before returning to the older man. “He’s right Stiles. Who knows what could happen.”
“I know how to extract evidence!” Stiles points out. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” Derek parrots sarcastically, but he holds out an expectant hand for the bag anyway.
Stiles gapes at him indignantly and it’s his turn for his eyes to play tennis, bouncing back and forth between the two werewolves. However, Scott and Derek remain in a rare moment of unity and then Scott’s gaze starts taking on that puppy quality. The one he knows Stiles can never resist when used against him.
“Okay. Okay. Fine.” Stiles slaps the bag into Derek’s palm and shoves his hands into his pockets with a huff. The corner of Derek’s mouth quirks upwards with a hint of what Stiles interprets as victory. “I hope you choke on it.”
Lie. Such a lie.
Derek probably knows it’s a lie too, if he’s even paying attention. But Derek doesn’t address the lie directly. Instead he says condescendingly, “I’m not collecting a sample with my mouth Stiles.”
Oh god…Stiles resists a whimper and feels the heat rushing to his face—and other places—at the mental image the comment conjures. “Maybe you should,” he blurts.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Guys,” Scott interrupts, “can we just get the thing and go? Faerie circles and plants kind of weird me out.”
“You say that like you’re the one that got roofied,” Stiles replies.
“No, but I got to watch you pass out,” Scott snaps back.
That shuts Stiles up. A few heartbeats pass until he lets out a heavy breath through his nose. “Sorry…”
Scott nudges his shoulder with his own in forgiveness.
Stiles watches Derek reach up toward a hanging blossom and a thought strikes. “Wait!” Derek freezes as Stiles continues, “what if these things have a stronger effect on werewolves? Did you guys think about that? You could be ten times more sensitive to this stuff.”
With an impatient breath, Derek folds the Ziplock bag inside out, maneuvers his hand inside of it, and uses it as a barrier between the skin of his hand and the bloom as he plucks it from the tree. He gives Stiles a pointed look as he folds the bag right side out again and seals it, never breaking eye contact. “You’re not the only one who knows how to collect evidence.”
Stiles breaks the stare-down first, letting his gaze drop pointedly to the bag in Derek’s hands but the werewolf doesn’t move to hand it over and Stiles chooses not to push it. For now. Instead he turns on his heel and starts hiking back up the incline to the jeep.
“Here,” Derek says once they’re back with the cars. He presses the bag into Stiles’ hand. “If Deaton needs another, do not go alone.”
Stiles doesn’t say anything and opens the door of the jeep to put the bag in the back, leaving the passenger seat open for Scott. “You going to come with me if I do?”
“If you need me to.”
Stiles’ lips part, but no words follow.
“Werewolves heal faster,” Derek continues.
“Yeah,” Stiles agrees slowly, drawing the word out. His head tilts slightly with a furrowed brow. “And?”
“Even if we are, what was it? Ten times more sensitive?” Derek says with an almost hidden, amused quirk to the shape of his mouth, “I’d heal faster.”
Stiles blinks at him, distracted by the playful mouth quirk, and Derek’s apparent willingness to willingly prioritize Stiles’ safety out loud. That’s what happened right? Not that it was surprising, it totally fit Derek’s MO. But at the same time…
“Not if you’re dead!” Stiles spits instead.
“I’m fine. And I’d be fine,,” replies Derek. The amusement is gone. “But thanks for caring.”
Thanks for caring? Thanks. For. Caring? Oh he more than cares, “I l—“ Stiles chokes on his words. Swallows them. Nope nope nope! But Derek and Scott are looking at him funny now. “...I like it when I don’t have to deal with dead bodies.”
“Understatement,” Scott agrees.
“Or bleeding ones,” Stiles continues. “I’ve had to scrub your blood from my car one too many times already.”
Derek studies him as he climbs into the driver’s seat and Stiles tries not to squirm under the attention. “I’ll see you both later then?” Derek says, but it sounds more like a statement. “At the pack meeting tonight.”
“There’s a pack meeting tonight?”
“There should be,” Derek continues, folding his arms across his chest, putting his biceps on full display again. Did he do it on purpose? Or was it just, that he had them—really nice ones—and it was just impossible to do anything without them looking phenomenal? “The others need to be filled in, and warned to steer clear. If Deaton has any updates, you can relay those.”
Stiles starts when Scott slams the passenger door and realizes he’s been staring. Scott leans across Stiles’ body to make eye contact with Derek. “Agreed. We’ll see you then!”
Stiles starts the car and holds out for all of thirty seconds before glancing back into the rear view mirror. Derek hasn’t moved from where they’d left him and his arms are still crossed. Logically Stiles knows they’re both too far away for it to be physically possible, but he can’t help feeling like they’ve made eye contact through the mirror and he jerks his gaze back to the road.
* * *
Stiles doesn’t end up attending the pack meeting.
Except, that’s not entirely accurate. He drops off the sample with Deaton and heads home until the appointed time. He coordinates with Scott on transportation (Scott will not need a ride and will see him at Derek’s). And then Stiles is the first to arrive. He knocks, Derek answers with a shout that it’s open, and Stiles lets himself in. He makes it about twelve inches into the loft and then freezes.
Derek is leaning against the table on one arm while leafing through a book with the other hand. The sight of a sexy man, this sexy man, pouring over the written word...it does things to Stiles.
Derek glances up, presumably because Stiles has become a living statue in his doorway. But Stiles is too distracted by the Henley sleeves pushed up to the elbows and wide shoulders under soft, inviting fabric to respond. He wants to touch. He wants to be touched. He wants to snuggle up close to this man and help him research. And maybe feed him later.
The page that Derek had been in the middle of turning falls to the other side of the book while they maintain eye contact. Until Derek’s eyes dart down to Stiles’ chest where his heart rate has steadily been picking up speed.
Shit.
Derek’s brow furrows. “What’s the matter with you?”
“I think I lo—,” Stiles chokes off the word again, and Derek starts a bit, taking an aborted step to the side like he means to step around the table and close the distance between them. Yes please. Stiles clears his throat aggressively. “I think I left something in my car.”
Not a lie. He’s left his dignity.
He doesn’t wait to see Derek react—if he reacts—and immediately spins on his heal to beat a hasty retreat. He’s saved when he reaches the jeep because Deaton calls.
“I’ve run every test I can think of,” the druid says in place of a greeting.
“This doesn’t sound like a conversation I’m going to like,” Stiles switches the phone to speaker while he reverses. He also errs on the side of caution and turns on the radio at a manageable volume so as not to interrupt the conversation. Just sort of mask it.
“Well that depends,” Deaton answers. “I believe your near outbursts are because of the physical properties of the plant itself. Are you familiar with scopolamine?”
“Truth serum?” Stiles replies on a breath.
“Correct,” Deaton agrees. “I have two theories. First, your typical drug situation where it just has to run its course and you wait it out.”
“Or?” Stiles prompts.
“Or, I suppose you could consider it a type of fae curse where it either has to be broken by satisfying a requirement or by brewing some sort of antidote,” Deaton explains. “Before you get too excited, however, it’s imperative that you know it would be experimental, a guess at best, and would take time and testing. The fae are rather fond of moon cycles. It’s possible the affects could wear off after a full cycle or until the tree is dead or no longer blooming.”
“An entire month!? I can’t hold out that long!”
“You could always tell him.”
“That’s not an option.”
“Well then,” Deaton said, “I suppose you wait.”
“Orrrr,” Stile says to himself after they’ve hung up, “I avoid. It’s not like we have a lot of reasons to interact on a daily basis without a supernatural reason anyway.”
* * *
Stiles is on his way home from sharing lunch with his dad at the station and on week three of successfully—i.e. cowardly—avoiding Derek when things start to get weird. Weirder?
He’s stopped at a red light, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and subconsciously enjoying the sunlight peppering through thin wisps of clouds when he sees motion out of his peripheral. It looks like a bird swooping down toward the pedestrians in the crosswalk before darting back up and out of sight.
He’s about half a second into doubting what he saw before something else steals his attention all together. Those pedestrians? Yeah, they’re now furiously making out in the center of the crosswalk. They’re hands are all grabby, their mouths aggressive, and desperate to remove any space between them. There isn’t any, but you’d think otherwise based on their behavior.
The light turns green, but they don’t come up for air.
Stiles tries a gentle honk, but nothing. And that’s when it hits him like a steering wheel to the forehead. An impatient driver behind him starts intermittently laying on the horn.
“Dammit,” Stiles hits the hazards and climbs out of his jeep. Thankfully the impatient ass behind him turns out to not actually be a total dick and he lets off the horn in favor of using the unoccupied turning lane to ease his own car around.
The driver, a dude probably in his forties and dressed in a powder blue button up, passes a casual wave as he does so. However, Stiles can tell the moment the guy spots the lovebirds because he then stops and rolls down his window.
“The hell? You need help with that?”
Stiles shakes his head, “Nah, I’ll call the Sheriff. He’s my dad,” he adds, because the familial connection usually gets civilians to back off. It works this time too, for the guy nods and drives off carefully. Stiles doesn’t blame him. The situation has awkward and uncomfortable written all over it.
He clears his throat. “Excuse me?” He, naturally, doesn’t get a response. Another vehicle creeps around the jeep through the intersection, eyeing the couple warily and Stiles sighs. “Excuse me, but can you break it up and move this to the sidewalk?”
Stiles lays a hand on the man’s shoulder and gives a firm, but still polite tug. And shit, do they not like that. The guy shoves him back with an elbow to the chest and hitting with enough force that Stiles stumbles. “Jeezus-fuck!”
His foot catches on a crack in the road and he goes down hard, catching himself on his hands and rolling with the momentum to his shoulder blades. He lays there for a moment, stunned, before reaching into his pocket and immediately calling his dad. He doesn’t bother sitting up right away, his car is protecting him from prying eyes and passer-by anyway.
His dad answers on the third ring. “What did you forget, son?”
“Hey Dad,” Stiles says, pushing up into a sitting position and hissing when he puts weight on his palm.
He turns his hand over, examining the damage as his father immediately picks up on the hint of windedness in his son’s voice, the hiss, and demands, “What’s wrong?”
“That’s a good question Pops. Do you think could meet me at the Nelson and Promenade intersection?”
“Stiles, what’s going on?”
Stiles sucks in a lungful of air and lets it out in a controlled breath. “You alone? Easier just to show you.”
Stiles hears a ‘what happened?’ in the background when Dad answers, “Yeah that’s fine.”
With a nod to himself, Stiles taps the appropriate app and internally winces when his dad’s concerned face fills the screen. He rotates the camera around and focuses it on the couple who have begun pawing at each other’s clothes. Dad mutters something under his breath while Stiles explains, “I tried reasoning with them, but I don’t think they’re quite themselves, so you may want to bring back up? I’ll call Scott, I don’t think this is a normal case of road obstruction.”
“No need,” that second voice comes from the other side of Dad’s phone. And Stiles’ heart leaps into his throat when Derek appears over his father’s shoulder.
“Why are you at the police station?” Stiles demands, his voice a pitch higher than normal. He clears his throat.
When had Derek even gotten there? Stiles had left like fifteen minutes ago. Had Derek noticed he was avoiding him? Was he returning the favor by avoiding him right back? Why was he hanging out with his dad? And in all of his racing thoughts he realizes Derek had been the voice he’d heard earlier, when his dad had said it was okay to video chat. Which like, okay Derek is pretty much the go-to on all things supernatural, but what if it had been something else? Personal? His Dad had potentially trusted Derek with this possibility? And wasn’t that just another hit to the solar plexus.
“Why are you sitting in the road?” Derek challenges. Which...fair.
Stiles ignores him in favor of more pressing matters. Like the traffic that’s probably going to build up, for example. Thankfully he’s at an intersection that aren’t on any major roads, but still. The speed limit is 45 miles per hour and there’s bound to be some sort of traffic jam eventually. “You might want to hurry. They’re literally blocking a lane and I already tried to ask them to move once.”
Stiles sees Derek’s eyes darken on the screen before he steps out of frame and he hears the office door open. His dad watches the werewolf go before turning back to the screen. “Hang tight Stiles, we’re on our way. I’ll see if there’s a closer unit, though. And for the love of god, get off the street and back in your car or on the sidewalk where it’s safer.”
Stiles follows his dad’s advice, making a brief stop to grab his keys out of his car. By that point the public-display-of-inappropriate-behavior-couple have managed to wrestle out of their first layers of clothing and are working on the second. Another car comes by a few seconds later, carefully going around Stiles’ car and he can tell the moment the driver notices the lewd display because they double take and have to correct the direction of their car suddenly. It’s right around that moment Stiles has fully committed to the fact that there’s something supernatural at play and he starts googling on his phone while he waits.
His dad and Derek arrive in less than ten minutes. There’s no siren when Stiles spots the patrol car down the road, but the quick arrival suggests that it had been used for part of the commute. His father parks the car next to and slightly ahead of the jeep, using both vehicles to create a sort of cordon. Before they’re fully in park, however, Derek is immediately out of the car and walking around the front.
“You hurt son?” Dad asks as he climbs out of the driver’s side.
Stiles shakes his head, “I’m fine.” He glances at Derek out of the corner of his eyes to find the werewolf watching him back. His nostrils flare and his brow furrows into an even deeper frown. The stinging in Stiles’ palm reminds him that he is bleeding a little. “Just a scratch,” he amends, “but forget about that for a sec. I think there’s something supernatural going on.”
“What was your first clue?” Derek deadpans as he takes in the two almost naked humans rutting against each other in broad daylight.
“Just be careful? Dude got pushy when I tried the reasonable approach,” Stiles says to his father, ignoring Derek’s verbal jab, and silently proud of his own joke. Pushy. Ha. Was it possible to have an inside joke with yourself?
Derek’s jaw clenches and without another word he stalks up to the handsy pair, snatching the guy’s shoulder. Like last time, the man’s elbow flies, but Derek blocks with his forearm and follows up the block by hooking the same arm over the guy’s bicep and yanking him back so hard and so abruptly that the couple are now several feet apart.
Stiles’ father quickly catches the woman around the waist as she lunges for the man, and Derek and the sheriff both continue to pull them away. When they’re at least two car lengths apart from each other the spell very visibly breaks and they’re now holding two very distraught and very confused humans.
Noah quickly recovers the woman’s clothing and hands it to her, before shrugging out of his jacket and using it as a makeshift curtain to at least give her the illusion of privacy as she puts them back on.
Derek has his arms crossed as the man in front of him also pulls on his clothing, but Stiles can’t really make out what they’re saying, not that he’s really trying to and instead climbs back into the jeep.
Eventually they sort something out, because Dad is escorting the woman into his patrol vehicle, before joining Derek with the man.
He pulls out a notepad from his pocket and starts taking notes. Meanwhile, Derek glances up and catches Stiles watching through the windshield. Stiles jerks a bit, and feels himself flushing. He hasn’t seen Derek in three weeks. Which really is kind of more of the same, but also weird because over time their sort of reluctant relationship has been starting to look a lot like a close friendship; a friendship with the potential for...something. Maybe? So three weeks hasn’t really been the recent norm...but yeah. He’d forgotten what it was like, having to keep himself on such a short leash.
Derek walks over, leaving Noah to handle the situation, and Stiles tries really, really hard not to ogle. But the werewolf has a walk and….and the werewolf opens his car door.
“Can I help you?” Stiles asks. He’s actually a little bit taller, sitting in the jeep. And it’s a new thing, looking down at Derek from a higher vantage.
“You hurt?” Derek’s voice is low, a little gruff. His eyes give Stiles a searching once over.
“I’m fine.” Stiles replies. Just like you, his brain supplies.
“You’re bleeding,” Derek disagrees.
“Barely,” Stiles counters. And he inspects his own palm again. “Which you can obviously tell already so-ah-ah! Don’t touch it!”
Derek has caught his wrist and is pulling his hand closer for inspection. He gives Stiles a look at the objection, like he thinks Stiles is an idiot for even making such a comment.
Stiles huffs. “Can I have my hand back? Or would you like to keep it?” Say yes.
Derek drops his hand and his eyes widen a fraction. If Stiles hadn’t been watching from this new angle he might’ve missed it. “Did you see anything?”
Stiles blinks. “Did I see anything? I mean, I see a lot of things.”
Derek lets out an impatient breath, and oh, they’re back in familiar territory now. “Before they started pawing at each other. Did you see anything?”
Stiles raises his own brows at him and lets a hint of a smirk steal across his features. “Paw? You’re making dog references? Are dog references allowed again?”
“They were never allowed in the first place.”
“Uh-huh,” Stiles says while choking back a smile. “And maybe, to answer your question. I saw what I thought was a bird...it might not be related at all, but the timing is suspicious. I started googling some things on my phone while waiting.”
“Did you find any leads?”
“Not yet,” Stiles shakes his head, “wasn’t really able to focus on it. A few people drove by.”
Derek nods once in response. “We can check the Beastiary after this.”
“We?” Stiles is impressed he manages not to squeak as all of his breath has suddenly become lodged in his throat.
“You’re the one who witnessed it all. Come by the loft after,” Derek instructs. “I’m going back with your dad to pick up my car. I’ll meet you there, you still have the key? Let yourself in.”
“M’kay,” Stiles croaks. “I’ll call Scott.”
“Call everyone,” Derek says. “Unless you want to potentially be pulling the pack off of anyone.”
Stiles physically winces at that particular image. “Valid. I’ll uh...see you in a bit.”
Derek nods again before closing Stiles’ car door and joining his father in the patrol car. Stiles watches them drive away before shooting off a group message to the pack. He prays that at least one of them will beat Derek back to the loft, because there’s only so much one-on-one time he can handle with the werewolf without wanting to blurt out his dirty secret. The answer is zero one-on-one time. He can handle zero.
In the end, he has nothing to worry about, because everyone beats Stiles to the loft.
“There was another instance,” Stiles hurriedly says as he arrives at least twenty minutes late.
“Good of you to join us,” Scott jokes, but Stiles ignores the jab and tosses a file onto the table where it slides a few inches across the surface before Derek slaps a palm over it to stop its progress.
“Dad called,” Stiles explains. “About an hour ago there was another case of Sucubus in Seattle.”
“You think it’s a succubus?” Lydia asks.
Stiles pauses, considering the possibility for the first time and then shakes his head no. “Details don’t match; both parties appear to be victims, no one’s energy or life force seems to be drained, and they’re not dead. They’re just...suddenly inflicted with the inability to keep their hands off of each other. I just liked the alliteration honestly.”
“It’s definitely not a sucubus,” Peter seconds. He’s peering over Derek’s shoulder, reading the now open file.
“Met one have you?” Stiles snarks.
Peter turns to Stiles with a smirk, but before he can say anything Derek interrupts. “There’s a lot of research to do, how about we get to it.” He closes the file and pushes it over to Scott.
Lydia is already deep into a book and Stiles claims the seat next to her, pulling out his laptop. That’s how the next hour goes with the occasional clarification question for what Stiles had witnessed with the first case and a text from his father announcing a third occurrence.
“What was it you said, Stiles?” Lydia says ten minutes after said text message. Her eyes are trained on the passage she’s reading, but her hand reaches out to tap repeatedly on his shoulder until his attention shifts her way. “About the victims?” she continues.
“Which part?” He replies. “The part where they’re both victims with no known perpetrator or the part where they can’t keep their hands off each other part?”
“The second one,” she says looking up. “How sudden was it?”
“Very sudden. Like they were hit with a lust spell or something.”
“Or…” she says, turning what she’s found for him to see. On the page is a small inked image of a winged creature brandishing a bow an arrow.
“Cupid?” Stiles asks.
“An amorino,” Lydia corrects.
“The gelatto?”
“No, Stiles, not gelatto. Focus,” she huffs at him and taps a manicured finger on the text, but summarizes. “An amorino, also known as a putti or a cherub, or even a cupid. You said you saw some sort of a bird? Perhaps you saw one of these.”
“So you think we’re dealing with a Greek god?” Stiles asks.
Lydia shakes her head. “No. Not exactly. Cupid or Eros, depending, was referred to as the god. These are cupids, plural and lowercase, if you’re using English. Amorini if it helps you keep it separate. Amorini are the associates of Eros.”
“So you’re saying there are winged babies flying around shooting people with arrows?” Scott asks from where he’s sitting. “Like the cliche Valentine’s Day stuff?”
“Cliches are cliches for a reason,” Peter answers. “Everything originates from some kernel of truth. Even Greek mythology.”
“Okay fine,” Stiles jumps in, “but how do we stop them?”
“We should try and catch them first,” Scott says, “if for no other reason than to prevent anymore victims.”
“And how do you propose we do that? Butterfly nets?” Stiles asks sarcastically, miming a grip on a pole and swinging both arms.
Everyone pauses.
“It was a joke...” Stiles adds, his arms still up in the mimed position.
“It could work,” says Scott thoughtfully, his head tilted thoughtfully.
“Perhaps if they’re reinforced in some way,” Lydia continues. “You’ll never catch them with something so...ordinary.”
Stiles can’t help but feel a little offended at that. While his suggestion had been made in jest, it was still his, and he didn’t like his ideas being insulted without good reason.
“It’s doable,” Derek continues just as Stiles is about to open his mouth, like the werewolf had somehow sensed Stiles wanted to object. Which was unfair, really. Both at the fact that he knew (maybe), and was also interrupting Stiles attempt at communication (sort of). “If they’re made from the appropriate materials.”
Peter is already flipping through a tome. “Might I suggest an infusion of cypress vine and mountain ash?”
“Why cypress?” Stiles inquires.
Used to Stiles giving him grief, Peter hands over the book, opened to the specific page. “No questions about mountain ash then?”
Stiles shoots him a dirty glare as he accepts the book and scans over the passage. There are references to Cypress in Chinese folklore being the symbol of both enduring and restricted love. It’s the restriction aspect they’re after.
“So, anyone know how to weave a net?” Stiles asks.
* * *
Several hours later everyone is grouped up and searching across the city. Stiles has been paired up with Derek, because of course he has. There had been a reason, some semi-logical one that had been presented, but Stiles had been trying too hard to smother any sort of response because the words trying to force their way out of his mouth had been in no shape or form any he was willing to share.
So here he is, following Derek down the street while he tracks some sort of scent linked to the amorni, and carrying mountain ash in pocket. He’s silently grateful that they’re doing this close to one in the morning when there are less people around.
“This way,” Derek says suddenly, turning sharply down an alley.
Stiles pauses to check behind his shoulder before he follows the werewolf. His hand flies to his neck when he feels a sudden pinch and his heart falls into his stomach. “Fuck,” he says.
“What? What happened?” Derek asks, whipping around to face him and then he stumbles a step, his eyes widening and it’s immediately clear that he has also been hit. One heartbeat later Stiles thinks he should probably close his eyes. But by then it’s too late and their gazes crash together.
The want Stiles has been feeling for Derek over the past several weeks? Suddenly it’s like a dam has burst and he’s never felt as aroused as he does now. He feels every beat of his heart and blood rushing through his body. A good portion of it to very specific places.
He sees Derek’s nostrils flare, scenting the air, and he’s too busy appreciating the cut of his jaw to feel any sort of embarrassment at whatever his scent is saying right now. Whatever it is though, Derek must like it because the distance between them is rapidly shrinking as Derek prowls toward him.
Stiles swallows audibly and all of his breath is lost when Derek catches him with possessive hands on his hips. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows that this want, this desire, isn’t entirely his. That Derek’s is definitely not his and it’s only the affect of the cupid that has him leaning in to claim Stiles’ mouth in a hungry kiss.
Stiles grunts and snakes his arm up, cupping the back of Derek’s neck to anchor him in place while his other hand finds a comfortable place at Derek’s waist. An action which Derek appears to like as he pulls Stiles closer and deepens the kiss. When his tongue traces a request onto his bottom lip, Stiles answers with a breathy groan and grants access. Derek echoes the groan when Stiles’ tongue greets his.
One of Derek’s hands slips to Stiles’ lower back, pulling him ever closer and bringing their hips, and their clothed erections, into glorious contact. Stiles feels the pinprick of Derek’s claws through his shirt and he breaks away with a gasp.
“Derek?” He asks, shuddering as Derek turns his attention to press hungry kisses into his neck. “Hey Derek, big guy? The amo--” he breaks off, his breath catching as teeth nip at his throat, and damn did he just learn that was an absolute turn on.
His focus nearly shatters entirely, but Derek’s been dealt too many shit hands and he doesn’t deserve non-consensual anything.
“Derek,” Stiles tries again, his voice even breathier than before. He can’t help tilting his head back, granting the werewolf more access to his neck and he lets Derek walk him backwards until his spine meets a brick wall. When Derek presses a knee between his legs, pressing up, and oh god the friction. Stiles’ eyes snap open and he manages to brace both hands on Derek’s chest and he shoves. “Derek. Stop.”
Something must get through because Derek suddenly freezes. His face is still tucked into the curve of Stiles’ throat, but his clawed hands slowly peel away from his waist and find purchase against the bricks.
“Sorry,” Derek pants, and he pulls his face and knee away. His pupils are so impossibly wide Stiles can’t even see the color anymore. “I’m sorry. God. Stiles…”
“It’s okay,” Stiles gasps, staring at where his fingers are splayed across Derek’s pectorals. He tries to pull them away, really he does, but only manages to fist the Henley’s fabric in tight fits. “It’s okay,” he assures again, swallowing hard. “Not your fault. It’s the amorino.”
Derek squeezes his eyes shut, like he’s trying to orient himself. He gives a solitary nod. “Right. What do we do? I can’t. The spell. I don’t know if...”
“Me too,” Stiles murmurs. Resisting the pull of the lust spell is proving extremely difficult and he’s not entirely sure he won’t be instigating another make-out session in the next sixty seconds, so letting go seems completely unmanageable. He’s not even sure how they’re managing to keep their wits about them as is, aside from the fact that Stiles refuses to be another thing for Derek to be guilty about. To be used or forced into. And it’s that thought, that mission, that hardens his resolve. “Distance.”
“What?”
“The others who were hit,” Stiles pants and he catches himself a second before he leans in to steal another kiss and he’s grateful Derek’s eyes are still closed. “The spell broke when they got far enough apart. We need to get away from each other.”
Derek doesn’t say anything for a moment. “I can’t.”
“What do you mean?”
Derek’s head falls forward and he presses another kiss to Stiles’ neck before pressing a growl into the skin there. “If I move my hands from this wall…I’m just going to grab you instead.”
Stiles tilts his gaze to find Derek’s claws digging deep grooves into the brick on either side of his torso. “Right. Okay. Um. I’ll try then?” And he does. He drags his hands down Derek’s chest and away, and sinks down a few inches to give himself space to duck out from under the werewolf’s arm. It puts him dangerously close to Derek’s dick and he hisses between clenched teeth at the mental image the realization conjures.
“Wait.”
Oh fuck me, Stiles thinks but instead he grits out, “What.”
“Stay,” Derek hisses. “Stay. Here. It’s...easier. If you move, I’ll only want to chase you.”
“Awesome. All right.” Stiles stands back up and takes a deep, steadying breath. “Physical contact then? Maybe it could help?” Stiles brings his hands up Derek’s chest again and stops when his palms are resting on Derek’s collarbones and his thumbs are braced on either side of Derek’s throat. “Okay?”
Derek’s eyes open and bounce back and forth between Stiles’. Stiles pretends not to notice how they also dart down to his mouth. He can’t help licking his lips and he literally feels Derek swallow a growl. In a panic, Stiles starts to yank his hands away, but Derek catches his wrists and—shockingly—presses his hands firmly back into place. “It’s fine.”
“Are you sure?” Stiles pants. He can feel Derek’s racing heartbeat now, the warmth of his skin under his fingers.
“No,” Derek says. He hasn’t let go of Stiles’ wrists. “But I trust you.”
Stiles’ heart throbs at the confession, as does his dick. And now, on top of cupid curses his original flower-powered confession rushes to the surface. “I think—oh shit!”
This time he’s saved by the appearance of an amorino. It looks pissed. Its lips are drawn back, baring pointed teeth as it raises a bow and arrow and damn if that isn’t that one of the most cliche things he’s ever witnessed. Even if the snarling face is very much not.
“Get down!” Stiles throws himself to the ground, yanking Derek down with him, but Derek still manages to twist them both in such a way that he takes the brunt of the awkward dive, an arm curving around Stiles’ waist for balance. The amorino’s arrow goes predictably high, embedding itself deep into the bricks above their heads.
Derek reacts first, immediately turning and leaping for the cupid, kicking off of the opposite wall to gain height. It swoops into a shallow dive to dodge, bringing it closer to the ground.
“Stiles now!”
Stiles snatches the vial of mountain ash from his pocket and smashes it to the ground. As the glass shatters he wills the ash into a circle and watched smugly as the amorino bounces off of the newly formed barrier.
“Shoot us now bitch!”
It hisses at him and Stiles can't help but to jump back, stumbling into Derek as the werewolf comes up behind him. "Sorry," he says quickly, putting some distance between them. He figures Derek probably needs the space, but the man doesn't reply.
And then Stiles notices, secondhand, that the desire to jump Derek's bones is back to normal. It appears the mountain ash has either broken or muted the cupid’s affects and he quietly hopes for the former. They're silent for a minute, watching the amorino try and fail repeatedly to escape its prison. Stiles clears his throat, "Are we good?"
Derek hums a non-verbal (and not an all useful) response, his head turning just slightly to point an ear more toward Stiles' direction. His eyes though, they don't leave the little cupid.
"Are we good…?” Stiles repeats, “after..."
"It's fine."
Stiles frowns. It doesn't feel fine. It feels...unaddressed. It feels like they should be talking about it. Something. But he doesn't say anything and they just wait until Lydia arrives with the cypress vine and mountain ash infused butterfly nets which gives Stiles something else to focus on. It's a rather comical capture tactic really, but it works and they manage to get the thing in with no bitten fingers. However, with the mountain ash barrier, Derek can only standby and observe.
When everything is done, they shoot off a text to the others and Lydia gives Stiles a ride back to the loft.
Derek decides to run.
* * *
Lydia and Stiles are the first ones back and Stiles stands awkwardly in the main living space, the butterfly net in hand. The net itself is knotted near the wooden dowel, preventing the amorino from escaping.
Lydia has to almost dance around him to get into the loft properly. “Are you just going to stand here awkwardly all night?”
“What?” Stiles answers distractedly.
“You,” she begins, speaking slowly and pausing intentionally between each word, “are blocking the door way.” She gives him a pointed look, her eyes widening suggestively, prompting him to answer the question she wasn’t directly asking. Translation: What happened and why are you a weirdo.
He blinks wide eyes at her.
With a dramatic roll of her eyes Lydia starts, “Oh come off it Stiles, we both know you’re going to spill your guts to me anyway, so you may as well spill now. What happened?”
Stiles tries to hold off, he really does. But he’s never, ever, been able to resist Lydia’s eyes. Especially when she uses him to pin him with that look.
“Okay, fine,” Stiles says with a groan. “You win. Derek and I...we got hit.”
“By the amorino?”
“No. By a truck,” he deadpans, and then says with a flail of his arms, “yes the amorino.”
She blinks at him. “And you were able to capture it? Did you not...were you not...?”
Stiles scrubs a hand down his face. “No. We were. We very much were.”
“Oh my god,” Lydia gasps, a hand going to her mouth. “But then...how?”
“That’s a fantastic question,” Stiles agrees, “and I have no idea how to answer it. We just...sorta snapped out of it. I guess. Willpower maybe. Or Derek is just that disgusted by me.”
“Stiles,” Lydia scoffs, “don’t be an idiot.”
“Who’s an idiot?” Scott asks as he comes in through the still open doorway,
“Don’t answer that,” Stiles says just as Lydia opens her mouth. So, she closes it and gives him a look that could either be interpreted as this isn’t over yet, or we will talk about this later. And while they sound very similar, they’re not. One is clearly more threatening.
“You got one!” Scott says, taking stock of the net in Stiles’ hand, he holds up a second one he and Malia had managed to bag. “That brings us up to three total. Peter is inbound with a third. Do we know how many more that leaves out and about?”
“Based on the timeline of Dad’s reports, I’d say at least two more,” Stiles replies.
“Well if they’re out there,” Peter starts as he too, files into the loft. Malia and Derek are close behind, “then their trails have gone cold. There won’t be much success in tracking them by scent.”
“So you’re what, suggesting we wait for another set of victims?” Stiles asks.
Peter turns to him, a hint of a smirk just starting on his face. “Unless you have any other bright ideas?”
“Perhaps I can be of assistance,” an entirely new and unknown voice fills the loft. Everyone goes completely still and the posture of the werewolves changes. Scott, who is closes to Lydia, reaches for her wrist and pulls her a few inches closer.
Stiles slips a hand into his pocket for more mountain ash.
And then suddenly, standing across the loft with his back to them, is a tall, broad shouldered figure. He has his arms behind his back, fingers laced together as he stares out the large windows that occupy the wall.
“I must thank you all,” he continues, “for retrieving our amorini. They’re usually kept on a short leash, but my brother likes to cause mischief. He thought letting them out would be...funny.”
He turns then and Stiles feels like he’s been punched in the gut with how handsome this stranger is. Blond hair that curls and swoops just right, framing a chiseled face of high cheekbones and the most startling pair of crystal blue eyes he’s ever seen. There’s no way he’s human. Fae maybe?
“And, you might be?” Lydia inquires from Scott’s side.
“Ah, yes. Where are my manners.” Pressing a hand to his chest, the beautiful intruder dips his head gracefully. “I am Eros.”
“The god of love?” Lydia continues.
Eros smiles. “You’ve heard of me then.” He takes a few steps across the loft to close the distance between them. “Again, I appreciate the efforts you have made in capturing them. They can be rather chaotic.”
“Quite chaotic actually,” Stiles agrees, feeling a little miffed at the perceived nonchalance and a lot miffed at the situation they’d put Derek in. The wave of protectiveness makes him feel braver than he should. “Where the hell were you, oh powerful love being, while we were cleaning up your family mess?” He sasses.
“Stiles, maybe don’t give the literal Greek god attitude,” Lydia hisses.
“I don’t mind,” Eros says with a swoon worthy smirk. “It’s adorable.”
“Aren’t you married?” Derek says from where he hasn’t moved, arms crossed over his chest.
“Happily.” Eros replies, and only Stiles is close enough to see the god’s…fae’s ?…eyes glance to Derek and back. “Besides,” Eros addresses the whole room again, “he has a point. I was preoccupied. As you know, those weren’t the only trouble-makers out there.” At his words, two other amorini poke their heads out from the feathered wings that have suddenly become visible on Eros’ back. “They’re hard to catch.”
“Have you tried butterfly nets?” Derek deadpans.
Eros’ gaze darts to the nets and his eyes dance with amusement, but he says nothing. Instead, he holds out a hand to Stiles. “Allow me to repay your kindness.”
Derek starts forward, “Stiles don’t—”
But Stiles is already reaching out to accept the handshake, and when Eros’ fingers close around his there’s a flash of light so bright Stiles winces away from it.
When he opens his eyes again the light has faded and his hand is still in Eros’s, but everyone is else in the room is frozen. Like time has stopped.
“What the hell did you do?” Stiles tries to yank his hand away, but Eros holds firm. Stiles’ attention darts from person to person. First Scott, then Derek who is still mid step toward him, to Lydia and Malia and the others. “What did you do them?”
“Nothing,” Eros says honestly. “You though, you I brought with me. To an In-Between of sorts. Now, about those flowers you fell in, I’m sure you have questions.”
Stiles instantly stiffens. “How do you know about that?”
“They’ve got a rather distinct scent,” Eros replies nonchalantly. “Easily recognizable, once you’re familiar with them.”
“And you’re familiar with them,” Stiles concludes.
Eros’ mouth quirks into a crooked smirk. “Ask me about them.”
“What kind of tree is it? How do I break the spell?” Stiles asks.
“The fae cannot lie,” Eros begins, “not like humans can and they’re actually quite jealous of that fact. They created the angel’s trumpet variant as a way to counter this ability. When exposed to it in its natural state, it compels humans to admit a truth they want hidden. So in your case, the fact that you’re in love with your werewolf over there.”
“He’s not my werewolf,” Stiles replies distractedly, busy digesting the information provided. But when his brain catches up to the conversation he splutters. “I am not in love with Derek!”
Eros laughs. “Of course you are. Why do you think you keep wanting to tell him?”
Stiles gapes at him for a moment before erupting, “because the flowers drugged me!”
“Weren’t you listening? That’s not how they work. Think of them as a truth serum if it makes you feel better. But you love him, whether you want to admit it or not. And why wouldn’t you?” Eros looks over his shoulder to give Derek a once over. “He’s yummy.”
Stiles yanks on his hand. “Excuse you! Keep your eyes to yourself. You have a wife!”
Eros turns his attention back to Stiles with a smile. “Don’t worry, she’d think he’s yummy too.”
“How do I stop it?” Stiles demands.
Eros’ smile takes on a pleased element. “Finally. You ask the question you really want answered. The affects will continue to last until the flowers are harvested or until you confess the truth.”
“When do the flowers get harvested?”
“Difficult to say. The fae tend to operate by moon phases, but time works differently here compared to there. A full moon cycle there could be a whole year here. Your best option is to just admit it.”
Several heartbeats of silence pass between them, and then Eros gives a gentle squeeze of Stiles’ hand to recapture his attention. “How about this...because I find you so endearing and since love is kind of my thing, I’ll let you in on a few secrets. Admitting the truth out loud is enough to satisfy the requirement as long as it’s a truthful admittance and you genuinely accept the truth to yourself. But you should tell him.”
Stiles splutters again. “What do you mean I should tell him? He’d crush me! Probably with his bare hands.”
“Lie,” Eros says with a smirk. “We both know that’s not true.”
“Oh do we,” Stiles snarks. “I think I know him better than you do.”
“Perhaps,” Eros concedes.
“What’s the other secret. You said you’d let me in on a few.”
Eros’ eyes brighten, like he’s proud Stiles had caught that little detail. “Let’s just say, you’re not the only one in this room with the scent of angels trumpet lingering on their skin.”
Stiles frowns thoughtfully at that. But he’d been the only one to get in contact with the flower right? Scott for sure hadn't touched any. And Derek had used a bag when they’d collected the sample…except. Suddenly the image of him pulling a flower from Stiles’ hair comes to mind and his gaze snaps to Derek, still suspended in some motionless state. Had that not been a dream then?
“But...he hasn’t been struggling to hide any truths.”
“Hasn’t he?” Eros challenges. “Tell him the truth Stiles. You’ll like the answer.”
“Oh and I should just believe you? Give me one good reason.”
Eros smirks. “Stiles. They call me the god of love. It’s what I do.” There’s another flash of light and when it fades, Eros is gone.
“—touch him!” Derek finishes, reaching for him. A confused expression steals over his face as he realizes the winged being has left and Stiles is standing alone and unharmed. This doesn’t stop Derek from crowding into his space, analyzing him from head to toe. “Are you hurt?”
Stiles can’t look Derek in the eyes, but he can’t look away from him either. “No,” he croaks, “I’m fine.” Derek’s gaze drops to Stiles’ chest, a hint of confusion marring his face. Stiles hadn’t told a lie, but he hadn’t told the truth either.
A hand lands on his shoulder. Scott’s. “You okay?”
Stiles nods and meets Scott’s gaze. “I...am going to go home. And go to bed.” His friend must see something in his eyes because all he does is give a comforting squeeze and asks Stiles to text him when he gets home.
It takes every shred of willpower in his body to not glance at Derek as he leaves.
* * *
It’s another two weeks until Stiles sees Derek again. He’s sitting in his room, spinning a pencil absentmindedly between his fingers while staring at his laptop screen when Derek appears in the doorway.
“How did you get in?”
“Your Dad let me in, on his way to work.”
Right. Because at some point, Derek and his Dad have become buddy buddy.
"I'm done avoiding you," Derek announces suddenly. Stiles drops the pencil and it rolls off the desk to the floor.
"You were avoiding me?" He croaks.
"And I'm done letting you avoid me," the werewolf continues, like Stiles hadn’t spoken.
"I wasn't avoiding you," Stiles disagrees animatedly until Derek gives him a look bordering on a glare and he falters. "Okay fine, I was avoiding you."
"Why?" Derek's tone makes the word sound like a demand rather than a question.
"Derek," Stiles says on a breath, pleading. There's no way this is going to end well. How can Derek trust plant-triggered feelings? Or rather the awareness of the feelings that he only became aware of thanks to the plants. Awareness-triggering-plants? Whatever.
"Stiles." Derek levels him with another look, but this one..it’s different. His expression is open, but firm and determined. Patient even. And he waits, his eyes searching and Stiles wishes he knew exactly what answer he was searching for. So that he could give it to him, because honestly, he'd give almost anything to Derek if he wanted it. And then he remembers his exchange with Eros. Just tell him.
So Stiles takes a deep breath, holds it for a moment, and then says on the exhale, "I think…. I love you."
Just like that, the sensation of needing to keep his tongue on a short leash lifts and his words belong to him again. As much as they ever have anyway.
Derek's brow furrows a fraction. "You think? So, you’re not sure?”
Stiles’ stomach does a somersault. “Okay fair. That came out wrong. Or inaccurate rather. Because I know I do. Love you that is. But you should know I only came to this realization—this very true realization—several weeks ago under the truth serum affects of fae flowers. So forgive me, please, for needing to sort some shit out and make sure. I mean, you’ve been through enough crap, romantic and otherwise, to warrant not having what could have been magic induced feelings—as far as I knew at the time—forced on you. I refuse to be that guy.”
Derek is directly in front of him in the blink of an eye and he brings both of his hands up slowly, giving Stiles the chance to pull back, and cradles either side of Stiles’ neck in his palms. Stiles forgets how to breathe.
“You know I’m in love with you too, right?”
Stiles gapes at him and can feel his eyes ping-ponging between Derek’s. “That is so not fair!”
“What?” Derek frowns.
“Your confession was like, a thousand times better than mine!”
Derek’s frown melts into an expression of fond exasperation. “It’s not a competition Stiles.”
“Oh yeah? Easy for you to say, big guy, yours was awesome. But the game is so on. Just you wait, my proposal is going to knock your fucking socks off.”
Derek looks thunderstruck or like he’s been hit over the head with a two-by-four. “….proposal?”
“Well...yeah,” says Stiles with a touch of uncertainty. It doesn’t last long. “There’s no way I could ever be casual with you, or temporary. I don’t even want to try. So I mean...marriage is like..on the table. In the future. A future marriage is on the future table in the future future.”
Derek doesn’t respond. He doesn’t let Stiles go either though, which Stiles hopes is a good thing. He reaches up and to wrap his fingers around Derek’s wrists, taking a moment to marvel at his own sudden courage and confidence. Ten minutes ago he’d been afraid of an unintentional confession and now he’s talking engagements. Holy shit. He was taking it too far, too quick. He’d crossed a line hadn’t he? Holy shit. Of course, there could be no letting go of this man. It was all or nothing. But proposal? Has he ruined it?
“D-Derek?” He croaks on a shaky breath.
“Can I kiss you?”
Stiles feels his face light up. “Yes please.”
Derek wastes no time; curving one of his hands around the back of Stiles’ neck to pull him close while the other hand claims purchase on his left hip, steady and anchoring. Derek begins the kiss gentle and tender, but when he risks deepening it Stiles responds enthusiastically.
His hand snakes along Derek’s ribcage and his fingers clench into the t-shirt at Derek’s shoulder blade. His other hand lifts to trace the stubble along Derek’s jaw and then sink into the hair at the back of his head. Not one to let Derek constantly take the lead, Stiles asks for permission to deepen the kiss, a request Derek replies to by parting his lips. He gives a deep, throaty groan as their tongues tangle. The sound does things to Stiles and he wants to hear the sound again. So many times.
But then Derek pulls back and Stiles would complain except he doesn’t go far and presses their foreheads together. “So now that we have established that a future marriage is on the future table in the future future,” he begins and Stiles kind of wants to smack him for mocking him except he likes hearing the words come out of his mouth too much, “how do you feel about going on a date? In the present.”
“Tonight?”
“We can do tonight,” Derek says, but there’s a hesitance to his voice. Almost like he doesn’t want to wait.
“Or…” Stiles starts, and the hands that had dropped to his hips tighten in anticipation. “Date could start now? But I want dinner later. So like...an all day date.”
“We can do that,” Derek agrees, and Stiles can actually hear the smile in his voice.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” And then Derek seals the agreement with another kiss.