Chapter Text
Okay, this is it. The absolute limit. Stiles has officially had it up to here. Wherever here is. Here is somewhere really high, okay? A mystical, high location of high…ness.
Man, the gray tights to the costume are so tight that there can't be any blood getting to Stiles' brain. Nope, Stiles can't do this. No way. Stiles even managed to smack himself in the forehead when pulling the underpants on over the tights and that probably had done some major damage to his brain.
He stalks across the carpet of his bedroom, angrily muttering to himself. Seriously. What the hell had Stiles done to Lydia to deserve this indignity? Nothing, that's what. Except get two marks higher than her on one physics pop test earlier in the year. Was Lydia punishing him for that? Just because he knew the answer to the bonus credit question when she didn't? His dad was the freaking Sheriff. If Stiles didn't know the penal violation codes backwards, it would have just been weird.
Nope, that's the only thing he can think which could have earned him Lydia's ire. It's ridiculous and besides, he can't be swayed. What happened with Mason can't be as bad as he's remembering, anyway. There are plenty of other Dereks in the world that he might have been talking about, right? Right??
Yup. Stiles has successfully managed to convince himself that nothing is worth the indignity of the costume and he's reaching to pull the skintight outfit over his head when his phone chimes. He looks down.
Don't even think about it, Stilinski.
Stiles pauses, mouth going slack. "And Lydia says she isn't psychic?" he mutters at the screen, before casting an askance look at the outfit. Where the hell is he supposed to keep his phone in this thing?
His phone chimes again.
There's a pocket in the cape for your phone.
Stiles stares at the message.
And the answer is no, a third one chimes in. I'm not psychic.
Stiles scowls down at his phone in disbelief and types back: I think the lady protesteth too much.
Get down here. In costume. Or I WILL show everyone THE VIDEO. And there's only one Derek that we know, Stiles.
Even though she delivered the threat when she delivered the costume, Stiles flinches again. It's a really low blow because she knows how he feels about Derek. Or she suspects. Or she has video evidence where one really hot guy, now pack member, had been squeezing Stiles' ass and Stiles had moaned Derek's name, if you have to be pedantic about it. Ugh. Lydia's evilness is going to land him in real trouble one day, he can sense it. Okay. But if people laugh, I'm going to show them THE PHOTO.
I was a cute little orphan Annie, Stiles, thank you very much, is the text he gets back, but it's false bravado. He saw her expression of mild terror when he flung it out as a threat in person.
Well. She yawned in his face. But that's Lydia for mind-numbing terror.
Ugh, whatever, Stiles is worked up over nothing. It's just one night. And if their history has anything to do with it, they won't have to party for any longer than an hour before something supernatural shows up to ruin their day. It's only a temporary public humiliation, going outside in this outfit. Besides, it's probably character-building. There's not actually worse that could happen to him than being seen in this much bright spandex, anyway.
Famous last words, as it turns out.
Some of Stiles' humiliation dies a little at the first sight of Lydia in her costume, which is a nice start to the evening. Not that her costume is embarrassing – far from it. But he'd been buoyed by the fact that most people would be too busy looking at her and her curve-hugging black spandex cat-suit to notice him.
Both of their outfits came with masks, if worst comes to worst, but Stiles knows how he looks on the dance floor. There is no mask in the whole world that can obscure his real identity. There is no reality in which Stiles is the hero.
Nope, he's just perma-stuck as the sidekick. In a really ridiculous yellow cape, which he's planning to "accidentally lose". When it comes to capes, Stiles is in the Edna 'E' Mode school of thought. Not that he's planning to be anywhere near a vortex or missile fin or a jet turbine, but then, Stiles never had werewolves, banshees or demon foxes on his to-do list either.
"I can't believe you managed to convince Derek to let us throw another Halloween party at his loft, especially after the one two years ago," Stiles says, opening the Jeep and extending a gallant arm out that she ignores in favor of jumping gracefully onto the sidewalk. She beams at him and he rolls his eyes, leaning past her to lock the door.
"Convince?" Lydia says. "That's a funny use of the word."
Lydia starts walking towards the loft at a speed which keeps her ahead of him, but he can see the curve of a smirk on her face.
"Please tell me you got Derek's permission to throw the party in his loft?" Stiles calls after her retreating back, even though now he can see that Derek's soccer mom car isn't in its usual spot and he already knows what the answer is.
Lydia just laughs. Stiles sighs and follows her in. He might as well have some fun before Derek rips their throats out. He's feeling almost optimistic about it, feeling the already-playing music thrumming through the building's woodwork as they head up the steps, and he's even kind of feeling the cape as it billows dramatically behind him – and then he steps into the party and all the annoyance he'd originally felt at seeing his red, green and yellow costume comes flooding back.
"Lydia, you get back here and tell me why all the wolves get to be Batman and I'm the only freaking Robin. Right now!"