Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Snow whips at his cheek in a barrage of harsh blows that try to topple him over as he stumbles through the street. Despite the layers of wool and polyester, his clothes do little to fight the cold. He thinks, if not for what he was, that this could certainly kill him. The cobble road leads him in twists and tangles, built without sense and no real direction. He should have grabbed a map at the train station. Or better yet, never gotten off here at all. 

Because what the hell is he doing in Krakow? No really. He asks himself, what the hell was I thinking coming here? A place he’d never heard of, until half a day ago. A place so deep in the continent that no more than seven countries line its borders. He should have states in Vienna. Not that the cold was any better there, but at least he knew where the hotel was.

Surprisingly, despite the snow, business seems to go about as usual. Well. He’s the only idiot still outside but there are people. In the restaurants that line the street. In the pubs and late night shops. He debates going inside a few, just to stay warm. But then that might require him to talk. He’s not in the mood to talk, never really is. Besides, he doesn’t know a lick of Polish. So he continues to walk. His suitcase rumbles loudly about the road. It’s getting heavy, now that he’s stuffing just about any souvenir he can find. Whatever might make Laura's lips curl, or Cora groan.

Souvenirs aren't going to get them to forgive him. He wonders if he wan’t forgiveness. 

There's laughing echoing through the glass. Another pub with a name he can’t pronounce. The sort of place with a menu made of no more than twenty words. A place made because it needed to exist. Because someone had children to feed, and debts to pay. There's even a fake fireplace, and a tiny plastic tree. Decorated with just three red glass baubles, and a cracked porcelain angel. He feels a wheel catch on a rock, just as his gaze roots back to his feet. His patience erupts. Derek tugs the stupid suitcase with little remorse for the bag or the road, and then suddenly he's watching the little plastic circle race away. That decides it. Somehow. Miraculously. He manages to keep his claws in, when he hefts the bag up and storms through the door. It jingles.

A wave of heat simmers across his face, and his neck sinks into his clothes. He's so tired he could sleep on the welcome mat, preferably for the next hundred years. Well, he thinks it is a welcome mat anyway. Not that he can read what it says. It could be telling him to fuck off for all he knows. Which probably would be more appropriate.

His entrance had been a furious one, all huffing and puffing. It would be a sight, but one even appeared to notice him. The crowd was quaint and preoccupied. Huddled in groups and oblivious to his raging frustrations. He snarls. Makes his way to what he presumes is the bar, and plants his frozen ass on the most secluded stool he can find. It wobbles beneath him and he has to close his eyes and take ten deep breaths before he feels somewhat sane again.

“Co mogę podać?” The barmaid is an older woman. Who sweeps her suspicious brown eyes along his figure and wipes out a glass with a dirty cloth. A picture perfect stereotype.

Derek winces. “Coffee?” He tries. It’s late, but he needs something hot. 

She pauses for a moment. “Kawa? Gorąca czekolada?”

He hasn’t spoken in days. “Whatever you can manage.” His voice is hoarse, its own grating sound.

The woman shrugs and walks off. He half expects her not to come back, since she didn't seem to know any English. When she does it is with a small ceramic cup that clinks as she moves. He smells chocolate, and when it’s placed in front of him the milk steams and wafts up into the air. He looks up to say thanks, but she’s already gone. 

It takes a while for the warmth of the room to finally settle into his skin. He takes slow, fatigued sips of his drink and tries to figure out what game is on the TV. 

Someone taps his shoulder. Derek jerks back and twists to watch as a young man hops into the stool beside him. He’s a pale lanky thing. Probably no older than twenty, with a tattered jumper that looks like he spends his spare time wrestling bears and sucking drawstrings. With an unfazed expression he turns to Derek and says,

“Masz zapalniczkę?” There's something intense about this guy's eyes. A kind of pea-cocking. He's got curious looks, and a chin aimed at the ceiling. “Jesteś głuchy czy coś?” Whatever that was, it sounded like an insult more than a question.

Derek gulps. “Sorry?”

“Oh.” The young man pauses for a moment, recomposing himself. His accent is surprisingly light when he continues. “You’re American.”

Derek nods, still unsure why the stranger had decided to approach him out of everyone in the pub. He’s sure someone else would appreciate it, more than he. Maybe if Derek was in a better mood he might have thought about giving him the time of day. Because despite his snow white complexion and dishevelled appearance, the young man was handsome. Sporting the type of face that lives on the line between cute and hot. “Yeah…”

“Do you have a lighter?” The young man asks, unperturbed by Derek's awkward hunch.

“No.”

The guy tilts his head with disbelief. “Really? You don’t smoke? You look like you smoke.”

Derek can’t stand them. The mere mention of those little cancer sticks reminds him of the horrid smell. “Excuse me, but do you need anything?”

“Yes. A lighter. Obviously.” 

He walked right into that one. “Well I don’t have one.”

“Who travels without a lighter?” The guy proclaims.

Somehow, Derek's wound up in some sort of impromptu debate with a young (and quite rude) polish lad who’s decided to make a time of bothering him. He can’t help but bite back. “You. Obviously.”

He doesn’t expect the guy to laugh. But he does, and it sounds ridiculous. Like a haunted dolls evil giggle. Or a witch. It echoes through his chest and reverberates in Derek's ears. Like a sirens song.

He smells human though. Parading around with that fleshy ripe aroma only healthy horny young men have.

With a devilish grin the stranger asks. “What’s your name?” ...Is he flirting?

Derek doesn’t even try to guess where the conversation might be going. He slurps the hot chocolate and it slithers like lava down into the depths of his chest. He doesn’t even like chocolate, but the drink isn’t bad. “Derek Hale.” He answers quietly, trying not to make it seem important.

Hale used to mean something, back in America. Here it’s just a fact. Hale. A four word identifier, insignificant.

“Mieczysław.” The man offers.

“Gazuntite?”

Puckered unimpressed lips purse dull dense teeth together. How he manages to morph his expression into something new every other sentence is another mystery. He's an emotional shape-shifter, changing as each second demand. “You can call me Stiles. Since big words scare Americans”

Stiles? That’s an odd name. “Is…is that an insult?” He asks before he says something offensive.

“If you take that as an insult then you have more problems than I do.” Stiles looks him over and raises a single brow. Showing a spectacular display of disregard for personal space Stiles reaches out and flicks some clumps of snow off Derek's shoulder, ignoring how the older man flinches beneath his light brief touch. “You are American, no? You said so.”

Derek nods.

“Then you should vouch for my statement. I have met enough Americans to know. They are not one for spelling, or speech.”

“Stereotyping much?” He whispers, mostly at the bartop.

Stiles leans into his hands, and looks at Derek like he’s the most interesting thing since hot milk. Like he’s analysing every stray thread, and uneven shave. “You said gazuntite. At my name. Apologies if I came off as rude.”

Derek wonders if he should apologise, but something about Stiles makes him seem less offended and more amused. “It’s ok.”

The corners of Stiles' eyes crease. He taps the bartop at fast rhythmic intervals producing a woody sound that makes Derek preen. It is almost hypnotic. He wants to reach out and flick at the stray sands of hair that stick out onto the other man's forehead. Maybe sink his teeth into his cheeks. Do something bizarre.

“You look hungry.” Stiles states. “When did you last eat?”

He spits back. “Are you my Mom?”

The stranger takes a napkin from the bar and begins to methodically fold it into squares. “No, I am a man you met at a pub in the middle of the night who-lucky for you-  speaks English... Which in a way sort of puts me on the same level of importance.” He sticks his tongue onto the napkin for a few seconds, watching how the white paper dampens from his spit.

“Same level? As my Mom?” Derek's mother was like a modern day empress. One of the most important wolves in America. He can imagine how she’d seethe at Stiles words. 

He smirks. "Maybe a little more."

There was something special, about hearing someone denote his mother like that. Like it was an easy thing to do. 

Stiles turns away for a moment to shout. “Barman, proszę o menu!” He disregards the soggy napkin hiding it under the bar as the woman approaches.

Derek blinks. “Are you buying me dinner?” That’s just ridiculous. Someone. Buying. His dinner? That doesn’t happen.

Stiles head rears back, bizarrely. Then he reaffirms the state of the universe. “What? No.”

Yeah that tracks. “I mean, do you know what coat you’re wearing right? It’s Armani. I think you can afford your own dinner.” Stiles takes the small piece of laminated paper from the Bartender and holds it up. “But, I can read you the menu. If you want.”

Derek looks down to his coat. It is expensive. Extremely. Laura had got it for his twenty-fifth birthday. She had an eye for these things. She knew what he liked. 

It shouldn’t look any different from other coats.

He wonders where Stiles got his eye for designer clothes. Especially since his own banged up jacket is…less than quality.

Then there's the offer to read the menu to him. It’s almost kind, which should probably be more worrying than it is. “You’d do that? Why?”

Stiles swivels around and leans his back against the bar. It would look cool, if his lanky legs didn’t spasm as he tried to cross them. “Because I’m bored? Because I think you’re really hot? Or…Maybe I feel bad because I’ve obviously bothered you on a bad day and I figured you might appreciate the gesture.” 

A coy smirk snakes across Stiles cheeks, and a shudder zaps down Derek's spine. Don’t let him get to you. But it feels too late for that. Like Stiles has figured out just the right things to say, that will bring him to the brink of anger, and what will soothe him back down. It’s annoying, but almost charming.

No. It is charming. The way Stiles wears a million bothersome traits like a fine tailored suit and doesn’t seem to care. Like he’s secure, in the knowledge that he can get what he wants after a few calculated jabs. 

“I’m not buying you dinner.” Derek announces, like a lifeline. I’m in control. 

A crimson tongue licks Stiles pouted lips leaving them glossy and wet. He replies with a majestic whisper, eyes teasingly hooded. “Oh. I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Derek buys him dinner. 

There isn’t enough room to eat at the bar, so Derek mournfully follows as Stiles beckons him to a table nestled into the small corner by an even smaller TV. Despite Stiles translations and frankly ridiculous explanations, the menu remained an ever confusing thing. Derek ends up with a plate of what looks like bolognese without the spaghetti, but tastes sort of like stew. Stiles picked out a breaded pork cutlet with a side of (cheesy?) dumplings and doesn’t bother with a thank you as he digs in. He’s so invested in the meal, that he ignores when the barmaid rushed over to lock the front door and pull the blinds down.

“What is she doing?” Derek asks, when no one else in the pub seems to worry.

“Huh?”

“The barmaid. She just locked us in.”

“Oh. Yeah. Battering down the hatches isn't she? It’s the middle of the night, and a storm is coming. Look.” He gestures to the TV. It’s a weather broadcast, with a blond woman frantically gesturing at a screen filled with graphics of cartoon snowflakes.

Derek points at himself. “American. I can’t understand what she’s saying..”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You really didn’t learn anything before you came here? Not even the weather report?”

Derek looks away. “Let’s just say I didn’t plan to come here.” 

It’s more like Derek had gotten on the first plane out of America he could buy. The rest was just a series of unplanned train hopping. Poland hadn't been a whim. That was all.

Stiles frowns. “Well that’s not vague at all. Totally normal. I go abroad on a whim all the time. What did you say you did for work again?”

Derek hadn’t mentioned his work at all. “Family business.” He supplies.

Stiles raises his brows, and smiles suspiciously. He leans in and whispers. “Some kind of business huh. Are you always this cagey?” 

“Only amongst strangers.” Not a total lie, Derek wasn't very conversational. Even at the best of times. 

He doesn't really know what's come over him. It was the most talking Derek had done in weeks. Maybe the most in months, if he thinks about it.

While Derek’s silence was self inflicted, he’d forgotten how good it was to just… talk. Without reason or need. With a stranger who couldn't care less about his duties to the family. To the Pack he had failed one too many times. Stiles didn't care about the Hale family. He couldn't know about the ways Derek was lacking. To him he was jus a generously grumpy stranger. Someone to talk to.  It was like before he walked through that door he didn’t really exist, because no one would meet his eye, and no one cared about his name.

Derek didn’t talk much as a general rule, but something about Stiles made him want to. 

“Strangers?” Stiles tries to sound offended, but his smile gives him away. “I guess you could call us that.”

Derek leans back and folds his arms. Despite knowing he shouldn't pry he says, “What would you call us? If not that.”

Stiles hums. “At risk of coming off strong, potential?” Stiles' feet kick lightly at his toes, and when Derek pulls his shoes back he laughs. 

Derek swallows. He hasn’t done this. Flirting or anything else. Not since he started his walk of shame about Europe. His trek to, gasp, find himself. He hadn't really thought about the potential for something like this. He tends not to have the best track record with these kinds of things. Relationships. The last person he had sex with had turned out to be a Darach. The one before that had tries to kill his Mom.

Stiles doesn’t seem to be like Jennifer or Kate. but of course he doesn't. Evil like that doesn't show up and rudely demand dinner. Evil isn't...normal.

“Potential for what?” His voice is breathy, defensive. 

Stiles shrugs. He's awkward beneath the showboating. Inexperienced and desperate. “Depends, why are you in Poland? You’re not like. A drug dealer are you?”

Derek almost laughs at that. Definitely not evil. “Do I give drug dealer vibes?”

A pause. “No. Still. I’d be hard pressed to find another American here. During the worst of winter.” The snow is getting really bad outside. Terribly bad. Derek doesn't know how he lasted so long out there.

“You’re not American?” It sounds like a stupid question, but something about the way the other man speaks prompts it. Stiles' accent is amorphous. Notations of both. His Polish is as hard and confident as his English. It seems warranted to ask. 

Derek expects a scowl, or another insult. Instead Stiles just softly shakes his head.

“My mother was born in California. She taught me English, so you can probably hear that influence. We lived there for a bit when I was ten…”

There’s more to the story, but Derek can hear sorrow in his voice. Was. “I’m from California.” He replies awkwardly.

Stiles smiles. “Shit? Small world. What part?”

“Uh, up north. Sort of near Sacramento.” Not really, but the Hale land can't exactly be pointed out on a map. Not with magical protection and all that other stuff.

Stiles picks off another cheesy dumpling and rips it. Stings of yellow stretch between his hands like webs and his long tongue reaches out to pull at it.  “Cool. We were further up north. I don’t remember much of it. I’d go back if I could, but I've glued myself to this place.” He frowns. “I can’t imagine going so far from home, all alone.”

“It’s not hard.” Not when you have a good enough reason.

“Yeah, If you have the money .” Stiles licks at his fingers. Derek's face feels hot, like it’s somehow forgotten the piercing cold from the outside. “Don’t take that as an insult. I mean I can barely imagine crossing the border but you! All this way from home. That’s brave.”

“It is?” Derek can’t believe that. Not when he feels like a coward perpetually in the process of going nowhere. 

“Uhh yeah! I mean you’re all alone right?” 

Derek nods a little dumbly, trying not to look flustered.

“That’s crazy. Don’t you get lonely?” Stiles says it in a strange way. Like he means ‘You do get lonely’ instead.

He’s not sure why he says it, but at that point Derek feels too far gone. Something about the scalding milk and a strangers smile chipping at his defences. He feels safe. All this way from home. Like nothing he says matters, and so he can say anything at all.

“I sort of came here to be alone.” He admits.

The young man drinks in his words, like they’re something important. “Shit. Cali that bad huh?”

“California isn’t the problem.” Derek stupidly continues. “My family is.” He waits for his sister to smash through the window, or his mothers claws to dig into his shoulder. Some kind of punishment. None of that happens.

Instead Stiles lifts up his drink and says. “Amen to that.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. My Ta’s IGP and I manage to be the overprotective one." He laughs, but it's cut off as he continues. "Let’s just say he preferred a more hands off approach to parenting.”

Derek wonders what that's like. For most of his life he had felt more like his mothers puppet, than his own actual person. These last couple months might be the longest he's ever been alone. It's been strange, but not as strange as what Stiles says. He admits, “I have a large family. It’s hard to keep them out of my business.”

“You got siblings?” He asks innocently enough.

“Five.” Then there's Peter (who will probably never move out, lets be real) and then the second cousins and his fathers side of the family. 

Stiles eyes widen. “Damn. I can see why you might want some alone time. You're the oldest then?”

“No. I mean I'm the oldest son I guess. Lauras the oldest."

"Shit, I can't imagine that many. They must get on your nerves huh?" Stiles jokes.

He shakes his head, but then stops himself. "Maybe. My younger siblings don’t care what I do. My Mom and Laura though? They can get draining.” Admitting that feels like he’s opened a dam, but Stiles doesn’t even baulk. Just accepting what Derek has to say. “So. Here I am.”

Stiles giggles. “I’ll send them my thanks.” His feet are back to bother Derek's, but he lets it happen. It makes him more real, letting someone touch him stupidly under a wobbly table in a pub he doesn’t know the name of. He’s read about this. Meeting a stranger and just letting the conversation go, like nettles you can’t pick out your socks. “So were you heading somewhere, before you slammed your way through the door?”

Derek winces. “You saw that?” 

“Bit hard not to. You looked like you wanted to murder someone.” He says it like it's impossible, but Derek's got the claws to prove otherwise.

“I was looking for my hotel.” He explains. "I got a little lost."

“In the middle of the night?”

“That’s when the train got in.” Derek defends his plight. How was he to know Poland of all places would be problematic? It has seemed so simple on the brochure.

“You didn’t think to call a taxi?”

He had as a matter of fact. But then by the time he’d found a phone booth he had been exhausted. Then a string of words he didn’t recognise echoed through the receiver and he had hung up. “It hadn’t crossed my mind.”

Stiles looks at him like hes slightly dumb before saying, “Well, where are you staying?” 

Derek can’t remember the name. He gulps. “Umm. Palace…something?”

Stiles grimaces. “Bonerowski? You were going to walk there. During a snow storm?”

Derek looks to the lock on the door. Someone is sleeping on the floor by the bar. Some have stalked up stairs. Others seem content to drink till morning. No one approaches the door. “I was.” He says. “I’m not sure that’s an option right now.”

“No. You’d probably freeze to death.” He wouldn’t, but it would be extremely painful. “You can stay here tonight. They have rooms up stairs.”

Derek looks at the man sleeping on the floor. “I’m pretty sure they’re booked out.”

Stiles pushes away his empty plate, and pulls out a small jingly key from his pocket. “Lucky for you I have a room, if you’re interested. It’s the size of a cupboard and definitely not as nice as your hotel, but there's a bed. In the most literal sense.” He holds the key like an offering, with a roguish glint in his eyes that makes Derek's stomach churn and his cheeks redden. The humans attraction is overt, and cockish. He’s pushy, in the way young men tend to be. When they haven’t learned what the word subtle means.

Derek can't tell if he wants it or not. That's bad.  “How old are you?” He asks, needing something else to focus on.

Stiles supplies his age easily. “Twenty, you?”

Don't give in Derek. This isn't what he came for. Sure talking is nice...but is he really prepared for a one night stand? “Twenty-eight.” He looks away. “Do you do this often? With older guys? Tourists.”

Maybe Stiles is evil. Because this is almost too good to be true, so there must be something wrong with him. Something that Derek can use as an excuse to say no.

This time Stiles turns red, and he sputters a bit. “W-what? No. Who do you take me for!”

“I don’t take you for anyone. I just met you!”

“Spierdalaj! Dude. If you want to sleep out here all night, be my guest. I don’t need to be called a slut for basic human decency.”

Derek reels back, holding his hands up. He never wanted to offend the guy (okay, maybe just a little. But it wasn't really about Stiles) and now he's trying to do damage control. “I never said that.”

Stiles pouts, and it's almost adorable. “You might as well have.”

He can feel the stranger pulling away, and something about that makes Derek apologise. “I’m sorry. It’s just… I don’t understand. Why you seem to like me.”

“Who said I liked you?”

Derek freezes. "Uh—I.”

Stiles laughs. A full belly laugh that cuts through the air. “Kidding! Sorry It’s just, do you always read this much into everything? Or is that just special treatment reserved for me?” 

Derek doesn't know what to say. It's been a long day.

After a moment the man across the table mellows out a bit, wiping a single tear from his eye and smiling. “Look. You're hot man, but this doesn’t have to be a thing. I just thought I’d offer the bed. Sorry If I came off as weird.”

It feels like the most human conversation he’s ever had, flaws and all. Derek’s stomach flutters. “You didn’t come off as weird. I—have issues. I guess.” He always manages to do this, twisting good intentions from good people into bad things. And bad intentions from bad people into good things. There is something wrong, with Derek Hale. Something within himself he can’t control. He’s never been a carefree person. Always overthinking every little thing. 

He wonders what his life could be like, if he would just let go. If he could do something for himself. Just once. 

Stiles looks at him with sympathy, and shrugs. “No shit. Don’t worry though. Everyone has issues. At this point the whole of humanity is so fucked up that we all loop right back around to normal. Now. You didn’t answer my question.”

“Your question?”

Stiles jerks his head towards the stairs. “My room? There's a space heater up there.”

It’s probably the most cramped stairwell he’s ever entered, and the room isn’t any better. Derek lugs his bag behind him while Styles fiddled with the lock, and when they enter he sighs. The bedroom really is no bigger than a generously sized wardrobe. With about eleven inches of space between the wall and the bed. 

Derek spots another bag of luggage and for the first time since he met the stranger, Derek wonders why he’s here. “You’re travelling?”

Stiles flops back first onto the mattress, the springs creaking beneath him as he kicks his shoes off towards the wall. “Oh yeah. Visiting for my Uni break, which may or may not be indefinite. Figured I’d give my dad some space. For a week or two.”

“Where are you from?” Derek asks, standing awkwardly, not sure why he even agreed to come up here. It's slightly warmer than downstairs, but not by much.

“You wouldn’t have heard of it. More north of Warsaw.” Stiles gives him a strange look and smirks. “You just gonna stand there all night?”

Derek furrows his brows, slightly confused. “What do you want me to do?”

“Take off your shoes for one.” When Derek doesn't comply the younger man pushes up onto his arms and gives a more comforting smile. He holds his palms up. “I promise I’ll keep my hands to myself. It’s like one in the morning and even if you were down I’m not in the mood."

Derek gulps, and certainly doesn't blush. "O-okay."

"So…take off your shoes?”

He does.

Quite slowly according to Stiles, but he does. One boot at a time. Unlike the human it's practically impossible for Derek to sleep in his own filth comfortably, so despite protest he freshens up in the ridiculously small bathroom attached to the room. The door creaks as it closes and Derek tries not to growl as cold water drenches him when he starts the shower. Derek sighs, leaning against the wall. The exhaustion is consonant, but it doesn't seem to register his brain with the need to sleep. 

Instead his body does the ridiculous thing of getting aroused. He groans, and hopes Stiles human ears can't hear him. All of the teasing has him wound up, and his cock is fattening up as the seconds tick by and the hot water abuses his back. Instead of ignoring it like he usually does, Derek takes his neglected member in his hands and prays. he thinks of pouting red lips. Mean eyes. Long bony fingers. He cups his own balls, spasms a little.

Derek tries not to make a habit of touching himself. His thoughts wander recklessly when he does. He licks his lips and his head lulls back. He imagines someone licking along his neck and trembles under the water. He squeezes the soft flesh ever so slightly, rubbing a thumb along his aching slit.

He imagines Stiles bursting through the door, drenching himself as he gets on his knees and taking Derek's cock into the wet heat of his mouth. Derek bites his cheek the same way he's bite along Stiles shoulder. Marking himself the way he's mark the stranger. He imagines how Stiles might gag, still managing to look smug as he'd take Derek all the way until his nose brushes his stomach. It's so hot. The shower. Scalding. His hands pump up and down, abusing his dick until his knees wobble and he's spilling over the bathroom tiles. He watches as his come washes down the drain, and feels a little sick. 

He brushes his teeth and tries to forget. 

Stiles is practically asleep when he comes back. Practically, because he still managed to demand that Derek get in the bed between snores. He thinks about running away (not for the first time) but theirs no where to go. He gets in and tries to leave as much space between them as he can.

There was something nice about laying next to the human. Not in a weird way, or an arousing one. It was more, serine. Watching how he drools on the pillow, spreads out with no regard for how small the mattress actually is. Derek can’t even remember the last time he shared a bed with someone. Let alone a stranger.

Stiles doesn’t feel like a stranger though. Not anymore. He feels like someone Derek should know. Who he needs to know. That makes him panic a little, because feelings like that come with implications he’d find hard to ignore.

Perhaps the comfort comes from an instinctual place. Sharing a space, the mixing of scents. If that's the case then he shouldn't worry. It doesn't feel like that. Stiles smells like cheap deodorant, flesh and blood. Kate had smelt like expensive perfume, and the metal burn of a gun. Derek didn’t know he could vanquish the memory of her, like this. So easily, drifting off in an uncomfortably bumpy bed with a man he’d only met hours ago.

“How are you still awake?” Stile grumbles into the pillow, somehow sensing Derek's lucidity.

“I don’t know,” he whispers back. “Not tired. Slept a lot on the train.”

He tugs the blankets a little in annoyance and kicks at Derek's shins childishly. “Whoopee rich man."

"Maybe I should go." Derek says mostly to himself.

Stiles is quiet, and Derek thinks he might have fallen back asleep. He almost gets up to go. He really doesn't want to. It's like a den in here. It smells so nice. Like comfort. Like the best place on earth. If his face is red, then he can blame the dark. The quilt at feeling so good makes him want to leave more. He shouldn't be here. He doesn't deserve-

Stiles speaks up again, turns over to face him and throws off the blanket. "Say. If I can make you sleep, will you take me out to breakfast?”

Derek freezes. “Sure.” He agrees before he can even think it through. Before the implications run through his brain and make his spent cock want to wake up again. The feeling is powerful and jarring enough even after jerking off that makes Derek realise that maybe he's in this deeper than he'd thought. He's about to say no again when Stiles sits up with a lazy happy smile.

“Rad.” Stiles doesn't look like he's scheming but his actions remain bizarre. With his cold human hands that makes Derek shudder he forces the older man to flip and lay on his stomach. “Can you take your shirt off?”

“I thought you said you’d keep your hands to yourself.” He retorts feeling overwhelmed and slightly dizzy. He's glad his crotch iis pressed into the bed, hidden away. He wiggles like a worm taking his shirt off, because at this point Stiles could tell him to jump out the window and he probably would.

The other man rolls his eyes. “Har. Har. Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m doing this for free breakfast.” Stiles' palms fall to cup his shoulder blades, and Derek forces himself not to tremble under the touch. The young man whispers, his voice struggling to stay timbre in the silence of the night. “When I was little I had really bad insomnia. Like, really bad. So one night Mom decides to trace my back. Thinking it might help.”

He can feel Stiles thumbs circle along his back, and soon each hand is gliding down his bare skin leaving fluttery tingling in its place. Derek lets out a strained exhale, and feels the wave of exhaustion settle into his bones. 

Stiles continues to whisper. His voice begins to sound soft and hazy. Like a lullaby. “She used to map out the meridians on my back. Couldn't tell where she learned that. I mean she majored in education.” His thumb drags over the bumps of Derek's spine. “I don’t know if I believe in the things she did, but I can’t knock her methods. I mean I would just conk out. Like that. So I hope this works because I’ve really sold myself on the free breakfast idea and honestly I don’t know if I could recover—”

Derek doesn’t remember much after that.

At a small cafe near the city's edge during the early morning of the ninth month of the year, Stiles Stilinski says something that changes his life forever. Neither of them know what those exact words are, but it changes things.

“Do you ever meet someone, and just know. That they’re important. That if you don't dig your nails in and hold on, you’ll miss your chance.”

Derek has always known he’s into men. Sort of anyway. The potential was there. In the back recesses of his mind.

He’d never actually completed the thought though. Not until now. Not until the opportunity presented itself. This is all so new. All so strange. He feels a sense of clarity. The kind of which he can’t ever remember experiencing. Suddenly the word is in focus. He’s never felt more well rested, more sure of himself. The caffeine in his coffee is surprisingly strong. His eyes are open. Stiles words flow into one ear and settle into his brain.

The weather is miraculously better. A winter wonderland, instead of last night's frozen hell. He wants to thank Stiles for that, even though he knows the man has nothing to do with it.

“Yeah. I think so.” He admits. 

Stiles hums into his bagel and chews slowly. Methodically savouring the taste. There's sauce stuck in the corners of his lips. Derek wants to reach out and taste it.

“Do you believe in soulmates?”

Derek sucks in a breath. Logically he knows. Knows that there's no such thing. But knowing that doesn’t make him want one any less. Someone to understand him. Someone he can have, to have him in turn.

“Everyone has their person. I guess."

"So then yes? To the soulmate thing." The younger man prods.

Derek has to shake is head, because wishful thinking doesn't change the facts. "No. People don’t just, magically click together. That doesn’t happen.”

Stiles sighs, as if dissapointed by that answer. “Yeah figured. I don’t believe that crap either. It’s just something my Mom used to say." Then he pivots into another bizarre question. "Hey. Are you married?”

“What?” Derek jumps in his chair, surprised wondering where that had come from. He holds up his hand. “Obviously not. Do you see a ring?”

Stiles laughs. “No. I guess that means you're running out of time.” He brings his feet onto the chair, so he can tuck his chin on his knees.

His long limbs never seem to know what to do with themselves. Derek sort of wants to reach out and rearrange them. Pose him like a doll. Get a hold of yourself. He hears Kate hiss. She never had the patience for his whims and wants. God. It had all seemed so good. Derek knows now not to trust his wants, even if Stiles seems so needy. Even if Stiles would welcome his touch. He's all provocative and foolish, where Kate was gentle and controlling. He tries to remember when he loved her. It's hard to accept that he'd thought about marrying her. That would have been a disaster. He doesn't even want to know what kind of carnage that would have caused. He'd dodged a bullet with Kate, and he wasn't too keen on making the same mistake. 

Derek’s face scrunches up and he folds his arms. “I was under the impression men could take as much time as they wanted.” His father has said that once he'd rid himself of Jen. Before Derek had decided to run away.

“That’s misogynistic.” Stiles points out. “Anyway. I just mean it’s something I used to hear. You know. Before a man turns thirty he should the main three."

"Main three?" Derek has never heard that before.

Stiles counts each thing on a finger. "A house, a spouse and a baby.”

“That’s, conservative.” He replies flaty. 

The younger man smiles kindly, like he agrees. “It’s metaphorical. Past, present and future. You should have a house for the past, a partner for security…I think? And something for your future. The baby represents your legacy. You don’t have to have all three literally. Just something to resemble them. It marks success. I suppose.”

Derek thinks this over. It sounds like something his mother would say. To pressure him into marrying some other packs ‘respectable’ daughter, or whomever else she finds acceptable. Stiles doesn’t say it to judge him though. In fact, he appears to find the concept slightly ridiculous. “Who told you that?”

“A fortune teller.” He tries for a moment, but when Derek doesn't laugh he continues. “My grandpa actually. He was really superstitious.”

“So what happens then? If I don't have all of that before I turn thirty.”

The younger man’s grin becomes smarmy and humorous, and he looks up towards the sky when he says. “Oh. You’ll spontaneously combust.”

He feels the corner of his lips tick up. “I guess I gotta hurry then”

“Times are a ticking.”

“I guess I just need to spouse and the baby though, since I’m supposed to inherit a country house when I marry.” He never usually mentions that part, but when he says it instead of Stiles eyes lighting up, he groans.

“Fucking lucky bastard!” Stiles curses, feinting anger in a humours outburst. “I hope you never marry. I hope you get cursed with ugliness."

"Curse?" Derek gulps trying not to laugh.

Stiles nods furiously. "I know a witch you know. I could get her to curse you.”

Derek raises a brow. “You know a witch?”

Stiles pauses, thinking. “Well, she claims to be. But that’s besides the point. It’s unfair. You get to travel the world and inherit a mansion!”

“I never said it was—” Going to marry.

“Nope. Stop talking. I like you but I might punch you on principle.” Stiles murmurs the last bit into his knee. “Bogaty dupku, powinienem zainwestować w złoto. Kup rezydencję.”

Derek smiles and has to hide it behind his hands. He coughs, and changes the subject. “You said you were here on your school break right? What are you studying?”

That provokes another groan. “Law. The subject of masochists.”

They're both smiling, and Derek wonders how long he can drag this breakfast on for.

But all things end. “Hey. Do you want me to walk you to your hotel? I know a shortcut from here.”

His smile fades. “Sure.”

There were roughly two times in the day where the Hale house kitchen could be considered ‘crowded’ (breakfast, obviously. And that odd time between lunch and dinner where everyone was hungry but they had either just eaten. Or dinner was to soon be prepared, and so instead the children would just woefully stare at the fridge until something was made of itself).

Peter usually made the effort to avoid the kitchen during both those times.

It wasn’t that he disliked cowed spaces. Really, the word ‘crowded’ came with connotations that were entirely false. The kitchen was big enough for all the Hales to fit at once, and then maybe twenty more with a squeeze. But…if you were going to live in a mansion full of werewolves? Well it was plain smart to avoid the feeding frenzy. Truthfully, what was the point of such a big house if you couldn’t wander without bumping into someone? Wasn’t the point of these places the space? The vastness of the halls. 

Peter usually avoids the kitchen during breakfast. It’s the clever thing to do.

So it came as quite a shock, when he woke up that infamous morning compelled towards the kitchen. On that frosty winter morning, when the birds didn't sing.

 Maybe it was the citrusy smell of anger that wafts off his dear sister, who stands by the bench opening mail like the papers were a blight on the universe. A subconscious call from his Alpha. Maybe it was the surprising silence from his oldest nieces, who would usually be snarling over the toaster by now.

Perhaps it was the twins, who’d made themselves scarce with scents that disappeared down the hall away from the agitated Alpha. Or perhaps mystery truly does love company, in which case who better company than Peter?

He crosses his arms and leans into the doorway. Because appearances are important, and it always makes his older sister scowl. Like she’s afraid he might stain the wallpaper with his beta filth. She doesn’t even spare him a glance though. Instead her hands are shaking, as she intently reads a postcard he can’t quite see. 

He looks to his eldest niece, Laura. Who’s sucking her lips in and looking anywhere other than her mother. He whispers. “What is it?”

She shrugs, and Cora whispers back. “We think it’s from Derek.”

At the mention of her eldest son's name Talia growls, and begins a truly memorable tirade.

“How could he!" She bellows. "Why would he do this! To me! He could choose anyone in the Patriciate! The Packs!” She storms over and pushes the postcard into his hands. “Read it.” She commands.

Cora hops up and Laura rushes over to peer over his shoulder while Peter rolls his eyes and looks down at the card. There's a picture of a city skyline, and cursive font forming a charming ‘From Warsaw’ print plastered in the corner of the photo. Peter raises a curious brow. "I didn't know he was in Poland."

"He's in Poland?" He niece questions.

"Read it!"

He flips it over to see his nephews calligraphic handwriting. The proceeding note is short, hardly sweet. Exactly the kind of thing he’d expect from his broody nephew.

Peter's eyes squint, and he begins to read out loud. “Mother. I have met someone. A human. We are currently preparing to depart for America, and wish to be married by the end of the month!” Cora begins to slap his shoulder and he grins cruelly, continuing. “I hope you can embrace my fiance with the respect they deserve. I expect to be home no less than a week after you receive this postcard. Your son, Derek.” 

Peter can barely finish reading the note, before he’s collapsing over himself clutching his chest trying to contain the laughter. Cora snatches the card and begins to read it herself. Laura steps back, reeling in shock.

Talia is still furious, and her claws scratch into the marble counter tops with unbridled rage. “Peter! Stop laughing! Derek’s coming home with a…a—”

“A commoner?” Peter supplies with a smirk. He has to wipe tears from his eyes as he tries to regulate his breathing before his Alpha decides to sink her claws into him.

“Be serious! He’s coming home with a human! A stranger he met in Poland.” She spits.

Peter walks over to sit on the stool and grabs an apple. He lets out a single claw and begins to slice at the skin. Talia frowns as juice squirts across the kitchen. He drawls. “How horrible.”

His older sister growls, barley controlling her animal nature. She argues. “I have tried with him! I was patient. I gave him his space. He said he wanted to travel and I let him! Because I knew that there are hundreds of available heirs he could choose, werewolves. Appropriate partners. He could have married a princess if he wanted to!”

“Well, he didn't want to marry a princess.” Cora points out. "He hated her actually."

Peter shudders, remembering every Gala full of heirs throwing themselves at the Hale son. Sometimes it was hard to tell if Derek was oblivious, or just plain cruel. Either way Peter respected it. 

Because unlike his mother, Derek cared little about the ‘high society packs’ and ‘old money bastards’ the family did their dealings with. Out of all of Talia's children, Derek being the one to marry a normal human was the least surprising.

Of course to Talia this was tantamount to social suicide, having her son suddenly of the market. Another bargaining chip taken away from her. She throws her hands in the air. “What am I supposed to do!”

Nothing. She could do nothing. Peter can’t tell her this though. 

Thankfully Laura decides to pipe up. "I mean, we can just let it run its course? Knowing Derek's track record with relationships." She hitches her shoulders up, feeling horrible for saying what she belies to be true.  "This will pass over in a couple months.”

“Really? Because he's never married any of the others,” Cora says.

Laura swallows. “Then we keep a prenup ready, and maybe keep a knife under his pillow.”

Peter bites into the apple, and a loud crunch echoes through the room that makes them all cringe. “You guys are overreacting. He’s a grown man. He can marry who he wants.”

“That's the problem!” His sister screeches.

“You haven’t even met the finance! I’d reserved my judgements Alpha. Before we start looking too prejudiced.”

He does not laugh at Talia's unimpressed expression. He doesn’t.

Stiles says goodbye to the handsome stranger unceremoniously outside of a ridiculously ostentatious hotel. He doesn’t even want to wonder how much a room is for one night, and maybe that’s why he runs off so quickly. Leaving Derek with his mouth ajar at the door.

Stiles doesn’t have much of a plan after that. Not that anything within the previous twenty four hours had been planned either.  He slaps both his cheeks to make the red blush go away. Kurwa mać! It feels like a dream. Like he somehow managed for the first time in his life, to be appealing to another. Not that Derek did much to show it, besides a magical glint in his eye.

Stiles takes a deep breath. Despite the night's rendezvous still leaving him…a virgin, he decides to count it as a success. Ignoring the twinge of self disgust, when acknowledging sharing a bed with a stranger is the farthest he’s ever gotten with another person. It was a Derek Hale person though. A really...really hot person. Like disastrously attractive, who’d fallen fast asleep under Stiles hands (Less sexy than it sounded). He’ll bet the pub's bed still smells like him. Woody cologne and the distinct scent of man. The perfect man. Who'd paid for breakfast and dinner, like a proper gentleman (if you ignore the fact that Stiles had bargained both out of him).

He shakes his head and shivers, trying to focus on his full stomach. Instead of his crestfallen feelings. He’d do best to try and forget the night. It wasn’t like he was going to see Derek again. Surprisingly awkward Derek, who looked like a rubber band about to snap. A sexy rubber band. It would have been nice if he'd snapped in Stiles direction, but that was probably reserved for some kinder younger woman with pearls around her neck.

They didn’t exactly run in the same circles. Or the same country, for that matter. Stiles sighs, and continues on his way. At least he has wishful thinking. A twisted imagination that would push him through the week. 

He just ate, but Stiles thinks he needs some more carbs. He’s heard somewhere that carbs counteract heartbreak. Not that he was experiencing heartbreak. That would be…pathetic.

It’s not his fault that goodbyes are sad. Even between strangers.

He makes his way to a phone booth, and has to half undress just to find a złoty in the back pockets of his pants. The door squeaks when he watches it open, and it takes him ten tries for his shaking hands to type in the number. He waits a moment for the department to put the call through to his fathers office. Usually he’d be scolded for calling during work hours. But with him being so far away, his dad doesn’t care.

“Tato! How are things?” It’s a comfort, switching back to Polish. Like taking off a tight collar. 

“Stiles. What have you done?”

He winces. “Nothing! You need to stop answering my calls like that. Acting like I'm always in trouble.”

“You are always in trouble.”

He rests his forehead on the plastic window and exhales into the receiver.  “Well not today! Today has been good!”

“It’s eight in the morning. If you had fucked up before now it would be a new record.”

“Sheesh. Don’t ever let anyone call you soft Ta.” Stiles replies. “Rude too. I asked how you are. Are you eating well?”

“Granola and yoghurt. The usual bullshit. The mornings have been slow, but good. How are you?”

Stiles tugs on his jacket strings. The phone booth is freezing, with the sky still a pale grey recovering from the night's storm. “I’m thinking of cutting the trip short. Coming back home.”

“Has it not been good? ”

He shrugs even though his father can’t see. The truth was he came to Kraków for some time away. To figure out what he wanted to do. School was not what he’d expected and suddenly the entire trajectory of his life had been in question. He’d wanted a few days to himself. Nothing made you know yourself like an unfamiliar place. But meeting Derek had changed things. Meeting him has been fun. Good. But it had highlighted that Kraków wasn’t the place for him to get his shit together. Not when lost men like Derek ended up there with their rich whims.

“It’s been good. I just want to come home. The cold is worse here.”

“It shouldn't be any colder than Warsaw.”

“Well it feels colder.” Stiles tutts. “Anyway, I’m thinking of catching the train tomorrow.”

“I’ll pick you up.”

“You don’t have to.”

His father laughs. “Yes I do.”

When the call ends Stiles feels worse than when it started. He still feels like a kid. Like despite how much he tries to move forward, he's stuck as his dads bothersome teenager. The kid who can’t stop bouncing off the walls and fucking shit up. His throat feels tight. At least when men like Derek Hale leave to go out to find themselves, they have the money. They have the time. Stiles never has enough time. Always running, never getting anywhere. At this rate, he’ll never see California again. Never see his mothers grave again. He clenches his eyelids. Willing the tears away. 

He spends the rest of the day holed up in the rented room. Leaving will basically throw the money he put into the room down the drain, but it’s worth it. Derek's scent still lingers on his side of the bed. Stiles at the memory, waking up practically huddled together to fight the cold. Derek bare chest pressed against his arm. He groans, and can’t help but reach his hand into the front of his pants.

He hisses. His hands are cold. "F-fuck."

He’s already filling up, his cock still an exciting young thing jumping at any opportunity it can get. Stiles counts himself lucky it had been too cold to be a problem last night. He bites his lip, using his right arm to pump his shaft. His knees spasm. There's little room beneath his zipper. So he has to pull his hands away for a tortuous moment. Wrestling with his pants and tugging them down.

His red tip peaks out from the top of his underwear. Wet and glossy. Stiles spits into his hand and begins to stroke again. Slowly, teasing at the warm soft flesh. He leans back, pushing his nose into the pillow. Trying to inhale as much of the other man's scent as he can. It’s regretfully fading. Stiles jerks faster, needing to finish before the scent fades away.

His feet hike up on the bed, his stomach clenching with need. He debates taking his cock out entirely, but the air is too bitter for it. His hands are dry. What he would do for some lube. He brings his hand back up, ignoring the smell and licking a long stripe on his palm. He brings his other hand to his throat. He doesn’t squeeze, but the pressure is enough to make him shudder. It’s grounding, and makes him want to untangle even more. His cock is so needy beneath his hand, but it seems no matter how fast he strokes, he can’t cum. At this point, the flesh will begin to flay open. An unknowable monster, busting open his balls.

The frustration makes him cry out, which turns into a horrified scream when he hears knocking at the door. His wrist strains as he rips his hands away from his erection in fright, and he curses.

“Just a second!” Stiles falls off the bed. Breathless and mortified. He hopes, prays, that whoever's at the door didn’t hear… any of that.

He hikes his pants up and hops on both feet. His dick is horrifyingly painful, and so Stiles takes a moment to rush to the bathroom to splash water on his face (and a little on his dick). He flicks the water onto the mirror, and his eyes glance to an unfamiliar toothbrush lying on the counter. “Huh.” He didn't have time to consider it further, as he rushed away.

He wasn't expecting Derek Hale, when he opened the door. A slightly red Derek Hale. 

Stiles squints. “Did you run here?” He blurts out.

One. Two. Three seconds. “W-what?” There's a blank nature to his eyes. Like he’s far away, looking through Stiles into the great unknown. It takes the older man a moment to come back to reality. “No! I uh—was I interrupting something?”

Stiles blinks. “Nope.” He ignores the disbelief on Derek's face. What he doesn't know won't kill him. “Can I help you?”

“I left my toothbrush here.” He explains dully.

Stiles eyes widen, remembering what he’d just seen in the bathroom. “Oh Yeah! Wait a second I’ll grab it—”

“Wait!” Derek reaches out, and Stiles freezes when the other man's large warm hand bolts out and grabs onto his risk. Derek looks down at where their skin connects, and pulls back quickly. He wipes his hands on his pants, like Stiles’ contaminated. “I. Do you want to go out for dinner?”

Stiles, dumb as ever,  doesn't register the question. “Huh?”

“Dinner. With me.”

Shit! The corner of Stiles lips twitch upwards. A small smile forming.  He folds his arms, trying to look unfazed, and tilts his head like a curious dog. He’s never been asked out before, and he doesn't want to ruin it by bouncing around like a giddy little girl.

“Dinner? Hmm. Depends. What do you have in mind?” It doesn't depend. Stiles is going to say yes.

It’s blatantly obvious Derek hasn’t thought that far. Actually, Stiles thinks Derek hadn’t even planned to ask him out. Because he looks as surprised as Stiles feels, and it takes him a couple seconds to respond. “There's a restaurant at my hotel. We could go there.”

“Your hotel?” Stiles doesn’t own clothes nice enough to dine there, not that Derek appears to mind. “That’s…expensive.”

“Money isn’t an issue.” Rich bastard. You can't just say things like that.

Derek turns red again, when Stiles laughs at this declaration. “S-shit.” He says between giggles. “No-no need to rub it in hot stuff.”

“I wasn’t rubbing anything in.”

“I know. I’m just teasing.”

Derek purses his lips. “You haven't answered.”

Stiles sort of wants to drag this out, but he feels the invitation slipping away the longer it takes him to answer. “Ok.”

“Ok?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes. I will have dinner with you.”

“Oh. Good.” Derek nods, pleased with himself. “Because I’ve looked at the menu and I do not understand a word.”

Stiles can't help but grin. A stupid genuine grin he can’t force off his damn face. “How have you survived this long?”

“Sheer force of will.” 

— And, Stiles thinks, a trust fund the size of Russia.

Talia’s youngest children, the twins, are maybe Peter’s favourite of his sisters' brood. Sarina and Simon. Radical little assholes. Terros to behold, once they've sold themselves to an idea. Peter has long since been banned from influencing them. Not since the last time, where they went almost a whole six months without speaking. Talia had not liked that, not at all. He admires their dedication. It almost makes up for the fact that he has to live in a house with 'gasp' teenagers.

At least they were human (as human as the Hales could get anyway). That made them slightly less dangerous.

He watches, as they run around fiddling with bouquets. A fat load of bouquets. The dining room is practically full of them. The long table, covered in thousands upon thousands of different coloured flowers. Peter fights off a sneeze. Simon is trying to stuff a Petunia into his twin sister's mouth, and Laura keeps trying to re-wrap a bundle of wilting lilies. She doesn't seem to realise she's snarling at the poor buds.

Talia sighs. “This is impossible! I have nothing to go off! I’m practically running blind.”

Sarina turns to her mother, and asks the obvious question. “Why are we even doing this? We haven't even met the fiance.”

Laura gives up, and drops the flowers onto the floor. “Because! Derek wants to be married by the end of the month—”

“And my Son isn’t having some backdoor illegitimate wedding. I will not be seen ashamed. If Derek is going to be married with or without my permission, then he is going to be married right.” Talia finishes. “Unfortunately, that requires flowers.”

Simon holds up his hands. “What if you choose something the fiance doesn’t like?”

Peter pipes up. “I get the impression the fiance is of little concern to your mother.”

“Right!” Talia cries. “I’m the alpha. The mother. If Derek and his harlot are going to play tricks then they need to understand the consequences.” God, Peter realises. This is going to be the most ostentatious wedding in the history of California.

Maybe even America.

Then, Simon says something they are all keenly aware of. “Derek isn't going to like a big wedding.” He'll hate it, actually.

Peter bites his lip and holds a tense breath. It’s true. Derek's dislike of crowds is well, infamous amongst the packs. It’s entirely possible that this last minute attempt at a marriage was his attempt to avoid all the kit and kaboodle.

If that’s the case, then Derek underestimated his mother. She’ll run this wedding like a bootcamp. A military operation. Ensuring no less than half of all high society America attends. Peters is going to have to buy a nose guard to ward off all the eligible packs' daughters' sorrowful scents. The idiot dames. Thinking they could get in with him.

What’s got them all so hung up on Derek still leaves him questioning, but Peter thinks it might have more to do with his name and face than his not so stellar personality. 

“Are white roses too overdone?” Talia says to herself, as if she hadn't heard Simon at all.

“A little” Peter ignores her scowl, and stalks out of the room.

Derek knows it’s rude to tell someone they should shower.

He knows it. Okay?

But knowing that doesn’t make him want to do it any less. Because Stiles smells, and it's making Derek do stupid things. Like asking him to dinner, and spacing out every time he speaks. He tries not to scrunch up his nose. There's this distinct smell of sexual frustration, that thankfully is mostly faded once they're seated at the restaurant. It’s still distracting though. Lingering on everything Stiles touches. It makes Derek speed through their order, hoping the smell of a fresh hot meal will overpower his date.

Stiles looks out of place. So...normal. Inside the restaurant. His clothes are about a thousand dollars too cheap, but it's up for debate whether he notices this. He’s as confident here as he was in that little hole in the wall pub. His arm stretched out to fiddle with the salt shaker, wrinkling the neatly pressed tablecloth. Derek can’t help but lean forward and pluck it out of his hands. That last thing he needs is Stiles breaking something.

“Were you raised in a barn?”

Stiles throws his head back and Derek recoils. The smell is stronger when he does things like that. “Pft. Worse.”

Derek reaches for the water. “Worse?”

“A cop. I’m basically the prototype latchkey kid.” Stiles says it like it’s an achievement. 

“I don’t think that’s something to be proud of.”

Stiles leans his face into his hands and sticks out his tongue. “Says you! You were probably coddled by an army of au pairs.” 

“You have some odd preconceptions about my life.” Derek points out, looking away from Stiles mouth.

“Are you telling me I’m wrong?”

He takes a sip. The nerves won't dissipate. “Yes. I was hardly coddled, and there certainly weren’t any au pairs.”

Stiles looks a little disbelieving but shrugs one of acceptance. "Whatever you say."

It’s clear he knows nothing about packs. There isn’t a universe where Talia Hale lets a stranger raise her children. She was as hands on as a parent could get. The strongest Alpha on the west-coast. It’s a good thing Stiles doesn’t know this. If he did there's no way Derek would have gotten this far with him. 

It took him this long to realise, he likes that Stiles is a human. It makes him oblivious to certain things, and keenly aware of others. He likes to pretend he's wiser than Derek, and the truth is he probably is. Stiles seems to have lived more lives than Derek could imagine, all confined in one tiny Polish town. He's smarter than he should be, and meaner than that. He glares around the restaurant, not with distaste but with a smile. Like he finds all the gold and marble frankly ridiculous. Which means he probably finds Derek even more ridiculous.

It doesn’t take long for their meals to arrive.

Derek is incredibly thankful his plate just has normal simple pasta. The scent of fresh tomato sauce and hearty meats cover that of Stiles, who eats with the same grace a small misbehaving child. 

“So.” Stiles begins. “How are you finding Poland?"

Despite the fact that he had spent most of his time here thinking of ways to keep Stiles around? "It's okay. Cold. Not any colder than Vienna though."

Stiles agreed. "God. Do I miss Cali summers. How long do you think you're going to stay?”

Derek usually only stays in one place for three days. Maximum. Now leaving seems wrong. Not the place, this city really isn't any different from any other. But Stiles? That's not a person he should ever willingly leave. “I don’t know. I have the room for two more days, but we’ll see. What about you?”

The corners of Stiles' eyes wrinkle, and he looks down at his plate. “I’m going home tomorrow.”

A drop of dread pools in Derek's stomach. “Oh.”

“Yeah. I don’t know. I was missing my dad I guess. I’ve sort of done everything I wanted to do here so…”

Derek can't stay silent, but his throat almost catches as he says, “I get that. I miss my family too.”

Stiles folds his arms, looking slightly sad. “I wish I didn't. I worry about my dad too much."

"It's okay to worry."

Stiles shakes his head frantically. "No! It's all wrong. Like—my school made me go to counselling because I would have panic attacks all the time. Get in my head about it. I would just spiral, afraid he’d die too.” Stiles winces. “I’m a little crazy.”

Derek has never want to hug another person more. Let Stiles burrow into his arms and never worry again. He tries to smile. “Everyone's a little crazy.”

“No but I am— ” He lets out a hitched breath and has to stop. “Sorry. I’ve just…been thinking a lot about the future I guess. I just feel so strange. Sorry. I’m ruining your dinner.”

Stiles' left hand is shaking over his cutlery, and Derek decides holding himself back isn't doing anyone any favours. He reaches out and grabs it as gently as he can.“You haven't ruined anything.” Stiles still wont look up in his eyes, but Derek doesn’t mind. He just squeezes a little tighter and says.

“You haven't. Stiles. You're just human. I mean, do you think I manage to get myself caught in snow storms because I'm well adjusted. No. If you're crazy, then I’m ten times that.”

Stiles tongue swipes over his bottom lip, and his eyelids flutter. “Sorry.”

“Stop apologising.”

A harsh chuckle. “I can’t help it.”

Derek smiles, just a little. He pulls his hand away, and his dates brilliant golden eyes finally flicker up to meet his. He wants to say 'It's okay. You're perfect.'

Stiles looks at him with a bleary eyed wonder. “You really are something, aren't you? Mr Hale.”

“I could say the same to you…Mr?” He should have asked before, so he doesn't feel like an idiot in front maybe the most important person he's ever met.

“Stilinski.” he says dreamily.

“Stiles Stilinski? Who came up with that?” Derek wants to slap himself. or maybe claw out his tongue. That should certainly stop him from acting like a fool.

Thankfully Stiles only looks slightly peeved. “You're going to have to direct that question to a dead Polish immigrant buried somewhere in California, because unfortunately I can’t communicate with my grandpa's ghost.”

“What makes you think I can?” Derek asks. Despite his wolfish nature, necromancy was a bit beyond even his capabilities. That was more in Peters wheelhouse...the weirdo.

“Oh. I believe in you.” Stiles winks. "You'd be surprised at the sort of thing desperate people can get away with."

Derek wonders briefly if there's more to the human that he thought.

He watches Stiles squirt sauce all over the silk tablecloth, and then try to salivate the stain away.

Probably not.

Derek was supposed to stay in Poland for three days. He ends up staying for just over a month.

There is a reason for this, not that anyone cares to ask.

He manages to escort Stiles to the train station, arguing that his arms were much more efficient at carrying the Humans' packed luggage through the city.

Stiles makes the effort to protest just enough, but is really all too smug to let Derek do the hard work. Plus, they both knew Derek had nothing better to do. He’s all too content to watch the young man bounce ahead of him, pointing out things Derek could do once Stiles was gone. Derek doesn't want to think about Stiles being gone, even as he walks to send the man off. He thinks briefly about dropping his bag in the street and taking Stiles away. Keeping him in his hotel room and licking him all over until he smells like Derek. It's a creepy thought. The kind that makes him want to scrub soap all over his body until he's well again. 

“So. This is me.” Stiles points out flatly as the train begins to slowly pull in. He shifts on his feet, and tries to look anywhere other than Derek's direction. The doors breathe open, but Stiles doesn’t move. He hesitates, and Derek doesn't know how much of this he can take.

“I guess it is.” Derek mumbles, ignoring the well of sorrow overflowing in his chest. He’s not going to walk away he decides. Won’t move an inch until the train is out of view. 

Stiles whips around, his teeth caught in his lip as he stutters out a response. “I-I’ve had fun. With you. Thank you. For everything.”

Derek forces himself to smile. “It was nothing.”

Stiles shrugs. “Even so. You've been good to me. That's more than most can say.”

Then, quick as a flash, his lips are meeting Derek's left cheek. With a hard press quarter of an inch from his lips. It’s less of a kiss and more of an attack really. All anxious and fast, like Stiles might explode if he touched Derek for too long. The younger man pulls away, face crimson. Derek almost doesn’t register his words.

“I think I could have loved you.” he whispers.

Derek stands there shell shocked, and Stiles retreats into the train without another backwards glance. His hands hover over his cheek, fluttering over the phantom kiss.

Derek doesn't move for a long time. 

He tried to go back to normal after that. But wandering the city wasn’t as fun, without the chance of bumping into Stiles. He did his best to shake the idea of the younger man out of his head. He drank, ate the most expensive meals he could find. He debates walking out in the snow naked. But then he came to the conclusion that even that wouldn’t work. Stiles had buried further into Derek's walls in two days than anyone else had in years. For the first time, Derek felt his Hale stubbornness become uncontrollable. “I could have loved you.” ridiculous. The sort of thing young kids say when they think they’ll never see you again.

The sort of think stupid people believe.

Which in that case makes Derek the biggest idiot on earth. Because he believed it.

He just knew it. Deep down, past all the layers of scepticism. Stiles was the sort of person you held onto, and didn't let go of.

And Derek, cursing himself, had let him go. 

Stiles will later argue that there's nothing Derek could have done. That he would have left regardless. That it was a good thing, because everything would turn out for the best anyway. Derek will ignore this argument, despite its inherent truth. 

He stews on the idea of Stiles Stilinski for five days, before it becomes unbearable.

He just has to see him again. He’s never before wanted to explore a possibility this badly. It’s like a scratch that can't be satiated. A magical pull. His heart tugged in Stiles direction.

He decides. He won’t leave Poland. Not until they meet again.

Surprisingly the creepiness of this doesn’t initially cross Derek's mind (a fact that Stiles will religiously bully him for). It takes a while to register. He starts scheming over breakfast one day, and then he doesn’t stop. Stiles hadn't told him much about his personal life that Derek could really use, despite all the talking he'd done. The guy had only mentioned a general location, and a last name. 

If Stiles had told him the wrong name, Derek would have failed. If just one piece of information had been false, Derek would have failed. 
He would have died uncompleted. Without purpose. 

He hoped Stiles believed in true love.

“Yes.” Derek says into the phone's receiver, thankful the Alpha of Warsaw's northern pack knew at least some English. “I’m looking for a Stilinksi.”

“There are many Stilinksis.” She huffs.

“This one is a cop. Human.” The dad should be easier to trace than the son, so that is who Derek asks after. 

The Alpha is silent for a few tense seconds. “Doesn’t sound familiar.”
He stifles a growl. Foreign Alphas can be so difficult at times. “This is important. Hale Pack business.” He doesn’t like pulling his name out like that, but it does the trick. Scares the Alpha enough to get her to do what he wants.

“Call back tomorrow afternoon, and I might have the information you need.” Operative word might.

Derek grins. “Thank you.”

“May I ask why finding this cop is so important?”

Derek debates answering, but figures it unlikely for his words to reach back to his mother. “It’s his son I need.”

“Why?”

Derek gulps. “Because I think soulmates exist. And I think I've found mine.”

Derek still isn't sure he truly meant what he told the northern Alpha, but that doesn’t matter. Because it worked. Wonderfully. In fact the Alpha had gone above and beyond, relaying him with enough information to fill three full pages of a spiral-spined notebook.

Derek had an address, a school, and a rough schedule. It was more information than he knew what to do with. He’s going to have to tell Stiles to start covering his tracks. It’s sort of frightening how traceable he is. 

It takes him another two days to work up the coverage and book the train ticket. The wait did little for his anxiety. The longer it took him to make a move, the more he felt like he would die with worry. He feared that Stiles lied about wanting to love him. That he might have already forgotten Derek's name.

He sits in this panic for two days. Find himself staring blankly at empty plates, and watching the snow bother locals.

He drinks, but that doesn’t make him forget. He burns the contents of the notepad into his brain. That doesn’t make him feel any better. The need festers, and doesn’t bubble over until he finds himself half lost in a small desolate town about an hour out from Warsaw.

He drives past the abandoned icy sign. Wzgórza Latarni Morskich. He doesn’t try to read it. He sort of remembers what it means though. Somewhere in his notepad is the term Lighthouse hills. He’s pretty sure there is no lighthouse here. It doesn’t matter.

Somehow he's cognisant enough to hire a car, because it’s the sort of place you need a car for. Not that you'd think the roads were actually built for cars. Full of potholes they were. Derek tries not to freak out as each bump jostles him about as he drives. He felt like he might snap at anyone, and he knew he had to calm himself down. 

He manages to find a decent burger place for lunch. He takes the car for two laps of the town to nurse the bitter anxiety that keeps building (The potholes are a little better the further out you get). Then because he refuses to be more of a coward he waits in the car outside the police station at three in the afternoon, feeling like the biggest creep in the world as he watches Stiles through the window. 

He knows It’s going to be weird no matter how he does it, but leaning against the car feels slightly less creepy than seeking refuge within it like some kind of weird stalker. Not that this option is comfortable at all. He’s out in the cold for an uncountable amount of time. He kicks at slushy snow and waits. He can hear Stiles' laughter from across the parking lot, bothering some police who Derek presumes to be his dad.

Derek’s breath hitches as the door jingles open. This is it. This is how I die. Trying to answer the soulmate question in the police parking lot on the other side of the world.

Stiles slides through the front door without worry, humming to himself and tapping his feet with glee. His clothes are a little better. Less frayed, and his cheeks are warm from the heating.

He’s content, until his eyes look up and meet Dereks. 

Stiles almost falls over. "Shit!" He yelps. His knees buckle and wobble with shock. His hands grip the railing until his knuckles turn white. He looks slack-jawed, like he's seeing a ghost.

The young Pole seems about ready to call the police despite the fact that they're already outside the station. Even that doesn’t seem like it would stop him. “Did you follow me!” He screams, high and startled. 

Derek shudders at the sound. “Sort of?” There isn't any sort of. Derek did, and he just hopes it’s charming enough to stop Stiles screaming bloody murder. 

“Oh. my. God.” Speechless, Stiles eyes widened like big brown marbles. His hands shake, but not from the cold. “This is crazy. Am I going crazy? Am I Hallucinating?”

Derek can’t help but roll his eyes. “You're not hallucinating.”

“So I am going crazy!”

“Still up for debate.” Derek can’t help but reply.

It doesn’t seem to register. “I thought I was never going to see you again!” Okay, maybe this wasn’t the smarties idea, because Stiles looks like he’s about to have a panic attack. His breathing is getting heavy, and Derek can hear his heart begin to stutter.

“Are you a murderer? Have you come to chop me into little pieces!”

Derek holds his hands up, and takes a step back. “Stiles breathe.” He says it like a command, which only seems to work a little.

“How can I breathe when you're going to murder me!”

“I’m not going to murder you!” Derek yells. He doesn't want to raise his vice, but it carries anyway.

“How do I know that?”

“Because…” Derek gulps. It's now or never. “You said you loved me.”

Stiles' red cheeks bloom all over again. “I said I could have!”

Derek doesn’t look away, their eyes locked in a pseudo staring contest. “You said we had potential.”

Stiles clutches his jacket and frowns quizzically. “How are you even here?”

“...I caught a train?” He tries.

Stiles doesn't take the bait. He looks about ready to come over and sock him right in the face. “But how!”

Derek isn't quite sure how to get this back in his favour. He growls in frustration. “I have money! If I want to find someone it’s not hard.”

Surprisingly, blaming his wealth seems to soothe Stiles somewhat. It was if for the Pole Derek being rich explained away his admittedly odd erratic behaviour. At this point he takes what he can get. “You said you could have loved me.” He corrects. 

“I know.” Stiles' voice cracks a little. 

Derek exhales and tries to morph his face back into something strong and confident. It doesn't work. He feels weak, but he says what he came here to say. “At the train station. I-I keep thinking about it. And well, I figured our time together was cut a little short so…I came here?”

Stiles mouth hangs open, and then he shakes his head like a dog with wet hair. He blinks a few times, but when Derek doesn’t disappear he sighs. “You're crazy.” Then he laughs a little. “You're actually crazy.”

Derek shrugs. “Maybe a little.” the corners of his lips twitch up. Probably definitely, but Stiles actually seems to like that.

“I can’t tell if this is the most horrifying or romantic thing to ever happen to me.” Stiles whispers, but Dereks ears still catch it. “Idiot Nepo babies!” He says that bit quite loudly.

“Do you want to go on a date with me?” Derek yells, because when you can’t speak anymore you have to dance…or something like that. He might as well get everything off his chest. 

“Don’t ask me that! I’m trying to freak out!” He isn't, Derek can hear his panic slip away. 

“Is that a maybe?”

Stiles pauses, then turns around and heads right back into the station. 

“I’ll take that as a maybe!”

In the following week, they develop a routine. A sort of odd routine, but a routine regardless. One in which they would both hole up in their beds, only leaving once a day just to bump into each other. Every day Derek would wake up. Stare at the motel ceiling for an unknowable couple of hours, before bathing himself just to get in the rental car so he can wait outside the police station.

Sometimes he brings lunch, and tries not to smile when Stiles inevitably storms over to steal his fries or whatever else he bought that day. 

“You know there are better places out here right?” Stiles says once, leaning into the car window with a mouth full of food. “This deep fried shit is bad for your heart.”

Derek had shrugged. “I’m not really worried about that." 

Stiles had looked a little wry. “You should be. Someone has a heart attack every forty seconds.”

He doubts that's true. He's never even once seen someone have a heart attack. “If you’re so worried then why are you stealing my lunch?” 

Stiles glares, but it has no real bite. “Because I deserve compensation for all the stress you cause.” 

"Now that'll give you a heart attack."

Stiles laughs. "You're telling me! You do not want to hear about how I woke up this morning." He whispers. "So much sweat."

Every day he asks Stiles on a date. Usually he'll be shrugged off, or Stiles will just refuse to answer. This means every day he’ll watch Stiles walk back off to the station, only looking back now and then to make sure Derek's eyes are on him. 

Stiles looks at Derek like he’s some love sick loser. Like he likes how desperate Derek is. It's clear the younger man began to expect his presence every day. This is because he actually seems offended when Derek doesn’t show up on Friday (he had to re-rent the car. A cheaper model. Something he doesn't expect to need for longer).

They don't see each-other for the weekend. Which is fine. For most of it Derek keeps his hands down his pants, jerking off more times in those forty-eight hours than he ever did in his adolescence. Derek had never considered himself to have all that high of a libido. It's strange, the things desire brings out in him.

The monday after the great jerk off Stiles doesn’t even bother playing coy. He storms right over to the car and begins to irritatingly knock on the window until Derek puts it down.

“I thought you were supposed to be obsessed with me or something?” He snarls, making a pretty good impression of a feral wolf.

Derek tilts his chin up to answer. The truth was he was beginning to realise how horrible of an idea this was, and decided that if Stiles didn’t bite today then he would give up (and maybe buy a dildo...) “Where’d you get that impression?”

“Uhh-The stalking?” Stiles pouts and folds his arms. “You know it’s horrible for a man's ego, when even his stalker gets sick of him.”

Derek hadn’t gotten sick of anything. Really this whole situation just made him want Stiles more. “Well then I'll ask one last time, will you go on a date with me?”

“There's nowhere for us to go on a date here.” Stiles replies. 

Derek shakes his head. “I need a yes or no.”

“What happens if I say no?” Stiles tries.

He sighs. “Then I’ll leave. I actually have some family friends near here I'll go and stay with.” The northern pack had already agreed. “I’ll go with them until I can get a plane back to America.”

Stiles rakes suspicious eyes over him looking for the lie. He doesn't find any. His snarl softens, but he doesn't smile. Doesn't celebrate. In fact, he looks a little sad.“You’ll leave. Just like that?”

“Just like that.” Derek replies, rubbing his eyes and looking up. “I know this seemed really creepy. I just wanted to spend more time with you.”

Stiles breath hitches. He bites his lip and shifts on his feet, fighting against himself. They both wait with baited breath. Derek's words seem to do something new they'd never done before, and it wakes them both up a little and the younger man finally begins to do what they both want him to do.

“I should probably be more careful. Stop making declarations to strangers.” he murmurs. 

Derek doesn’t respond. He really wants to lean through the window and mack face, but that doesn't feel appropriate. 

“Ok.” Stiles whispers, red faced and slightly eager.

“Ok?”

“Yes! I’ll go on a date with you. Another date. I guess. Just one. And I’m going to have my dad run a background check on you.” He declares, trying to save himself some of his dignity.

Derek can’t help but smirk. Small victories.  

So. Derek Hale is rich. Ok. Of course.

Stiles knew this. But seeing it? Every minuscule number outlined in his dad's files? That was another story.

It was ridiculous. This man, this awkward older man suddenly obsessed with him, was basically American royalty. As close to a prince as California would ever see. Stiles tries not to combust just at that. The networth of the Hale medical foundation alone was astronomical. It was a dynasty of wealth, pooled together by a single last name. It validated every important thing Stiles thought about Derek. Validated everything.

His dads background check didn’t even begin to dip into individual trusts. Into the staff families like Dereks were certainly hiding. This was just the public record stuff. The stuff you found when you asked the Hale question. When one of them decided they wanted you.

Stiles swallows, but his throat doesn't want to comply. It was suddenly no wonder why Derek was so out of touch. Just speculating about his savings account made Stiles nauseous. 

This wasn’t comfortably rich. This was the unbearable kind. Disgusting even. Because that sort of money meant that someone, somewhere, did some very bad things to make a shit load of money. Money that caused even European princesses to gnaw at the bone just to get a glimpse of Derek Hale's cock, and the rivers of cash it would lead to.

“Shit kid, why do you want to know about this guy?” His dad has asked.

He was trying not to throw up into the waste paper bin. “School project.” He managed to get out. 

Stiles wasn’t a princess. He wasn't even well off. He was a nobody, which made it all the more bizarre realising that this man was suddenly besotted with him.

It made Stiles feel a little scared. Then after that a little powerful too, because there is something wrong with him.

It felt like a crime, to have someone so important wanting him.

He gets a little retrospective when looking through his Dereks background check. It’s not hard to. No history of violence. No history with the law. Just a massive paper trail of hotels and restaurants. Stiles spends the night going over all the newspaper scans and photos he can find. Derek looks like the prince he almost is. Suit steam pressed, cuff-links worth thousands. He thinks back to the Derek he met in Kraków. The grumpy attractive American stranger. He really wasn’t any different from the Derek he knew now. Still rich, still quiet and sober. Despite how much Stiles tried to hold onto fear and resentment, he just couldn’t. Derek wasn’t frightening. He was stupidly aloof. And— Stiles realises, frighteningly lonely. 

Stiles was lonely too.

Of course he was. That's why he'd confessed as quickly as he did. It’s why they were sort of perfect for each other.

Because they were lonely, and because they were both a little crazy.

The worst thing about it all? Derek's charming. He’s kind. He lets Stiles go on random tangents, and provides his own snarky commentary to his stupid stories. He pays for shit (Because there's no way Stiles is going to) but he doesn’t complain. Really, he seems happy to throw money away on Stiles. On dinners and stupid little things. The more time passes, the more Derek becomes a fixture in Stiles routine. 

Their first date (Stiles would call it their second, but whatever) is at this small dinky fish and chip place. Derek’s confident enough to order for them both, and they eat at a bench by the skate park. There's more snow there than Kraków. His nose is frosty. He sort of can't help but smile. 

“You know, if we do this you’re going to have to meet my dad.” Stiles says, just to scare the guy.

A confused look falls across Derek's face. “Could… could I even talk to him? Like, does he know English?”

Stiles hits his arm. “Yes. God. How do you think he and my Mom got together? A series of intense staring contests?”

It should sound ridiculous but Derek is looking at Stiles like he hung the moon, and maybe (just maybe) it doesn’t sound so far-fetched. Not when it’s them sitting across from each other, like the whole world doesn’t exist. 

“I was just asking.” The corners of Derek's lip twitch up. His clothes are starting to get more and more tattered, the longer he spends out in the snow. The more he’s around Stiles, who’s starting to make a habit of hitting his (incredibly hard) arm whenever he feels like it. Stiles doesn’t feel bad. There's something empowering about dirtying up someone like Derek. The guy just takes it, like it doesn’t hurt at all.

“My dads a hard ass.” Stiles warns. Because he likes Derek, for some reason. 

“Any tips then?”

“Try not to act old…or creepy. Or mention any of the stalking stuff. I’d rather he didn’t shoot you.” Stiles prefers Derek, not shot. “I’d say not to mention your net worth either, but he already kind of knows.”

“My net worth? Stiles. How rich do you think I am?” Derek smirks. 

“Oh don’t try to trick me Mr Wolf. I know things. You think you’re the detective here?” He laughs. “I still don’t know how you found out where I live, but two can play at this game.”

“Oh really? What do you know about me then?”

Stiles has been waiting for this question. 

The Hale families migrated from New York to California in 1932.

Stiles knows this because the scans for the New York World are archived in the town library, because America sort of has its way of seeping into everything it touches. Anyway this was a big deal because the Hales were sort of the it family when it came to advancements in modern science, and they were not happy with the state of the old families plaguing NYC.

In California they expanded the Hale foundation, establishing twenty wildlife rehabilitation clinics as well as a private school of medication. According to Stiles research, the Hales have their fingers dipped into a lot of schools actually. Science, Nursing, Law. Despite being an old family, a lot of their wealth was actually new. Hedge Funds and Investments. Whoever was in charge of their financing was smart. 

Talia Hale. The current matriarch of the Hale family. Married Nathan Taylor at nineteen, with the birth of her eldest daughter shortly after. Laura Hale's birth was a big deal, but not as big of a deal as her first born son. Derek Hale. Educated at St Judas’s Ulmer school for boys. Fades out of the public eye at eighteen, only to reappear after a disastrously public break up with one Kate Argent.

The Argents seemed to be another story. A family that weren’t too keen when the Hales came to California, and have been mad ever since. Stiles isn’t sure he should bring that up. Derek freezes at the mention of Kate, and Stiles quickly continues. Talia Hale has six children. Nicky Hale, second son. Twenty five. Attended Harvard Law. Married young and currently lives in New York with his spouse and children. Cora Hale, second daughter. Stiles' age. He’s pretty sure she still lives at home. From what he can tell all the unmarried Hales do. Then there's the twins. Seventeen. Sarina and Simon. There isn’t much to know about them either, but Derek's eyebrows raise up at the mention of their names.

Derek frowns. He backs away a little, like Stiles is a little more dangerous than he thought. “You got all that…from some old newspapers?”

“And my dads background check.” He grins. “Now who's the detective? Huh.”

“Should I be scared?” He almost sounds genuine, which is frankly ridiculous.

Stiles leans in and whispers. “Do you wanna be?”

It’s funny, watching his dad pull Derek into communication traps Stiles didn't even know existed. He’s scolding but nice. Disappointed, but boastful.

The cop doesn’t bother to slow himself down for anyone, and it shows. Derek stumbles over his words, tries not to mention his wealth, but shows up in Versace. He’s out of place in their little living room. Cramped on the stool of his mothers old piano. The one she’d bought the day she was diagnosed. The one they can’t bring themselves to throw it away, even if neither of them play.

“What is your intention with my son?” His fathers accent is thicker than Stiles, and Derek blinks blankly as he tries to process this. In the end neither of them really listen to Derek's answer. Not when his father turns to him and says in Polish. “Be careful.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, answering back. “He’s harmless.”

“That’s not what I mean.” His father shoots back. “He’s going to propose.”

That's what Stiles was expecting to hear. “ What!” He shouts. Derek's still sitting there awkwardly looking between them both, not understanding a word. Stiles shakes his head frantically. “No he isn’t…W-Why would you think that!”

His father points. “Look at him! He’s basically asking for my permission!”

“No he isn’t. He hasn’t said anything!” Stiles turns to Derek and forces a smile, needing his dad to stop talking. “Ta asked if you wanted to stay for dinner.”

Derek grimaces, but nods. 

They stand on the porch after, watching Derek get in the car and leave. He sits in the driver's seat for a moment, looks up. Smiles a tiny bit, and waves before he starts the engine. Shit.

“How do you know?” Stiles asks his father.

“The look in his eye.” He mutters back, stepping away to go inside. “It’s the same glint I had in mine. When I met your ma.”

Stiles isn’t sure how long he stands on the porch for, frozen and still. A long time he thinks. Long enough to decide he’s wanting. 

He can imagine the newspaper headline. American Darling Derek Hale Marries Polish Stranger. He’s smiling at the thought. Ridiculous. Far fetched. Doesn’t happen. He writes the article in his head. Twenty year old Mieczyslaw Stilinski, captures the heart (and wealth) of the closest thing California has to a prince. He giggles.

Derek proposes to him outside the police station at six in the morning.

They both walk there, like it’s a compulsion. Like they both know what's going to happen even if they never say.

The ring is a golden band, with nothing engraved on the inside. 

Derek doesn’t get down on one knee. Doesn’t make some grand speech. It's like he hand't planned it at all, and maybe he hadn't. Maybe the world was just a little bit magical, knowing that this needed to happpen.

He stands there like he wants to sink into the ground, holding out the box and throwing at Stiles like it’s a hot potato. His chest rises and falls like a ferocious tide, waiting for Stiles answer.

—And shit, Stiles cries. Only a little, but he does. Because someone wants him. Because for the first time in ten years, he doesn’t feel lonely. Stiles peaks into the box and feels his lungs spasm. He’d never imagined this, but now it’s happened he can’t help but let the tear ducts well. They haven’t even kissed yet, but Stiles says yes. 

He says yes.