Stiles’ heart raced as he slid around a corner and thundered down the stairs. His ears rang with the cackling laughter of his pursuer. Grabbing the banister, he leapt up and over, bypassing the rest of the stairs. It was good to see that his training with Argent was paying off.
The door was in sight, Stiles just had to make it outside. His magic was stronger in the open air. But then his foot caught on a loose tarp and he went flying. Using his moment of helplessness, his pursuer tackled him to the ground, pinning him.
Stiles let out a very manly shriek as something cold and slimy trailed over the back of his neck. He struggled against his captor, but was only rewarded with more laughter.
Excited yells ring out across the castle lawn. Laura sighs.
She doesn’t know why she didn’t think to check the training fields first.
Sure enough, Captain Stiles Stilinski is in the middle of a
knot of people, his dagger a barely visible blur. His opponent is one of their
newer recruits, probably only a member of the Guard for six months or so. She
is unpolished but brutal in her attacks. Stiles is grinning, excited by the
recruit’s progress.
The fight lasts longer than most. Stiles keeps pace with
his trainee, testing her reactions to his strikes and occasionally calling out
advice. Eventually, the recruit stumbles over her botched footwork and goes
crashing to the ground.
Shouts of encouragement echo across the field as Laura
surveys the gathered crowd, eyes landing on her target. Derek gets a pinched
look on his face as Stiles pulls off his glove to offer the girl a hand up. Laura
wants to hit him with a brick. The pining got old years ago.
Instead, she lays a hand on his shoulder. “Derek. I’ve been
looking for you.”
“I am sorry, sister.” He tears his eyes from where Stiles
is walking the new recruit through the footwork again. “What is it you
require?”
Laura rolls her eyes at his formal speech. “We’ve had a
message from Argent.”
Derek sucks in a breath. News from Argent was never good.
“Gerard wants war.” It isn’t a new declaration, but this
time it seems as though they are going to have to amass an army to keep the
tyrant from marching on Hale.
There is a shout from behind and they turn in time to see
the new recruit tackle Stiles to the ground. Derek looks away. “Let’s take this
inside.”
Biting her tongue, Laura follows her twin back to the
castle. The Argents are the reason Derek hasn’t made a move on Stiles. Not a
day goes by when Laura doesn’t imagine tearing Princess Katherine limb from
limb.
Her advisors are already gathered in the war room. Lady
Martin is engaged in a heated debate with Lord Deaton while General Boyd looks
on. The room goes silent when they register the presence of their queen.
Laura drops down into the seat at the head of the table,
arranging her skirts around her feet. “Carry on, Lady Martin.”
Lydia tosses her coppery curls over her shoulder and
straightens in her chair. “I apologize, Your Majesty. I am just uncomfortable
with the accusations Lord Deaton has made.”
“Lady Allison is still an Argent.” Deaton states calmly,
immune to Lydia’s theatrics.
“She is my wife.”
Laura sighs. It is an old argument. “Lord Deaton, we are
all aware that Lady Allison is nothing but honorable. She defected after her
aunt’s atrocities and has been a true friend to Hale.”
“Then you would not mind if she was brought into the meeting?”
Laura hesitates. Being friendly with an Argent is one
thing, inviting them into a war meeting is completely different.
“Bring her in.” Derek had been so quiet, Laura forgot he
was even in the room.
She turns toward her twin, lips pressed in a thin line.
“Are you sure?” After all, he had been the one most affected by the Argent’s
betrayal.
Derek’s answering nod is firm, leaving no room for
argument. Lydia rises from the table. “Good. She’s waiting outside.”
Sure enough, Lydia opens the door and pulls her wife into
the room. Allison looks around the table, taking stock of everyone in
attendance and probably cataloging the entrances and exits as well. Once a
soldier, always a soldier. Laura desperately hopes they don’t all live to
regret this.
Laura sweeps to her feet. “Lady Allison.”
Allison drops into a curtsey, a paper gripped tightly in
her hand. “Your Majesty.”
“We assume you have news from Argent.” Derek cuts through
the rising tension in the room.
Allison wordlessly hands the letter in her hand to Laura,
who scans the words. “Your father seeks to take the throne of Argent?”
“He does, you majesty.”
Laura folds the letter back along its creases, tapping it
on the chair in front of her. “He wishes for Hale’s blessing.”
“He does, your majesty.” Allison repeats.
Staring at the maps and documents laid out on the table,
Laura can already think of a hundred ways this could go wrong. She snaps her
gaze to Boyd. “How long will it take our forces to reach full strength?”
“Three weeks, your majesty.” Boyd slides a page loose from
the mess of papers on the table. On it, she can see numbers and calculations
sketched out in Boyd’s neat hand.
She looks at the map. Three weeks to mobilize and at least
two to reach Argent. Gerard will know what they are planning long before they
can assemble a force large enough to do damage.
“You could send the Guard.” Lydia proposes, in a way that
suggests she has put a significant amount of thought into it.
Laura can see the sense in the idea. The Guard is
technically a small army unto itself. However, guardsmen have always been the
peacekeepers of Hale. To send them into battle is a ludicrous notion. She looks
at the numbers and the map again.
“Is Prince Christopher ready?” It’s written in the letter,
but Laura wants to hear it confirmed.
Allison inclines her head. “He is waiting on what happens
here.”
“You can’t possibly be entertaining this plan.” Derek’s
blank exterior is starting to crack.
“I am.” Laura sets Boyd’s paperwork back on the table. “If
we send the Guard now, they can strike while Argent is unaware.”
“They are not soldiers.” Which is true. Guardsmen are
trained in street fighting, using daggers and their own bodies to disarm and
neutralize an opponent. It is effective in keeping the crime rate low across
Hale, but on the battlefield…
Laura sinks back down into her seat, feeling the weight of
the kingdom on her shoulders. “I know, Derek. But they are the best we have.”
She watches her twin’s face go hard. If he had been born
five minutes earlier, this mess would be his to deal with. Almost as soon as
the thought works itself free, Laura crushes it. She wouldn’t wish her position
on anyone. Least of all Derek.
Deaton, who had remained silent for the proceedings finally
speaks. “Perhaps the Captain of the Guard would be better suited to answer this
question.”
A knock sounds at the door. Lydia smirks. “I’ve already
arranged for him to meet us here.”
Laura barely refrains from scrubbing a hand over her face.
Hopefully Lydia never reaches the point where she becomes bored enough to
consider world domination. It is clear none of them would stand a chance.
The door swings open but Laura doesn’t rise from her seat.
“Captain Stilinski.”
Stiles observes the room in the same way Allison had when
she arrived. Perhaps soldiers and guardsmen aren’t so different after all.
Lydia clears her throat, reminding him to bow.
“Your Majesty.”
Laura waves him off. “None of that, Stiles. If we are going
to have this conversation, we are going to have it as equals.”
She gestures at the chair beside her and Stiles takes it,
slouching a little and folding his arms across his chest.
“Chris Argent has requested our assistance in overthrowing
his father.”
Stiles immediately straightens in his seat. “And you want
to send the Guard.”
“Got it in one.” Perhaps he and Lydia can join forces. Then
even the gods would be forced to kneel before them.
Boyd interrupts the rapid deterioration of her thoughts. “I
am more than happy to discuss strategies and training exercises, Captain.”
“I doubt we’ll have time for that, but the thought is
appreciated.” Stiles looks to Allison. “One week?”
The two participate in a rapid-fire exchange consisting of
minute facial expressions and aborted hand gestures. Laura is reminded that
Allison spent a lot of time with Stiles’ stepbrother before the two ended up
marrying different people. Apparently she and Stiles had come out of the
experience as close friends.
After a few seconds, Stiles concedes. “We’ll be ready to
march in three days’ time.”
Allison nods. “I will let my father know to expect three
hundred men.”
“Three hundred men? That’s our entire Guard.” Derek sounds
furious. Laura knows the anger conceals his concern, but Stiles frowns at the
outburst.
“We will just instate the trainees early. The senior
guardsmen will probably remain behind.” He twirls a long quill through his
fingers, running the figures in his head. “That will leave you with a force
about seventy, maybe eighty strong.”
He tips his head back to look at Lydia. “Do you reckon my
father will come out of retirement?”
Lydia sighs and rescues the quill from his hands. “Yes,
Stiles. I do.”
“I’ll start putting the word out then.” Stiles gets to his
feet.
Boyd rises as well. “I can help.”
After the door closes behind them, Lydia shakes her head.
“Boyd is just concerned for his betrothed.”
“Erica?” Laura knows the name, but they’ve never had the
opportunity to meet. She had started in the army, but left so she could court
Boyd properly.
Allison makes an affirmative noise. “She’s Stiles’ protégé,
they were sparring this afternoon.”
Laura thinks back to the wild blonde who went toe-to-toe
with the captain. She certainly seems ready to become a guardsman.
—
Laura and her siblings are just returning from visiting the
troops when they hear the shouts. Three weeks have passed since the Guard left
and their meeting with Boyd confirmed that the army should be ready to march on
the morrow.
It takes a few moments for the words become discernable.
“Rider!”
Sure enough, there is a horse galloping their way, its
rider slumped low over its neck. The archers rush to set up, but Erica, who has
appointed herself as Laura’s personal guard, waves them off. It is clear the
man is barely hanging on.
He slides off the horse, staggering as his feet hit the
ground. Laura stares. “Isaac?”
The guardsman gathers the strength to nod. He is
almost unrecognizable beneath the bruising and bloodstains. Cora is down the steps immediately, flinging herself onto
him. Isaac winces, but holds her so tightly Laura worries she may break.
“You come with news?” Dread knots Laura’s stomach. She can
almost feel Derek holding his breath behind her.
Cora moves to help Isaac stand. He closes his eyes, like
he’s trying to hide from the memories. “They’re dead.”
“Who?” Laura prompts, as gently as she can.
“The Guard.”
Erica gasps, “what?” at the same time Derek asks, “all of
them?”
“There was a traitor. Gerard slit his throat before
ordering the rest of us killed.” Cora tightens her hold around his waist. “He
left me alive to send a message.”
Laura can guess what the message is. “They’re coming for
us?”
“Yes. And they have Prince Christopher and his men.”
Laura turns to Boyd. “How much time do we need?”
“It’s two weeks to reach the border.” They’d discussed the
logistics in detail not even and hour ago.
“Damnit.”
Then the castle door bangs open behind them. Lydia takes
one look at Isaac and freezes. “Allison?” Her voice barely wavers.
Isaac shrugs, still leaning heavily on Cora.
Lydia gives a sharp nod before turning on her heel and
calling out to a page, “Get the healer and have her meet us in the war room.”
Laura wishes she could compartmentalize so quickly and so coldly.
The group settles into their respective seats, the
atmosphere heavy. Derek hasn’t spoken and Laura’s heart aches for her twin. But
they don’t have time to mourn yet.
Erica speaks first. “We can’t stretch the Guard any more
than it already is.”
“I
may know someone who can help.”
Laura
jumps at Deaton’s voice. She hadn’t even registered him entering the room. “Who?”
“The Vipers.”
Boyd looks up, an eyebrow raised. “The mercenaries?”
“Yes.” Deaton says, unbothered by the general’s skepticism.
“This does appear to match their skill set.”
Laura fidgets with the maps on the table in front of her
before remembering that she’s the queen. She cannot show weakness right now. Squaring
her shoulders, she makes the decision.
“Bring me their leader.”
In less than three hours, the person the Guard has spent
years hunting is standing before her in the war room. She’s younger than Laura
expected, and very beautiful. Wicked scars run down her throat and disappear
under her collar. Laura keeps finding her gaze drawn to her eyes.
The woman bows, “Your majesty.”
“Viper.” Laura keeps her voice cold and aloof.
The mercenary smirks at her. “Perhaps.”
Laura gives herself a mental shake. It must be the stress
getting to her. Now is not the time to get caught up in the eyes of a former
enemy. “Deaton has informed you of the plan?”
“He has.”
“What is it you desire in compensation?” The Vipers are
known for their steep prices.
“Hale gives us amnesty. A place to live. A chance to work.”
She smiles wryly. “We aren’t all bad people.”
It’s
a complicated request, but not undoable. “And you’re
willing to die for Hale?”
The woman’s eyes harden. “We’re mercenaries, we die for the
job.”
Laura nods. She doesn’t expect more than that. “Is anyone
opposed?”
Silence presses down around the table. Derek still looks dazed
and Cora’s mind is probably down in the medical wing with her paramour.
Lydia clears her throat. “I am in favor.”
“If they cause any trouble, I will see they are persecuted
to the extent of our laws.” Erica says, staring down the Viper.
Boyd nods along with Erica. “The same for me. And if your
people work well with my people, they may have a place in the ranks.”
“Well, if no one is opposed…” Deaton trails off.
Laura holds out her hand. “You have a deal.”
The mercenary takes it and bows to her again. “I will leave
immediately.”
After a moment of hesitation, Laura follows her out into
the hall. “Viper.”
She turns, that half-smirk back on her lips. “If I’m going
to die for you, you could at least call me by my name.”
“I
don’t know it.” Laura admits, voice low.
The
other woman flashes her a real smile and Laura’s heart skips in her chest. “People
call me Braeden.”
“Then
may luck and good fortune go with you, Braeden.”
—
Preparing for war is no small feat. Laura is kept up to
date by a constant stream of correspondence from the front. Most of the letters
come from Boyd, but she also receives a few from his subordinates. They are
making good time and only encountered a single Argent scout during their first
week.
Laura is beyond stressed. She barely sleeps, spending all
of her time working on strategy with Lydia and Deaton. They will need to start
rationing foodstuffs and other resources. The army is going to need supplies
and winter will be upon them soon.
After a week, Isaac recovers enough to leave the medical
wing. The very first thing he does is request permission to ask for Cora’s
hand. Laura grants it whole-heartedly.
Erica becomes indispensable and spends a lot of time
briefing Laura. She uses the new Guard to keep the pulse of the kingdom. In a
way it is kind of disturbing, like Laura is spying on her own people, but
knowing the thoughts of the common folk is so damn useful.
On one such night they are sitting by the fire in Laura’s
chambers. Laura has her hair down and is listening to a report on the fishing
industry. It is just bizarre enough to take her mind off of worrying.
There is a knock at the door. Erica opens it to reveal a
page. “A message for the queen.”
Laura unrolls the folded parchment.
The Argent throne is secure – His Majesty, King Christopher
Argent
She stares at the words, then looks up at Erica in
disbelief. Laura passes the paper over. Erica smooths it on her legging-covered
thigh.
“They did it.” She sounds choked up and Laura’s heart
breaks a little. She reaches over and pulls her in for a hug. Laura kicks
herself for not thinking about how many mentors and friends she must have lost.
She knows how close Erica and the Captain were.
After a moment, she pulls away and smooths the hair back
from Erica’s forehead, just like she would for Cora. “Let’s call a meeting.”
The
news lifts everyone’s spirits. Even Lydia’s façade cracks enough for her to
look hopeful.
It is an agonizing wait that takes well over a week. Then
the wounded come flooding in. There are Vipers, guardsmen, and a few soldiers.
Apparently, the arrival of the mercenaries had given the prisoners just enough
time to escape. Because for some fucked up reason, Gerard had decided to kill
them off slowly, whenever the mood struck.
With the arrival of the Vipers comes the issue of what to
do with them. Derek has been working on a plan to get them placed on farms, as
fishermen, or as hard laborers. According to a letter Erica received from Boyd,
a great many want to join the Guard after having fought with the escaped
prisoners.
Derek is halfway through a list of possible employment
opportunities when there is a scuffle at the door. After it bangs open, Stiles is
framed in the doorway, mostly supported by Allison. Braeden stands close
behind.
Lydia jumps to her feet so fast, she knocks over her chair.
It isn’t nearly as dramatic as Cora flinging herself on Isaac, but Lydia is far
too composed for that. Luckily, Braeden is there to catch Stiles as Allison is
tugged away by her wife.
The two stand there for a moment, before Erica is on them.
She tackles Stiles in a hug and they both end up in a heap on the floor. She’s
careful to cushion his fall. “Don’t ever do that to me again, you asshole.”
Stiles huffs a laugh. “Come on, the medics told me you did
great.” There is a shadow in his eyes and he looks beyond exhausted, but his
smile is still there.
Laura gets distracted from her observations by Braeden, who
looks up from where she was checking on Stiles. She smiles and Laura gets that
fluttering feeling again.
“As per our agreement,” Deaton interrupts their wordless
exchange, “Derek has been working on securing positions for your people.”
Braeden turns to Derek. “Thank you for your assistance.”
She sounds sincere.
“It was a privilege to help.” Derek says, words coming out
stilted.
Boyd drags Erica off of Stiles and helps him to his feet.
“Good to have you back, Captain.”
“It’s
good to be back.” He braces himself on the table.
Laura
isn’t sure where he’s hurt, but it looks like he’s favoring a leg. Which
probably means he and Allison staged a dramatic escape to get away from the
medics.
“Derek.” Stiles’ voice is more fragile than Laura’s ever
heard. “Come on. Please look at me.” His voice breaks a little.
So Derek does. He stares at him like he’s trying to burn
the image into his retinas forever.
Stiles lets go of the table and tries to limp forward on
his own. Derek is by his side in an instant, wrapping his arms tight around him
and burying his face in his neck.
Stiles leans even further into him and murmurs. “It’s okay.
It’s okay. I’m here. I’m always going to come back to you.”
Lydia clears her throat, startling everyone but Stiles and
Derek, who are lost to the world for the moment. She jerks her head toward the
door. They pile out into the hallway and Laura’s eyes meet Braeden’s.
She waits until everyone trickles away but the two of them.
“Thank you for everything that you did.”
Braeden brushes off the recognition. “It was a job. I got
compensated.”
“Still. I appreciate it.” Laura drops her gaze, feeling
wrong-footed. “And I’m glad you returned safe.”
“Your concern is touching, your majesty.”
“Please, call me Laura.”
The smile she gets in return is worth the embarrassment of
the blush staining her cheeks. She is a queen, for fucks sake.
But Braeden looks enchanted. “Well then, it was a pleasure.
Laura.”
Friday nights are easily Stiles’ favorite. Sure he has to
work a bit later at the station, but the extra hour is bearable when he
remembers what – no, who – is waiting
at home. Because Friday nights are Derek-and-Stiles nights, no supernatural
shenanigans or bored pack members allowed.
With a sigh, he drops his keys into the bowl by the door and
toes off his shoes. He can hear the low hum of the television in the living
room, so he knows Derek is done grading papers for the day. The smell of
homemade pizza is heavy in the air and Stiles can feel all of the tension seep
out of his bones. If someone told him five years ago that he would end up here, happily married to the man of his
dreams, he probably would have laughed and then punched them in the gut.
For the lovely @poetry-protest-pornography, who listed one of their favorite tropes as “doing something nice for the other and getting caught.” although this didn’t quite turn out to be that, I hope you enjoy anyway ♥
It seemed like a good idea at the time. How much of Stiles’ life was shaped by those words? But this? This was probably one of the worst decisions he had ever made.
After two years of living in the dorms, Stiles was faced with a choice. Either find some people to get a shitty apartment with, or move back home. Between nightmares and training with Deaton, moving back to Beacon Hills made the most sense. The commute was only an hour and he had managed to schedule his on-campus classes to meet only on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Everything else he could take online.
But he just had to go complaining about moving back in with his dad to Derek over the summer. In his defense, he never expected Derek to offer his spare room. Because Derek had a house now. A very nice house. And a job.
Honestly, the idea of living somewhere he could be independent, yet still see his dad whenever he wanted was too good to pass up. But now, standing in the fancy kitchen and staring at the yellow sticky note on the coffee maker, he couldn’t help but feel that he’d made a mistake.
DO YOUR OWN DISHES, spelled out in Derek’s blocky hand writing stared back at him. Stiles sighed, scrunching up the yellow square and setting it beside his mug. It was the fifth note he’d found in as many days. One in the bathroom (PICK UP YOUR TOWELS), one on the refrigerator (DON’T DRINK MY BEER), and several others scattered across the house.
It was infuriating. This was the reason Stiles had wanted to sit down and draw up a roommate contract, but Derek’s only stipulation was ‘pay the rent on time.’ Stiles rinsed his mug and dropped it into the dishwasher. It hadn’t even been a week and he was already worrying about making this work.
—
Stiles was stubborn. He told his dad this was for the best, so he was going to stick it out. And Derek wasn’t a bad roommate, really. He worked odd hours because he was the newest deputy on the force, but he was always quiet and neat. Sometimes Stiles didn’t even know he was home.
After the first month, Derek convinced him to take the Toyota to class. It had much better gas mileage, plus meant less wear and tear on the Jeep. So Stiles parked Roscoe in the garage with the Camaro and hung the new set of keys off of his keyring.
All in all, Stiles though they were doing well. Even if they rarely saw each other. (Which, considering the massive crush he had on Derek, was probably for the best. No need to make it weird.)
It had been two weeks without a damn sticky note, so Stiles figured he’d cleaned up his act enough to make Derek happy. Until one morning he came down to a note reading PICK UP YOUR SHIT. It was stuck to the wall above the pile of shoes and sweatshirts and textbooks that had accumulated in the living room.
Stiles sighed heavily before gathering up the mess to take to his room. “This is why we need the expectations outlined,” he grumbled, not even caring if he woke Derek up.
He dumped everything on the floor, grabbed his backpack, and shut the door a tad bit harder than necessary. KEEP YOUR DOOR CLOSED OR CLEAN YOUR ROOM had been the last message and Stiles tried hard to comply. But hell, it was exhausting trying to remember all of the rules. Maybe he should have kept the notes instead of crumpling each one and throwing it away.
—
For the first two months living together, Stiles could count on one hand the number of times he’d actually spoken to Derek. Part of it was his crazy schedule, with classes and training with Deaton and hanging out with his dad. And the rest was Derek’s apparent preference for night shifts. In fact, it wasn’t until mid-October that Derek finally confronted Stiles about his sleeping habits.
Stiles was neck deep in practice tests when the door to the garage swung open. Derek dropped his work bag on the kitchen floor and slipped into the chair across from him. There were notecards, loose leaf papers, and multiple notebooks spread across the table between them.
Derek took in the chaos and sighed. “Why are you still up?”
“Stupid exam tomorrow.” Stiles didn’t even look away from his screen. The words stopped making sense an hour ago, but there was no way he could remember this many conjugations.
“Go to bed.” Derek gently slid the laptop out of range. “You can’t learn anything when you’re this tired.”
“But…” Stiles’ protest died as Derek fixed him with a look. It clearly conveyed that he wasn’t listening to arguments. Defeated, Stiles leaned back in his chair and yawned widely. Ugh. It was almost four in the morning.
The next day was brutal. Stiles rolled out of bed at eight o’clock to an alarm that he didn’t remember setting. He stumbled down the stairs, trying not to wake Derek with his heavy footfalls. But when he went to pull the milk out of the refrigerator, the sight of a yellow sticky note on the door made him freeze.
In neat capital letters, it said: GOOD LUCK TODAY. There was even a smiley face. Was this the Twilight Zone?
Stiles stared, then blinked several times. But the words didn’t disappear.
He smiled the entire duration of his morning routine, stopping to stick the note to the inside cover of his Latin textbook before he left. Then he hopped into Derek’s Toyota and drove to school.
He aced the exam.
—
Several weeks passed and Derek was already out on his night shift when Stiles shuffled in from school. He’d had an incredibly long day, filled with lectures and labs and finishing a stupid group project. Finding a familiar yellow note hanging from the microwave didn’t fill him with dread anymore. Especially not when it said: DINNER’S IN THE FRIDGE.
Stiles heated up the leftovers, feeling exhausted and content. Derek had even made his absolute favorite because he knew today was going to suck.
It was difficult not to read into Derek’s little acts of kindness, and Stiles was crushing harder with every note. The newest one was going to hang alongside DON’T FORGET YOUR LUNCH, and SCOTT SAYS HELLO, and DON’T WORRY I’LL BUY MORE COFFEE TONIGHT, and HAVE A GOOD DAY. That last note had Stiles grinning like a lunatic, to the point where Deaton asked if everything was alright.
So all in all, life with Derek was good. Stiles just had to keep reminding himself that Derek was a friend and not his co-lead in some rom-com about a werewolf and a spark who live together and fight crime. Although that would probably be an awesome idea for a TV show.
Shaking his head at the thought, Stiles loaded his dishes into the dishwasher and headed up to bed.
—
Halfway through the semester, Stiles’ three accelerated online classes had finals. He was super excited because that meant he’d be down to only two classes. His work load was about to be so much easier, and he might even have time to catch up on Netflix
The only problem was that the exams had to be scheduled at the proctoring center on campus. And because he was an idiot, he scheduled them all back to back. How he was going to survive six hours of testing was a mystery.
But Derek stayed up with him every night for a week, flipping through notecards and quizzing him on what he knew. Plus, he promised to take the night off and have a movie marathon once Stiles got home. Because Derek’s house was ‘home’ now and Derek was one of his best friends.
Sure enough, a yellow square saying: YOU’VE GOT THIS was already in his spot on the kitchen table. Stiles grinned at the note, peeling it away so he could add it to his collection.
—
On a typical Thursday night, Derek tapped at the door and stepped into Stiles’ room. Which he had never actually been in before. It seemed kind of weird, now that Stiles thought about it. He glanced over at the mountain of three week old laundry in the corner that was offensive to even his human nose and, well maybe not.
Marking his page, he set the textbook on his desk. “Hey, what’s up?”
Derek didn’t respond. He was staring at the bed with a slightly dazed expression. Then Stiles remembered the little yellow squares affixed to the headboard in neat rows.
He flushed, not really sure what to say. “Was there something that you wanted?”
Derek tore his eyes away. “I just wanted to make sure you were ready.”
Right. This morning’s note read WE’RE HAVING DINNER WITH YOUR DAD. It was a nice reminder of the fact that Derek was taking fewer night shifts. Sometimes he was even around to hang out with.
“Give me a second.” Stiles glanced down at his ratty sweatpants and stained t-shirt. Man did he need to do laundry.
He emerged from his room in more appropriate clothes and followed Derek out to the Camaro.
They were halfway to his house when Derek broke the silence. “You kept the notes.”
“Yup.” Because, obviously.
—
Stiles rushed home from school. It was the last day of the semester and normally he’d be ecstatic to have his freedom back. But this time, he was too nervous. Honestly he had no idea what he was thinking that morning. Maybe he could still get back in time to take that idiotic note off of the counter.
He parked in the driveway and sprinted to the door, hands shaking as he unlocked it. When the door finally clicked open, he crashed into the kitchen. The shower upstairs was running. Fuck. Maybe he could call it a friend dinner? People probably made reservations at the fanciest restaurant in town for friend dinners all the time. Right?
Stiles’ panicked eyes landed on the note. His hurried scrawl: Dinner at Luka’s? 6pm was followed by Derek’s blocky print spelling out: IT’S A DATE and underlined three times.
Sagging against the counter, Stiles took a deep breath. He knew he hadn’t imagined the last few weeks. Derek was home all the time now, only taking shifts while Stiles was training or at school. Which meant they spent most of their day bickering over recipes and watching crappy television.
It was awesome and domestic and Stiles couldn’t wait to date the hell out of Derek Hale.
—
(And five years later, they visited Luca’s again. But this time, Stiles’ drink came with a sticky note asking WILL YOU MARRY ME?)
(ps I had a hard time deciding if I wanted to do this scene or
the bar scene, they both scream sterek to me)
Derek strides between the rows of pilots as he’s
introduced. He looks out over the group, heart skipping when he sees a familiar
face in the front row. Shit. Going to that bar last night was a terrible idea.
Sure enough, Stiles is slumped down in his chair and
wearing aviators. What a cliché. Derek tears his gaze away from the pilot and
starts his presentation. He only gets a few points in before obnoxious
whispering threatens to drown him out.
Stiles and his wingman have their heads together,
clearly conspiring about something. Derek tilts his head. “Excuse me,
Lieutenant. Is there something wrong?”
oh my gosh. But… everything fits… like Kira being Scotty’s wife. Jackson being iceman (with Danny as his copilot/navigator) I mean the twins are obviously there. Lydia is around there somewhere. I mean, how can she not be. With Allison as a copilot maybe? And when Scotty dies Kira and Stiles bond ofcourse. But Stiles still feels so bad and then Derek swoops in…. Oh my gosh now I’m searching for a TopGun au FULL VERSION please? Does it exist?
@lunadoesitagain OMG OMG OMG i know right??? i just love this idea so much! scott and stiles make the perfect maverick and goose. and allison and lydia as copilots!!!!! i need more of this au in my life
Written for Laura Hale Appreciation Week Day 1: Laura didn’t die
On AO3
(If you saw this on Friday, I accidentally hit post instead of save. I’m trying to queue these because I won’t have internet for a few days lol)
The Camaro stands out amongst the minivans and SUVs lined up in front of Beacon Hills High. Laura lets the motor idle, the smells of burning fuel and overheated asphalt permeating the air. She knows that today was a bad day, can feel it through her only pack bond. Derek is miserable and it is her fault he’s here.
Laura hears him approaching from at least a mile away.
Which might have more to do with the ominous death-rattle of the vehicle he’s
driving rather than the fact that she’s paying attention. Either way, by the
time the candy blue Jeep rounds the bend, Laura and her second are in place on
the porch.
The driver all but throws himself out of the car door
in a tangle of long limbs. He pauses to straighten his blazer, seemingly
unperturbed by the werewolves watching him. Not that they would know if he was.
Inscrutability is a trait highly valued among emissaries.
Stiles had a love/hate relationship with Halloween. On one hand, there were candy and costumes and parties. On the other were the ghosts. It was very hard to enjoy your breakfast when random people kept popping through your walls.
See, Stiles had a Gift. But it wasn’t like most Gifts. Where other people were Gifted with dance, art, or language, Stiles saw dead people. And on Halloween, the veil between worlds was thinner.
After a particularly gruesome wraith melted through the refrigerator, Stiles dumped his cereal in the sink. Seeing a dude with a sword through his gut didn’t do much for his appetite.
This was my first ever fic, which I originally posted on AO3. You can check it out HERE. But I figured since I’m trying to make a fandom blog, I might as well post it on this site too.
theproblemwithstardust 