This is definitely King Derek being threatened by the Argents and he needs an alliance, quick. Even if it’s just for show, he needs them to think his kingdom isn’t alone and an easy target. And I’ve decided that this will not only be fake married, but also a dash of fake royalty! Stiles is Aladdin without the genie! Or maybe Scott is the genie in this scenario.
Scott works with Derek in the palace. I’m going to say he’s an advisor or something. He’s the guy who’s constantly out in the countryside and villages, talking with the people, finding out what they need to live, and reporting back to Derek. Derek wants to do this himself, does it as much as he can, but he’s king. He’s got a lot of other things going on with the Argents looking for war, and he doesn’t have the time.
So knowing pretty much everyone in the kingdom personally, Scott’s the one who comes up with it all.
“You need a marriage alliance,” he tells Derek, who already knows this.
“And who do you suggest I marry, Scott?” All of the neighboring kingdoms, and even their neighboring kingdoms have their own alliances established and marriages planned. There aren’t many spare royals around. He tells Scott all of this, even though he knows he already knows.
“Then we go north,” Scott shrugs. “There are kingdoms beyond the mountains, there must be someone willing to marry.”
Derek raises his eyebrows dubiously. The north has an…interesting reputation. There’s a reason no one makes alliances across the mountains. It’s cold and wild up there, and the people are the same. Ruthless, hard, unforgiving in battle. They would be a good alliance when it comes to defending the kingdom, but awful the rest of the time. They can’t open up their kingdom to barbarians, and even if they could, there wasn’t enough time to arrange it.
“A messenger wouldn’t even make it across the mountains before the Argents attack, let alone find an ally.”
“Alright, then we fake it.” Scott says it as if it were actually that simple.
“A fake marriage? To a spouse who is always conveniently away on business?”
“We find someone to play the part.”
“Of course,” Derek says with biting sarcasm. “Round up all of our fair skinned subjects here in the far south.” The very few northerners who have crossed the mountains have a very specific look that isn’t found in the south. They’re pale with dark features, nothing like the tanned skin that comes to seafarers of the warmer climate. They’d never be able to find someone to play the part convincingly. “They would see through it in a second and kill us on the spot.”
Stiles was over at the loft again. He’d been crashing a lot recently. Ever since he moved back to town Stiles hadn’t been wanting to stay at his dad’s place. It made sense. Stiles was an adult. His dad was in a relationship, something a bit newer but a lot serious. Derek got it. Not exactly the place Stiles wanted to be.
What he didn’t get was why Stiles was coming here. Scott had his own place. So did Lydia. Derek hadn’t asked. He… he didn’t want Stiles to think that Derek was trying to kick him out.
Derek padded down the stairs, already barefoot and changed into pjs. It was later than Stiles normally showed up, if he was going to.
“Hey.”
Stiles whipped his head up. He’d grown up, but hadn’t grown out of his stricking remblence of a frightened deer who hadn’t quite learned how to walk yet. “Oh! Hey. What’s up. Sorry, did I wake you?”
“It’s barely midnight. Hadn’t gotten to sleep yet.”
He leaned over the back of the couch and looked down at Stiles. “You want something to eat?”
“Oh, man, yeah, I forgot dinner.”
Derek huffed, amused and totally unsurprised. “You’re hopeless. Come on.” He headed to the kitchen to put together a couple of sandwiches. “You doing alright?” He asked as Stiles sat at the counter. He looked nervous, distracted.
“Hmm? Oh! Yeah. Yeah. I’ve just.” Stiles waved a hand in front of his face, a bit too wildly. “Stuff.”
“Stuff?”
“Stuff. Things. Big dramatic speech in a zombie apocalypse.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Meme. Old one. Just.” Stiles let out a long sigh, with lots of noises and blowing his lips together at the end. He was acting a little late-night-loopy. The kind that had nothing to do with drugs or alcohol, just good old stress and sleep deprevation. “I’m jealous of my dad.”
“You… you want to date Miss -“
“What? No! Get your mind away from there.” Stiles did a full body shudder and a face that looked a lot like he just ate a fistful of mold. “It’s like. I’m jealous that he’s dating. That he has someone to come home to. And like, maybe I wouldn’t if it were mom but the fact my dad’s got game is kind of cramping my style.”
“So…” Derek tried to deconstruct what Stiles just said as he finished spreading jelly on his second slice of bread. “You’re annoyed that your roommate has a significant other because you don’t.”
“Now that just sounds petty and dumb.”
“And saying you’re jealous of your dad sounds..?” Derek prompted, closing the peanut butter side on top of the jelly.
“Oh, shut up. But like. You get what I mean, right?”
“Your biological clock is ticking and you want babies now.” He set the pb&j in front of Stiles and picked up his own.
“I- what? That. Is that a quote from something?” The oddity of Derek’s statement seemed to have short circuited Stiles’ brain.
Derek nodded as he chewed through his first bite. “Uh, yeah. A… a, um, Shakespeare parody play.”
The Error 404 face melted into the kind of look Stiles normally reserved for baby animals. “You’re such a fucking nerd.”
“Says the guy who still plays fantasy RPGs despite living in one.”
Stiles jabbed a finger in Derek’s direction as he picked up his sandwich. “Hey. That’s my online family and I’ve known them since before you so show some respect.” He then tore a bite out of the pb&j and managed to chew mock-threateningly.
Derek rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help but smile. “You could always try dating.”
“Yeah? Like who?”
Derek shrugged. “Someone who can stand you for more than an hour at a time.”
“Well that severely shortens the list.”
Derek snorted. “Someone you also like.”
“I have very few options now.”
Derek nodded. “And someone who is also single. I think those are some good key factors.”
“Yeaaaaaah,” Stiles agreed before popping the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth. “But I can only think of one person who fits all three criteria,” Stiles continued around his food. Derek scrunched his nose at it, but didn’t comment. “And I’m not positive they actually pass number one.”
“Yeah?” Derek asked, maybe a little too casually. Stiles always claimed that he had decoded Derek’s eyebrows and could read him like a book, but Derek thought he was pretty good and translating all of Stiles’ wild faces and ticks and twitches. “Who is it? Maybe I can let you know.”
Stiles had been wiping his hands with a paper napkin and tossed it at Derek’s head.
“I was going to crash at Lydia’s tonight.”
“Lydia doesn’t pass number three, not number one,” Derek pointed out.
“Haha let me finish, jackass.” Stiles stretched his arms above his head, the hem of his shirt riding up enough to expose the dark hair of his happy trail. “I was going to crash at Lydia’s but it’s like. I used to, when I was a kid, I used to not be able to sleep unless I had my pillow. Sleepovers, hotels, camps, long car rides, whatever, I needed my pillow or I couldn’t sleeep. And I grew out of that. But like, recently I haven’t been able to get to sleep because… not because of a pillow but kind of like what that pillow represented. Home. Safety. L-lo-“ Stiles clamped his mouth shut with a hard clack of his teeth. “Lots of things. Whatever. Just. I can’t sleep at Lydia’s. I can’t even sleep in my own bedroom anymore. Because.” Stiles sighed and ran a hand over his eyes and then kept them there, as if it was easier to talk if he couldn’t see Derek. “Because the only place I feel like I have my pillow is here.”
Derek blinked. Stiles had just spit out a lot and was still covering his eyes. If Derek hear what he thought he had just heard then…
“My couch isn’t that comfortable.”
Stiles groaned. He sounded like he was at his wits end. “It’s not about the couch, you dingus!” Stiles whipped his head up, about to yell something, when Derek cut him off.
“You can try the bed tonight.”
Stiles froze. Error 404 all over again. Then he sputtered back to life with a squeaky sound of disbelief. “Did. Did you just? Was that a fucking line.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Derek said calmly, knowing he wasn’t doing a good job of keeping the smile out of his voice. He wiped down the counter for crumbs and then started heading to the stairs.
“Just. Just hold on a second I have one question to ask you.”
Derek turned, trying to look as nonchalant as possible, just to mess with him. “Yes?”
“Can you stand me for more than an hour at a time?”
He couldn’t help it. Stiles liked him. They’d been dancing around this for weeks and neither of them had noticed. Derek smiled. “I have that kind of stamina,” he said, winking.
He turned and started up the stairs, reveling in the sound of Stiles almost falling off the stool. “You conniving little ass!”
Derek turned, halfway to the bedroom. “Are you coming?”
Stiles had never moved so fast.
They just slept that night. Derek had never been happier to be someone’s pillow.
@ned-die-fey got this drabble for voting in the US midterm elections! Did you vote? Send me a pic of your sticker and I’ll write any SFW prompt for a Sterek you’d like! You have until the end of tomorrow 11/7/18 to send me your sticker!
(I will also accept Kiribaku, or gen prompts from any fandom I blog about)
Hope you like soulmate AU’s, my friend, because that’s what this is:
“So what’s your plan?” Scott stands over Stiles, his patented ‘True Alpha Guidance Counsellor,’ expression firmly in place.
With a dramatic shrug, Stiles slumps further in his desk chair, and stares disconsolately out of his bedroom window. Perhaps he should be celebrating. After all, this afternoon a soulmark appeared on his wrist revealing the name of his soulmate.
He has a soulmate.
Fuck. He scrubs one hand across his face.
This is a disaster.
“Don’t front with me dude,” Scott says, crossing his arms. “I know you have a plan.”
“You think I have a plan for this eventuality? This one? Specifically? Seriously? You expect a plan?” Stiles laughs high and a little hysterical, while tugging the fabric of his hoodie down over his wrist. “A plan?! What was your plan when your soulmark showed up? Ohhhmygodddd!!! Must make out with Allison immediately?”
“Pretty much.” Scott cuffs Stiles over the back of the head gently and grins. “And don’t mock, it worked out pretty well. Plus, you can adapt it: Make out with Derek.” He throws his hands in the air palms up as if to say ‘problem solved.’
“Ha! Yeah. That’s going to happen. I’m going to make out with Derek. Make out. With Derek. Derek.” Stiles flails so hard he almost falls off his chair. “I’m just going to walk up to Derek fucking Hale and plant one on him apropos of nothing. That’ll go down well. I’m sure it won’t end in death and dismemberment.”
“He’s your soulmate.”
“No! No. No he isn’t–”
“The name on your wrist–”
“Reads Derek. But that could be any Derek. There are probably a couple million Derek’s in the world at any given time. It could be–” Stiles searches for a name. “–Derek Jeter. Derek Jeter could be my soulmate.”
“Jeter. Seriously? That’s who you’re going with?”
“Yes!” Stiles huffs in a breath through his nose, then throws himself forward in his chair and opens up his laptop. “In fact. To prove my point I’m going to find a way to email Derek Jeter now and–”
With a sigh Scott reaches out and catches Stiles’ wrist. “Your soulmate is not Derek Jeter. For one thing, you’re a Mets fan.”
“Well it’s at least as likely to be Derek Jeter as it is to be Derek Hale.”
“No. No it isn’t.”
“I–”
“Why don’t you just speak to the Derek you know in real life first? Remember Occam’s Razor?”
Scott McCall.
Always so patient.
So reasonable.
So fucking irritating.
It’s a wonder Stiles has managed to maintain this friendship so long in the face of such blatant provocation.
“‘Just speak to the Derek you know,’” Stiles mimics, rising to his feet. He points at a finger at Scott. “This whole thing is a clusterfuck of epic proportions, and I am going to do what I do best–”
Scott sighs deeply. “You can’t just ignore–”
“Oh you just fucking watch me. I am a pro at ignoring all the things. Homework. The ending to virtually ever TV show I’ve ever liked. The entirety of Infinity War. The way you pronounce the word ‘supposedly–’
“What’s wrong with–”
“–the increasing threat of antibiotic resistant super viruses, meteors, the Yellowstone super volcano, not to mention the lingering feeling that I’m disappointing everyone I know. I have a Ph-fucking-D in pretending things are not happening. I’m just gonna wear long sleeves for the rest of my life, that’s all, and everything is gonna continue on as normal.”
“But–” Scott looks like he doesn’t know where to begin. “Duuuude.”
“No! No. Don’t even–”
“I know you like him. Why don’t you just talk to him. Maybe ask him whether he has your name on his wrist?”
Stiles just stares at him. Stares. Because nobody asks anyone that question. It’s considered the height of rudeness. “Just ask–” Stiles laughs, high, and hysterical. “Just ask. Just ask whether he has my fucking name on his wrist.”
“What’s the worst–”
“The worst? Okay. Let’s conduct a little thought experiment here, Scotty. Let’s pretend for one moment that Derek does have my name on his wrist even though he hasn’t mentioned it. Hasn’t even hinted at it.”
Scott opens his mouth. Then closes it again. Waits.
“If he has my name on his wrist,” Stiles continues, “then why hasn’t he been knocking on my door to confess his undying love for me, why do I have to go first?”
“Awww, bro.” Scott’s expression goes all soft and mushy, he reaches out and places a hand on Stiles arm. “You do love him. I knew it.”
“No!” Stiles says, flinching backwards. “No. That isn’t– I can’t believe you would try and imply that I–”
“Just speak to him–” Scott pats him on the shoulder. “Even if you don’t want to ask whether he has a soulmark, you could show him yours and see what happens.”
“Oh my god.” Stiles covers his face with his hands. “You get that not everyone ends up like you and Allison, right?”
“Stop deflecting. We both know you wouldn’t want to be like me and Allison anyway. But if you take a risk, you might get to be Stiles and Derek. Isn’t that worth something?”
“Ugh. I hate you.”
“You love me.”
“Maybe. Even though you sound like Lucy Van Pelt dispensing all your wise advice and tough love. Are you gonna charge me 5 cents for this shit?”
“My fee is a grilled cheese sandwich and the right to say ‘I told you so.’”
Stiles sighs. “You can have a grilled cheese,” he says, “But don’t hold your breath on the other thing.”
Three years after Stiles disappeared from Derek’s life, Derek meets him again in a bar in Persephone.
“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”
The voice is like a trigger, turning the rhythm of Derek’s heart into a loud, frenetic drumbeat. Derek knows that voice. He knows how that voice sounds when it’s buzzing with giddy excitement or seething with rage. He remembers when that voice would lure him out of sleep in the early morning and when it anchored him during the full moons his wolf cried out for his family. It’s the voice that never said goodbye.
The crushing intensity of Stiles’ arms around Derek’s shoulders and neck doesn’t let up even a fraction. He can’t dial it back – Derek’s voice is even, if a little surprised and, fair, Stiles is surprised too.
He thought he’d never see Derek again and when Scott told him that Derek was heading back to Beacon Hills, it seemed unreal – he’d thought out thirty-two different first-encounters that he’d mentally played out over and over in his head (typically in the shower while his heart pounded in anticipation of Derek’s arrival). He’d planned all the things he’d say and do, exactly how it’d go, but then he saw Derek and…
Sniffling into Derek’s shoulder, Stiles tucks his face further into the crook of Derek’s neck. His own neck and ears feel too hot and he’s embarrassed, but he can’t let go. He can hardly breathe.
“Stiles,” Derek rumbles, deep voice wonderfully close to Stiles’ ear.
Stiles shuts his eyes at the sound – he can hear and feel Derek’s pulse in his jugular, he can smell Derek’s familiar cologne and stupid hair product and aftershave and Derek Smell and it’s been so fucking long –
Stiles hiccups a sob and tightens his hold on Derek as he feels Derek’s arms snake around him, pulling him in close. Derek’s muscles coiling around him make him feel shielded from the entire world and he’d be glad to never leave the circle of them again.
He feels Derek give a small laugh at how Stiles’ hug tightens again, feels how Derek’s hands and fingers spread over his shoulder blades and lower back – it’s dizzying. Derek’s hands shouldn’t be able to turn him on like that – not when this touch is… well, it’s a little more than friendly, Stiles supposes.
He had thought he’d play it cool when he saw Derek again – it was that or start a fight – he had all these one-liners ready, all these openers scripted, but then Derek stepped out of his car and all Stiles could do was throw himself at Derek, crying before he even saw all of Derek’s face in the sunlight.
Their reunion was supposed to be a lot less emasculating.
“I… didn’t plan on this,” Stiles says in way of explanation.
“I got that feeling,” Derek jokes drily, somehow understanding all Stiles isn’t saying – that way he was always able to, “You’re good on your toes, though.”
Stiles laughs, sniffles again and smiles against Derek’s slightly exposed collarbone.
“I thought I’d say ‘let’s pretend this didn’t happen,’ but you’re, uh… you’re hugging me back. So. I figure it’s cool? Not that hugging isn’t cool – hugging is very cool, but you’ve never really been like a ‘fight toxic masculinity,’ ‘platonic touching is chill,’ ‘free friendly touches for everyone,’ kinda guy, you know? Not that you’re mean – I mean, you have been mean, but it’s not like you’re really mean, you know? I don’t mean – ugh, what I mean is you never struck me as the buggy-cuddly type, so -”
“Before you run your mouth further than you can catch up to it, it’s fine, Stiles.”
Derek’s hands move to Stiles’ waist, pulling him away enough to look him in his glassy eyes. Derek’s calloused thumb brushes away some teary residue left on his cheek and then it moves back to Stiles’ hip.
Those technicolor eyes rove back and forth between Stiles’ a few times thoughtfully before Derek murmurs gently, “makes a good excuse for me.”
Stiles’ brow furrows in confusion, he blinks away some glassiness to better look at Derek before he asks, “an excuse for what?”
It’d be nice if the world really did go quiet the first time Derek kisses him like it’s always described in fiction – but he hears his own sharp intake, he hears their clothes rustle together, he hears his heart beating like rushing water…
He feels Derek’s fingers twitch like he’s not feeling nearly as brave as he’s acting so he makes a point to kiss Derek back deeply, grip onto Derek with more vigor, encourage him to keep going because yes, yes, yes – and then he hears Scott whistle from somewhere behind him. It’s a wolf whistle and Stiles almost hates him for it.
He and Derek wind up pressing their smiles against each other in this perfectly awkward way, wanting to laugh, unable to pull their lips away, though…
“You come back all this way just for that?” Stiles asks jokingly.
Derek tilts his head another way, shutting his eyes slowly and leaning back in to kiss him again before answering lowly, “yeah, actually.”
As Stiles winds his arms around Derek’s neck, he decides he’s really, really alright with that answer.
Stiles isn’t sure how he’s going to explain this one to his dad. Hell, he can’t even figure out how to tell Scott, and they made a pinky promise in the third grade to never keep secrets from each other.
It’s just-. Well, this isn’t like the time Stiles broke his mother’s favorite flower vase or like when he helped Scott cheat on his history final. This is so much bigger. Life altering.
It’s not like he can just sit his dad down and say, “Hey, you know that crime scene you didn’t want me near? I totally disobeyed your orders and went into the woods in search of a body. Oh, and while I was out there, I accidentally got attacked by a werewolf, and now I can hear Mr. Leon yelling at his cat three houses down.” That was sure to go over well. Especially because his werewolf mentor is none other than Derek Hale, who his dad arrested in connection to the body in the woods.
“Will you please stop groaning like a child,” Derek snarls, interrupting Stiles’ internal freak-out. He looks at Derek as best he can while hanging upside down off of the side of his bed. Standing by the open window, Derek crosses his arms over his chest and raises his eyebrows in an intimidating way. Or, maybe it would be intimidating if Stiles was afraid at him at all.
“How am I supposed to explain this to my dad?” His voice comes out whiny, but he ignores it. “He’s going to freak out.”
Derek sighs like Stiles is the worst thing to ever happen to him. “Of course he will. But you’re his son. That should matter more than anything else.” There’s an intensity in the way that Derek says it, a sadness that makes Stiles’ heart ache in his chest. Rolling backwards off the bed, he climbs to his feet, unsteady but determined. Derek watches him wearily as he flops back down on the bed, scooting back against the wall and patting the open space beside him. “What?”
Stiles smiles over at him, trying to look approachable and not mischievous. “Come sit down.”
“Why?”
He pats the bed more insistently. “Because. All the research I’ve done said that werewolves are tactile and find comfort in their pack. I’m sad, we’re pack, let’s cuddle.”
The expression on Derek’s face is, for a moment, full of confused disbelief. He looks stunned and kind of touched. And then his expression shutters, though his heart continues to race. “I’m not cuddling with you.”
Not getting deterred, Stiles makes an elaborate show of sighing in dismay. “Fine, you don’t have to cuddle me. Just come sit down. Your brooding in the corner is getting kind of old.”
That earns him a scowl, but Derek eventually makes his way over to the bed. Before he can sit down though, Stiles holds out his arms. “Take your shoes off first,” he demands, staring at Derek until he complies.
It should be awkward when Derek gets into bed with him. They’re both sitting upright against the wall, and the bed is small enough that, even though they both fit, their arms are pressed together. Derek is obviously uncomfortable with the closeness, not used to it, not anymore. And even though Stiles and Scott have never had a problem being close, sitting with Derek feels different.
But the longer they sit there, the more relaxed they both become. It’s crazy. Stiles’ life has become one hundred times more complicated because of the bite. But there’s something about it that feels…right almost. Sitting here with Derek, listening to the steady beat of his heart, it’s nice. Derek said that the bite isn’t a curse, and Stiles believes that. It hasn’t turned him into a monster or anything like that. And even though Stiles doesn’t know exactly how it’s going to change his life, he can’t help but feel like things are going to be better. Hell, even if this is all there is, if the only thing that he gets out of it is sitting on the bed worrying about his dad and listening to the heartbeats of the people around him, it’s already better. Because he has Derek now. And Stiles is pretty sure that that is something that they both needed.
“The full moon is tomorrow,” Stiles murmurs after a moment. He’s slouched against Derek’s arm, almost resting his head on the older man’s shoulder. Derek hums in acknowledgment, but doesn’t say anything. “I’m afraid I’ll hurt someone.”
“You won’t.” He sounds absolutely positive, and his heartbeat is steady.
Stiles isn’t convinced though. “You say that now. But all the research says that the first moon is the hardest to get through.” He’s digging his thumb nail against the seam of his jeans, trying to keep his fear and panic under control. “And I don’t want to hurt anyone, I really don’t. I mean, what if I lose control and my dad get hurts. Or Scott. Or you. I can’t hurt someone, Derek. I can’t-.”
Derek takes his hand, tucking it against his chest in a gesture that’s so soft and intimate that Stiles almost doesn’t know what it do. “Stiles, you won’t hurt anyone. I’ll be there with you the whole time. I won’t let you lose control.”
Glancing over at him, Stiles takes a deep breath. “Promise?”
Rolling his eyes in a truly impressive way, Derek says, “Promise.” He doesn’t offer any other explanation or reassurance, but it’s good enough for Stiles, who hums thoughtfully in response. Giving in to the urge to put his head down on Derek’s shoulder, Stiles turns his face in towards Derek’s neck and closes his eyes. When Derek doesn’t push him away, Stiles smiles.
Derek Hale can handle anything. After all, he is
an alpha werewolf and a member of the Supernatural Emergency Containment,
Rehabilitation, and Eradication Taskforce.
The first time it happens Stiles is seven years old and he carves a lopsided jack-o-lantern face onto his pumpkin. His mom helps him place a battery powered tea light inside, and they find the perfect spot to display it on the front porch railing. They go back inside, make warm apple cider and dance to the Monster Mash. His mom toasts the seeds they’d scooped out earlier, seasoning them with sea salt and chili pepper, just how his father likes them.
The next day the pumpkin is gone, vanished, leaving behind the tea light at the corner of their property, still flickering forlornly.
“Probably a squirrel,” his mother sighs, running her hand soothingly over Stiles’ head. “Wild critters have to eat too.”
“Must have been a mighty big squirrel,” his dad laughs. “That orange sucker weighed about ten pounds.”
Stiles has nightmares for a week about a super jacked squirrel.
——
The following year, his mom is in the hospital. No pumpkins are carved, and he doesn’t think about the one that went missing.
—-
Two years after his mom passes away, Stiles feels sentimental. He convinces Melissa McCall to drive him and Scott to the garden center across town to pick their own pumpkins.
“Stiles, they cost like three times as much as the ones you can buy at the grocery store. Why do you want to go there?” When he explains the fall ritual he and his mom used to share, her eyes get wet and she crowds the boys into the car. “Whatever you want, hunny. Let’s go get you some pumpkins.”
They get two pumpkins each and three carving kits. Melissa blasts cheesy Halloween tunes and they carve until their fingers cramp. Stiles laughs harder than he has since Claudia passed away. They load up the gourds and drive them over to Stiles’ house, laying them on top of hay stacks and next to colorful, hearty mums. Looking at their picturesque autumnal scene, Stiles knows his mom would be proud.
As the days go by, one by one, each pumpkin disappears.
—-
And so it goes, year after year. Stiles progressively carves more intricate pumpkin art, and his masterpieces always vanish into thin air.
“It’s vandals, Stiles,” his dad says, rubbing at his tired eyes. He’s been picking up more shifts at the station lately, since Stiles is finally old enough to stay home by himself. “Some neighborhood kids who think it’s hilarious to prank the sheriff.”
“After all these years? Seems like an awfully long prank to pull.”
John shrugs. “You have to let it go, kiddo. Maybe the Stilinski’s just weren’t meant to have pumpkins.”
“Well, that’s bullshit.”
Great, now he’s grounded.
—-
The year he turns sixteen Stiles buys ten pumpkins with his allowance money, and hauls them home in the back of his mom’s old blue Jeep. They’re orange and white, all different sizes. He carves some, paints some, leaves one plain. And sure enough, the next morning, they’re all gone.
——
Stiles plops down on the cafeteria bench across from Scott, steals a bite from the mealy apple on his lunch tray, and says with his mouth full, “so dude I need to borrow two hundred and ninety-eight dollars.”
“What?!” Scott cries. “Why do you need that much money? And why would you think I had that much money?”
“You have a job, duh. And I need to buy a security camera to finally catch the thief stealing my pumpkins.” He puts the half eaten apple back on Scott’s tray.
“Oh my god, Stiles. Give it up! It’s raccoons or something.”
“Last year they stole ten in one night. Ten, Scott.”
“Fine, it’s a whole gang of raccoons. I’m not giving you three hundred dollars. You’re out of your mind. Go ask your dad.”
“One—They’re called a gaze, not a gang. Jeez Scott. Two—It’s two hundred ninety-eight dollars, and three—he already told me no.”
Since he has the world’s worst best friend, there’s nothing left to do but drink three espresso shots and an energy drink, put the pumpkin out on a evening his father is working a double, and vow to stay up all night, armed with a wooden baseball bat and his old BB gun, and subtly watch through the peephole in the front door.
He passes out standing up around four-fifteen, and smashes into the door nose first. He’s cursing and rubbing his face when he sees movement through the viewer and the tears in his eyes. He blinks a few times, then blinks some more because there is a HUGE FREAKING WOLF ON HIS FRONT PORCH.
He scrambles back in shock. There are no wolves in California, haven’t been in years, but there is definitely one on his porch right now, delicately picking up his pumpkin by the stem and carrying it down the front steps.
Before he can think about it, he grabs the gun and his bat and throws open the door, charging outside with a wild war cry. “Drop that pumpkin, you filthy animal!”
The wolf turns, and Stiles swears it raises it’s eyebrows at him. So Stiles raises his shaking arm, aims the BB gun at the wolf’s face. His palm is sweating, and he can’t remember if he’d loaded it. He’s no stranger to guns—he’s been going to the range with his father since he was a kid, and he’s a pretty decent shot—but he’s never had to shoot anything alive before.
It happens too fast for Stiles’ human eyes to perceive, but one moment there’s a black wolf standing in front of him, and the next moment it’s Derek Hale, the most popular senior at school. And he’s naked.
Stiles shrieks, and falls back on his ass, gun still raised. “What the everloving f—!“
“Don’t shoot,” Derek pleads, one hand reaching out to Stiles in supplication, the other desperately attempting to cover his junk. It isn’t working. “I can explain.”
Stiles tosses the BB gun onto the grass. “Derek Hale, the captain of the baseball team, can turn into a wolf, and has been stealing my pumpkins for the last ten years?”
Derek looks around, sheepishly. “Yeah, that’s the spark notes version. The annotated version involves me being a werewolf. I’ll tell you everything, but first… can I borrow some underwear?”
Stiles sighs, climbs to his feet. He’s half tempted to say no, but he really doesn’t want to squander the opportunity to have the hottest guy in school naked in his bedroom, if only for thirty seconds before he puts on some borrowed clothes. Besides, it’s a mystery that’s taken ten years to solve; he owes it to himself and his mom to finally get some answers. “I think you’d better come inside.” He gestures toward the house, but makes Derek enter first. Stiles considers the fantastic sight of Derek’s naked ass walking by the first step in reparations.
——
So turns out, Derek Hale and the majority of his family are werewolves. Also, werewolves love the taste of pumpkin. Who knew?! Obviously Stiles.
It’s a long and crazy story, involving Derek’s first full shift and seeing Stiles and his mom dancing through their living room window. It’s a story that gets told and retold countless times over the years, as Derek and Stiles become friends and then lovers, and one Halloween Stiles pulls the top off a pumpkin and finds a little black box nestled inside.
It’s a story their kids love to tell, and their grandkids, too. And every time it’s told, Stiles thinks of Claudia, and how grateful he is to have had his pumpkins stolen.
theproblemwithstardust 