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[personal profile] januarylight
So [personal profile] ayeward gave me this suggestion when I was looking for ideas for the big bang, and I'm still putting off getting started, so here we are. This will only be a few thousand words (it better be!), but I'm not getting it finished tonight, sorry.

This was the prompt where Derek goes into heat but has no idea what that means.


Stiles is eating lunch out on the stretch of lawn at the back of the school when Derek shows up.

“Hey—Derek,” he says, looking around, but Scott has already headed back in.

Eve Jeffries is throwing him a weird look, possibly because Derek Hale, once a convicted-in-the-court-of-public-opinion murderer, now just any old guy in his twenties—which Stiles is not saying is old, okay, but it’s definitely old enough to mark him as a bit of a sleaze in the minds of right-thinking educational authorities, parents, and possibly Eve—has come to the local highschool at lunchtime to track Stiles down and loom over him in front of God and all his classmates.

A couple of the girls are giggling in excitement, but Eve tries to flag down a teacher.

“Stiles,” Derek rumbles.

“That’s me!” Stiles scrambles to his feet and subtly starts trying to whoosh Derek away from him, but Derek just stares at his hands before returning his gaze to Stiles’ face.

“Yes,” Derek says, which is not helpful to Stiles in the slightest.

“Did you want something?” Stiles asks in exasperation. “Because I’m pretty sure I can’t give it to you, and also, not the time, you should go.”

“Yes,” Derek says, “I did.” And then, “I should.”

He doesn’t, though.

“Dude!” Stiles says, as Eve manages to attract Mr Robertson’s attention and points towards Derek. “Was this important, because—“

“Yes,” Derek interrupts. “It is.”

“But can it wait? Because you’re about to get arrested.”

Derek looks over Stiles’ shoulder, where Mr Robertson is speeding towards them, and says, “I’ll go,” and is halfway to the lacrosse field before the teacher reaches Stiles. Like, did he walk here?

Mister Stilinski,” Mr Robertson says, and Stiles would almost rather talk to Derek.


“I told Scott you were looking for him,” Stiles says when Derek shows up at his house later.

“I wasn’t looking for Scott, I was looking for you.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, and then stops, because he has absolutely nothing to say to that except why, which might be kind of rude, but— “Why?” he asks incredulously.

Derek takes a minute to think about it. “I don’t know.”

“Okaaay,” Stiles says. “So why are you here now?”

“I don’t know,” Derek says again, and shifts uncomfortably.

“Well do you want to leave then,” Stiles suggests, trying to be polite, “because my dad is making dinner and I don’t think you’re invited.”

“Probably not,” Derek agrees, and then he just stands there, staring at Stiles.

“Are you okay?” Stiles asks, squinting at him, and now that he’s paying attention, Derek does look agitated, and kind of flushed. Maybe he’s ill, has a fever. Maybe he wants Stiles to look after him, although why anybody would ever want that, Stiles does not know, but Derek isn’t a person who has a lot of options in that regard. Maybe he’s delusional, which would explain his choice of Stiles as a caretaker.

“I’m fine,” Derek says automatically, then continues, “I feel—“

“Sick?” Stiles prompts.

“No,” Derek says. “I don’t know.”

“You’re sick,” Stiles says knowledgably, rising from his computer and walking towards Derek to make him sit down, or take his temperature, or something. He’ll figure it out when he gets there. “But actually, it would be helpful to me if you could go back out and come in the front door, because my dad—“

He puts his hand on Derek’s arm, no reason, although he’s sure it’s first-aidy somehow, support, that’s it, he’s offering Derek support, and Derek pulls him closer, making him gasp.

When he looks up at Derek, his eyes are wide, almost all black, but Stiles doesn’t know enough about first aid to know what that means; and Derek’s hands are warm when he puts them on Stiles’ face, but they aren’t clammy, that’s good, he thinks; and Derek’s tongue, when he pushes it into Stiles’ open mouth, is wet and forceful.

That’s good too, he thinks, that it’s wet, like dogs, do werewolves get sick like dogs, should he check Derek’s nose? he wonders, and then he stops thinking.

“What—“ he starts after some amount of time, he can’t be expected to know, but then Derek goes back to kissing him and he forgets what he was going to ask.

“I don’t know,” Derek says, tilting Stiles’ head back to get at his neck, body a warm line against his. “I don’t know what I’m—“ Stiles’ dad’s step sounds on the stairs. “—doing,” Derek finishes, shoving Stiles away. “What am I doing?”

And he dives out Stiles’ bedroom window, skidding down the roof outside and vanishing over the edge. There’s a thump, but it’s a low roof, so Stiles isn’t concerned.

Well. Not about that.

“Stiles,” his dad calls through the door, rapping on the wood. “Spaghetti’s ready, come on.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and he grabs his phone so he can text Scott under the dinnertable and find out what the hell is going on.


Scott shows up before dinner’s over, so obviously he has to sit down and eat some food before Stiles’ dad will let them go.

“Dude,” he says, once they’re in Stiles’ bedroom with the door safely shut behind them. “What the hell is going on?”

“Did I not just text you that?”

“Yeah, but,” Scott says, “I’m not the one Derek’s guerrilla-kissing, how would I know?”

“How would I know?” Stiles says in a muted wail. His dad is still downstairs. “Just last week he gave me the stinkeye for two whole days just for throwing McDonald’s ketchup packets out of his car while he was driving even though you had just squirted it all over the windscreen. This was not an expected development.”

“That was such a bad night,” Scott says nostalgically. “You were so drunk you wanted to watch me climb into Allison’s bedroom and she wasn’t even there, and then you called Derek to give us a ride home, and then you took my ketchup away, and then you puked all over Derek’s shoes.”

“I puked on Derek’s shoes?” Stiles asks, voice rising. “And he still kissed me? And you didn’t tell me?”

Scott makes a sad face. “Not your finest moment.”

“So Derek isn’t into me, right?” Stiles says, dismissing the events of last week as unimportant.

“He didn’t kill you when you puked on his shoes—“

“So is has to be a werewolf thing! Is it a werewolf thing? Did he tell you about it? Tell me about it! Wait, it could be something else—”

“Yeah—“ Scott says, face clearing.

“—are there fairies in town? It could be fairies!”

“Uh,” Scott says, and pries Stiles’ fingers from his shirt, trying futilely to smooth out the collar. “That wasn't what I was thinking, and anyway, I’m not sure if fairies exist? I can ask Derek.”

“Ask Derek,” Stiles moans, flopping down on his bed in despair. “I need answers.”

Scott doesn’t move, so he waves his hand at the window, then remembers. “Oh, right, you can use the door,” he says, and changes the direction of his gesture.

“How much is Derek over here,” Scott mutters.

Stiles sits up to refute that, but Scott is already on his way down the stairs, calling out a goodbye to Stiles’ dad.

“He isn’t,” Stiles tells the empty room, “Derek doesn’t come over,” qualifies, “not over over,” and crawls into his bed fully-clothed, the better to hide under his covers and ignore his room: it’s silent, but he knows when he’s being judged.



September 2012


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