Stiles calls them 'pack meetings' in his head, but that description is a little more structured than the reality. Half the time there's more humans than werewolves, and he's pretty sure his dad and Mr Argent would take exception to being referred to as pack.

Nevertheless, that's what they've become in Stiles' mind in the year and a half since Scott became the accepted Alpha of Beacon Hills. There's a steady stream of bad here now, since Scott, Allison, and Stiles became the thing that drew it. Like moths to a flame, it comes, but it's not really a light, even though Deaton calls it a 'beacon'. Stiles thinks he's being overdramatic, trying to tie it into this place, this town.

There's no light. Only dark. Heavy, oppressive darkness, wrapping around Stiles' heart, keeping him from feeling like he used to. Emotions are dampened now, dulled. Sometimes he wonders if it isn't preparing him for the day he'll lose everything he cares about, protecting him from the inevitable pain.

And yet, the bad that comes to Beacon Hills is never anything they can't handle when they work together, and Stiles thinks that's where their strength lies. The combined might of werewolves, hunters, emissaries, law enforcement and a handful of teenagers who may or may not have their own supernatural qualities, has so far proven to be unstoppable.

This time it's a only a wandering omega that's brought them together, and the gathering wraps up early after the decision to point him toward a pack in Oregon is reached. Stiles watches everyone go as he packs up his own things, and is just about to head out the door after his father when he feels a touch at his elbow.

Stiles is just a little taller than Derek now, since he shot up a couple inches last summer, but he's still not used to looking down at the guy. It makes him laugh, and then feel bad because Derek's nowhere near the superior bastard he once was.

"Stick around for a minute?" Derek asks, then licks his lips like he's nervous about something. "I need to talk to you."

The 'in private', is implied, Stiles can tell that much, so he nods, because he's used to being the one people talk to when they can't or won't speak to Scott. Stiles isn't intimidating, apparently, though he still can't equate Scott with scary, no matter how sharp the claws or red the eyes.

He watches as the last of them leave, glaring when Scott smirks on the way out like he thinks it's funny that Stiles is basically his secretary. Finally the loft is quiet, when the rumble of the door as Derek rolls it closed has faded away. Stiles leans against the table that's never moved from in front of the window as long as Derek has lived here, feels the familiar grain of the wood beneath his palms as he waits for Derek to relax when the other wolves are far enough away that they won't be overheard.

"What's up?" he asks, when he sees the tension drain from Derek's shoulders, hoping like hell this isn't going to be Derek bitching about some imagined slight Scott has done him, like the twins did that time, or like Cora seems to do every six months or so, Stiles suspects just for the entertainment value.

Derek looks at him from across the room, brow furrowed, head lowered just enough that Stiles notices.

"What?" Stiles says, licking his own lips as his heart rate increases by a tiny increment.

He sees the moment Derek hears it, eyes widening, pupils contracting, nostrils flaring as he instinctively reads Stiles, just as Stiles is reading him. "Happy birthday," Derek says, the words coming out in a rush.

Stiles snorts, and it breaks the tension, even getting a twitch of Derek's lips as he drops his eyes to the floor, then looks back up. "You're aware my birthday was like, a month ago, right?" Stiles says. "In fact, I definitely recall you being there and bonding with my dad over the grill."

"I remember," Derek says, and he starts across the room, stopping on the opposite side of the table, letting his fingertips graze the surface. "You got drunk and I didn't get a chance to talk to you."

"What about?" Stiles' curiosity is piqued, and he's almost forgotten about Scott, because this is not how these conversations normally go. "And you might be surprised at my level of comprehension while intoxicated." Funny that, how the darkness keeps him focused. "I'll have you know—"

"It was important," Derek says. "But then there was the soul eater thing to deal with, and the full moon..."

"So you waited. Okay." Stiles twirls a finger in the air. "Full circle. What's up, Derek?"

"I want you to go out with me." Derek licks his lips again, swallows. His breathing is quicker than usual.

Stiles blinks at him, not entirely sure of his meaning. He thinks he knows, but one thing he's learned over the last couple years, not everything is always as it seems. "Do you mean, like, 'go outside with you, you've got something to show me' out, or...?"

"Like a date." Derek's almost panting now, and he's blinking more than he needs to. If Stiles isn't mistaken, Derek's terrified.

"God," Stiles says. "Wow."

"It's okay if you're not interested," Derek says, rushing the words out. "I just thought—"

"Hang on," Stiles says, holding one hand out in front of him, palm forward. "Let me process it." He waits for a beat, lets it sink in. He tests the way it feels, he waits to see if he feels anything at all. "Okay." He flicks his eyes up. "But I didn't think you ever dated."

Derek blinks. "It's hard to trust people."

"Understandable," Stiles says, because really. Two of the relationships Stiles has known Derek to have had resulted in horrible mass murder. "But you trust me?"

"Yeah." Derek still looks scared, almost as if he'd rather be anywhere but here right now.

Stiles wants to put him out of his misery, but he's too curious. "And you thought you'd switch teams?"

"I don't really have a team, Stiles. I don't think you do, either."

"Point," Stiles says. "So. I'm date material because...you trust me? Is that it?"

Derek shakes his head. His breathing is closer to normal now, his eyes have stopped darting around the room like he's looking for escape. "I like you," he says. "You're smart. You're brave." His eyes drop down to the table, and he breathes out, slow, like he's conscious of it. "And idiotic." Derek looks up, grinning. "But I like that, too."

"Okay," Stiles says. "I'll go out with you."

Derek's grin spreads wider, showing his teeth. It's a smile Stiles doesn't see a lot, which is a pity, he's always thought, because Derek is gorgeous, but when he smiles like this, he's breathtaking.

Stiles clears his throat. Smiles back, because he feels lighter. "On one condition," he adds. "You were gonna do this on my birthday, so I figure you waited until I turned eighteen. Which I get, because sheriff's kid? Pretty much the definition of jailbait. Tell me how long you've been lusting after my underage ass."

"God," Derek says. "You were sixteen when I realized I wanted you. I couldn't stop thinking about you. I was terrified someone would notice me looking."

"I didn't," Stiles says.

"Your dad did," Derek says. "The night of your birthday he told me to do something or you'd be away at college and I'd have missed my chance." He shrugs. "But by the time I'd worked up the nerve you were completely wasted."

Stiles leans across the table and slaps Derek on the shoulder. "Well, you did it, buddy." He pulls back and then bends at the waist, resting his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands. "So, where are we going on this date?"

Derek looks suspiciously like a deer caught in headlights. "I have no idea," he says, the tiniest bit of panic in his voice. "I was hoping you'd tell me."

Stiles doesn't think he's ever heard Derek talk about movies, or known him to go out to eat anywhere that didn't have a drive through. And Stiles doesn't want to sit in the dark beside Derek and try to concentrate on a flickering screen. He doesn't want to dance around each other and pretend they both wouldn't rather just get naked. He wants to touch, to see how Derek feels under his fingers. He wants to see how Derek tastes. He pulls his lower lip into his mouth and looks up. "I think we should just skip straight to the kissing and see where we go from there."

Derek's pupils expand so fast it's visible. There's a tiny sliver of green around the edge, and it makes him look a little drunk or high. "Jesus, Stiles," he whispers, leaning a little further over the table.

Stiles skirts the edge of the table, walks up close to Derek, closer than they've ever been before when one wasn't threatening the other with violence. "That okay?" Stiles says. "We already know pretty much everything there is to know about each other. The whole date thing would just be a formality, right?"

"Right," Derek breathes. His pupils are still blown wide open, his lips are slightly parted. This time when he wets them, it's not nervousness, and Stiles has been around werewolves long enough to develop his own understanding of non-verbal signals. The way Derek's tongue darts out, leaves a slick coating of saliva right in the center of the lower, making it look fuller, drawing Stiles' eyes there. It's the desire to be kissed.

So Stiles kisses him.

And, fuck, the heat, the taste of Derek on his tongue, and the way Derek just eases into him like that's where he's been all along, like it's where he belongs...

It's fucking perfect, and Stiles wonders why he never looked for it before, wonders why kissing has never felt like this before. "Fuck, Derek," he says when he pulls away for air. "Why did this take us so long?"

"Jailbait," Derek says, puts a hand on the back of Stiles' neck and pulls him back in. He pulls Stiles around in the same motion, backs up against the table and sets his feet a little way apart so Stiles can crowd in on him.

"Oh. Right." Stiles presses in, pushes his hips against Derek's, lays himself the length of Derek's body, knowing his weight will be nothing. Derek puts one hand on the table to hold them, closes his eyes, and tips his head back, exposing his throat.

This action is significant, and it knocks the breath out of Stiles for a moment. He pulls back, wraps his hand around Derek's throat and Derek doesn't so much as twitch.

Stiles grips his jaw, pulls him forward into a kiss. "Holy shit, Derek," he whispers against Derek's lips. And Derek smiles, wide, exposing his teeth like he knows what he's done, like he's proud of it.

Stiles has to take a step back so he can see it, so he can feel his lungs tighten, so he can savor the breathlessness and the tiny sparks of light that burst inside him. "Coffee," he says. "We should do that. Somewhere public."

Derek opens his eyes, frowns. "What?"

"I want to see you smile," Stiles says, and he hasn't felt like this in a long time, hasn't had the words come to him, just to go spilling out like that, for a year or more. "Just like that. A lot. I want to make you smile. And you can't smile like that if our mouths are always, like, mashed together. So, coffee. If you still wanna—"

"Yeah," Derek says. "I do." And he gives Stiles that smile again, and a part of Stiles he thought was dead, a part of his heart that went dark a long time ago, brightens.

fin