you are (the only one who needs to know)

It's sometime after the Alpha pack and before the thing with the pixies that Stiles drags his red-wolfsbane'd ass out of the Jeep with a series of grunts and wheezes. "What, are you made of muscle? Jesus, man, thats terrifying."

Derek giggles against Stiles' shoulder.

"Dude, you are so fucking high right now. You're, like, smiling. You know what? Fuck that. You should take this shit more often. If it wasn't all toxic as fuck, obviously. C'mon, we're going up some stairs. I'm not Superman, Lois Lane, I can't just carry you through the sky, these are human arms and you weigh a freaking ton."

Derek snorts and said, "Yeah. Yeah, because…" he cracks himself up for about fifteen seconds while Stiles manhandles him into the shower. "Cuz you're Lois. With the, the research, and the… um. The stuff. And the other stuff, y'know?"

"Not a clue," Stiles says cheerfully, dunking Derek's head under the stream of icy water. "This should get rid of most of it. You'll be back to your sour old self in no time. Dude, are you humming AAR?"

He is, in fact, humming AAR. Actually, Stiles realizes, because Stiles knows these things, he's humming "Dirty Little Secret," circa 2005.

And suddenly everything is terrible. Not the singing, which is, admittedly, terrible, but the song, and the year, because Stiles has been poking around, as he always does and always, always regrets, and he'd found out— things. About Kate Argent. About Derek. About Kate Argent and Derek.

Together.

In secret.

In 2005.

Because apparently, every time Stiles looked into something wolfy, the prize behind door number two was, "Derek Hale has the worst luck ever, and maybe you should give him a hug or a pizza or something, because seriously."

And now Derek's slouched in Stiles' shower, fully clothed and soaking wet, high on red wolfsbane that hopefully won't kill him, singing about the ex who murdered his family, because he's that fucking out of it.

And he's shivering, he's grinning crookedly at Stiles but he's shivering, and Stiles can see he's on his way down, and that crash isn't gonna be pretty.

So Stiles, he of suicidal schemes and and the kind of brain that just won't shut up until he takes direction, takes off his shoes and climbs into the shower to give Derek a hug.

It's very wet and very cold and very trembly, but Derek goes completely boneless against him, and sings something that sounds disturbingly like Cascada in the air around his ear.

"Yeah, those are definitely not the right lyrics, dude." His fingertips are going pruney and numb. Still. The Brain has spoken. Awkward shower hug and unspoken apology for all the shit that life has thrown at Derek, not to mention that Stiles had thrown at Derek back when he assumed the werewolf was a murdery asshole. Yes. This is only fair.

Also, while awkward as fuck, this isn't entirely… bad, exactly. The whole sitting with Derek thing. And Derek being happy. Even this fake poisonous werewolf-pot happy.

Which, okay, is not the hugest surprise ever, actually. Because Stiles has been on a journey of discovering that the Alpha is an actual mostly-human person with, like, emotions, for a while now.

In any case, Derek is cold. And has fallen asleep on Stiles' shoulder. With a big stupid crooked grin on his face.

So.

Stiles is in no rush to move, is all.


post s2.

title from dirty little secret by all american rejects