SIAND - PDF - by any other name.pdf

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://download.archiveofourown.org/works/3297083. Rating: Archive Warning: Category: Fandom: Relationship: Character: Additional Tags:

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Explicit Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings M/M Teen Wolf (TV) Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski, Laura Hale, Scott McCall Valentine's Day, Derek POV, Fluff, like...so much fucking fluff, and then some smut at the end, so pm like a real valentine's day lmao, Scott and Derek don't get along, Alternate Universe - High School, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics Part 2 of Thorns Published: 2015-02-05 Words: 9152

by any other name. by standinginanicedress Summary

Derek's about fucking had it with the way Stiles' lips turn downwards at the corners whenever he passes by the huge glittering red display at Wal-Mart, or sees a Valentine's themed jewelry commercial, or hears Scott go on another tirade about how romantic and amazing his Allison wooing is, like he just knows that he won't be getting anything special at all, because Derek is a fucking grinch. or the one where Derek finally plucks up the courage to give Stiles the Valentine's Day he deserves.

Notes

Happy Valentine's! (again) I decided to write this one out because first of all, it needed to be done, and second of all because the longer fic I'm working on right now is a bit dark and angsty and writing it is soo emotionally exhausting, so I wanted to write something short and sweet - and thus this part 2 was born. Valentine's Day is on a Saturday this year, so it is

in this fic as well~ writing from teenage Derek's perspective was...interesting lmao. I hope it's just as interesting for you to read it! fair warning : this is the fluffiest thing I've ever written in my entire god damn life, holy shit, it's like jumping head first into a gigantic vat of pink cotton candy and going for a swim - that's the level of fluff we're talking about here. also this is part two of a series - I think it COULD be stand alone, but you'd probably be better off reading the first part of the series first haha (also I have no clue why it's listed as part 3 in the archive when there's only two parts in the series...um..workin on that? lmao? Idk how to fix it?!?!)

See the end of the work for more notes

Derek's been feeling like he probably peaked with the whole roses thing – and, truth be told, that was Laura's fucking idea. To be a bit more fair to himself, he came up with the idea of doing something for Stiles that wasn't just some mindless, meaningless gift; Laura only suggested the roses and Derek couldn't think of anything better, so he went with it. And it just so happened to work. Completely luck, Derek thinks. Since then, he hasn't had one good fucking idea of something nice to do for Stiles. Buying him more roses feels like overkill, and buying him some expensive gift feels like something Stiles wouldn't appreciate very much, and Derek doesn't have a single creative bone in his body to make Stiles something with his bare hands. And Valentine's Day is coming up. Derek fucking hates the blasted holiday with every single bone in his body and would be happy handing Stiles a Hershey's chocolate bar and calling the day over; probably stay home from school to avoid the pink and red nightmare that awaits him in those unholy hallways. The problem is that Stiles keeps bringing it up. The way he always brings shit up, in his way that he thinks is subtle but is really more like he's doing the moonwalk in front of a neon sign flashing I WANT SOMETHING SPECIAL FOR VALENTINE'S DAY! at Derek in huge orange letters. “You know, Scott has something really elaborate planned for Allison for Valentine's day,” he said one day in the hallway, leaning up against the locker next to Derek's, casually pretending to be fascinated by something on the opposite wall. “Like, the works. Something really nice, isn't that awesome?” “My dad used to wake up extra early every Valentine's Day and drag me out of bed to make my mom a huge breakfast,” he said another time on the car ride home, over the squeal of the Jeep's brakes. “Isn't that awesome?” “I think Valentine's Day is nice. Like, I get that you think it's stupid and everything – but...” he shrugged down at his lasagna while his father was out of the room at dinner one Friday night, and didn't say anything else, and Derek didn't know what to say or do except to shovel his entire square of lasagna into his mouth at once to give him an out. Stiles is perceptive enough to know what Derek thinks is shit (although, it's not hard – Derek thinks most things aside from Stiles are absolute shit), but the thought that Stiles is walking around feeling bad because he knows Derek doesn't like Valentine's Day really rubs him the wrong way. Maybe he's not very good at planning big elaborate romantic gestures, and maybe he couldn't cook to save his own life after the zombie apocalypse like in one of Stiles' favorite movies, but he has to fucking do something – and it has to be twenty times more amazing than anything else he's ever done in his life because... Because he's about fucking had it with the way Stiles' lips turn downwards at the corners whenever he passes by the huge glittering red display at Wal-Mart, or sees a Valentine's themed

jewelry commercial, or hears Scott go on another tirade about how romantic and amazing his Allison wooing is, like he just knows that he won't be getting anything special at all, because Derek is a fucking grinch. Sometimes Derek thinks he can tell that Stiles think Derek peaked during the courting period of their relationship, too, and now it's just all downhill from here; like they've already been mated forty years. He gets this look on his face whenever Derek says something negative or has a downer attitude – like he's so unimpressed and should've mated with McCall after all. Even though he knows Stiles would never think anything like that for even a fraction of a second, that mates don't go gee I wish I'd picked someone else, the idea of it still makes his blood boil. So, no. He's not actually as romantic as it all seemed that first week. He's just good at taking Laura's advice and doing what he's told. But, this time has to be different. It has to be from him. He's been sitting up every night after coming home from Stiles' house after dinner, at his desk with a pencil in his hand, glaring down at a sheet of paper with so much concentration you'd think he was trying to dismantle a bomb or translate the Rosetta stone. As if Stiles is such a fucking mystery to him, as if he doesn't know him at all. The only thing he's got written down so far is Stiles likes candy, Stiles likes sex, Stiles likes Star Wars. What the ever-loving fuck is he going to make out of that? Licking chocolate off of Stiles' body while Star Wars plays in the background? Christ. He knows a lot about Stiles, of course he does – he knows his favorite foods, and his favorite movies and shows and video games, knows all his triggers and the things that make him tick and all his late night thoughts and knows how to talk him down from a panic attack – but something about Valentine's Day makes his brain short circuit. Like, he just cannot fucking fathom anything romantic, for even a moment. Not even for Stiles. It makes him feel like a shitty mate and an even shittier person that he can't just be simple minded like Scott can. “Maybe he fucking should've mated with McCall,” he hisses under his breath, crumpling up the sheet of paper and throwing it as hard as he can into his closet. Actually, he thinks. Actually. That might not be such a bad fucking idea after all. Not the mating part, Jesus Christ, but the McCall part. McCall is a simpleton who practically thinks in generosity and cheesy poetry and fucking glitter and sparkles. McCall who grew up with Stiles and knows even more than Derek does; knows the things Stiles hasn't thought to tell Derek yet. Knows what Stiles says about Derek when he's not around – things like I really want Derek to

get me blank for Valentine's Day. That's the fucking answer, right there. Cornering McCall at a time when he's not attached to Stiles' hip and neither is Derek proves difficult; because apparently, Stiles is only ever with one of them or both of them. But eventually, only two damn days before Valentine's Day, he manages to find Scott home alone while his mother is out at the hospital and the kid is doing nothing but sitting on the couch eating ice cream straight out of the tub. When Derek tells him what's going on, he raises his eyebrows, gives Derek a smug smirk, and says, ice cream dribbling down his chin, “so you've come to the master.” “I came to Stiles' best friend for advice.” “You came for my expertise.” Derek imagines for a second grabbing Scott by the hair and shoving his face into the ice cream, but quickly squelches it; there are more important things at hand than beating on McCall for the shit of it. “Look, I just need some kind of a clue. You don't even have to be direct with me if you think it would violate Stiles' trust in you, but just – just anything that could help point me in the direction of what Stiles is thinking about or wants. And don't say he likes ca-” “He likes cakes.” This is your mate's best friend. It would not go over well if you snapped his neck and buried him in a shallow grave where no one would ever find him. Derek pinches the bridge of his nose, counts to five in his head, and releases a deep exhale. “What else. Scott.” Scott has this fucking look on his face – a look that, after growing up with so many siblings and cousins, Derek would recognize anywhere as the I know something you don't know look. His patience is running thin. So fucking thin. “You know,” Scott leans back into his couch, purposefully casual, purposefully annoying, and sighs. “Me and Stiles have been best friends for almost ten years. You and him have only been mated for a few months.” “I know that,” Derek hisses. “That's why I'm here.” “You're not here because you think you don't know Stiles as well as I do, Derek,” Scott shrugs his shoulders and spoons up some more ice cream, doesn't say anything else, like he just expects Derek to understand what he's getting at. Of course, Derek does understand exactly what Scott is getting at. Derek knows Stiles like the back of his hand – even Scott would have to admit that the bond between mates is stronger than the bond that Scott and Stiles have – no matter how short they've been together.

That's not why Derek is here. Not at all. Derek is standing here right now because he's a colossal failure of an alpha and can't provide correctly for his own damn omega, so he has to go crawling off to some other alpha to help him get the job done. Scott might be too nice to say that out loud, but he's not too nice to sit there and bask in the knowledge that Derek knows it. After all, Derek hasn't always been as nice as he could be to the kid; he's nice to him in front of Stiles (insofar as he doesn't reach across the lunch table and choke him by shoving a chicken nugget down his windpipe, no matter how vivid his imagination gets), but the second Stiles is out of earshot... Well. Let's not get into specifics. (There might've been a time when Derek stuck his hand into Scott's lunch tray, squished the kid's brownie in between his fingers, and then threw the remains directly into his face.) (Possibly also another time that Derek grabbed Scott's history textbook out of his hands and smacked him over the head with it.) (And maybe a time where Derek picked him up and dumped him headfirst into a trashcan full of broken eggs from the Home Ec. class, leaving him kicking his legs fruitlessly in the air while the entire lacrosse team laughed. Maybe.) The kid just drives him nuts. Absolutely fucking nuts. It pisses him off when Stiles asks if Scott can tag along, because of course Derek can't say no – but then it's the Scott and Stiles show all god damn night. Scott and Stiles arguing emphatically over whether or not Burger King fries are better than McDonald's fries, Scott and Stiles cracking inside jokes at each other back and forth, Scott and Stiles knowing all the words to a song and screaming them at the top of their lungs in the car, while Derek just sits off to the side like the awkward third wheel. So, yes. Sometimes Derek takes his frustration out on McCall because he makes Derek feel like he doesn't get Stiles like Scott does. It's a very belittling feeling, and he knows that if he told Stiles how he felt then Stiles would immediately try to make Derek feel more included, but that's exactly the fucking problem. Derek doesn't say how he feels. Ever. Instead, he slaps books out of McCall's hands in the hallway. At least Scott was decent enough to never tell Stiles about any of these events. Derek always thought it was because he didn't have a spine of his own. How naive he was. How fucking stupid. Scott has been fucking tallying off the wrongs done to him, like a scorecard, and is cashing them all in now for his big god damn payback. For a few seconds, they just stand there staring at each other. Scott, mouth full of ice cream, Derek, arms crossed against his chest. “Do I have to remind you that the only reason you and Allison Argent have anything romantic going on this Valentine's Day is because of me.” Derek had allowed Stiles to bring Scott along to the monthly Argent/Hale potluck dinner; wherein Derek was forced by a glaring Stiles to

awkwardly go up to Allison and say, “have you met Stiles' best friend Scott, he's really funny.” Scott is not funny. Funny looking maybe. Allison disagreed – they talked all night long, Allison laughed at his terrible jokes and let him make her plate for her, and now they're dating. All because of Derek. And what did he ever get out of it? Well. A thank you blowjob from Stiles is what he technically got out of it. But that's aside from the point. “Do I have to remind you that I was picking egg shells out of my hair for a week?” Derek glares. Scott glares back. Stalemate. “Are you saying you're not going to help me?” Scott looks at Derek some more, narrowing his eyes bit by bit. “You really think I would let Stiles have a shitty Valentine's Day all because you and I don't get along?” “As if my Valentine's Day ideas are shitty?” “You! Don't have! Any ideas!” Derek scrubs his hands down his face and growls; why couldn't Stiles be best friends with someone any less annoying? “Okay. Fine. I have no ideas. Do you? Or are you just stringing me along for the fun of it?” The other alpha finally puts the empty carton of ice cream down on the coffee table in front of him, licks some of the stickiness off of his fingers, and nods. “I know exactly what to do.” Derek waits expectantly, widening his eyes and motioning his hand for Scott to go on. Scott looks Derek dead in the eyes, and says, “whatever you thought of first, do that.” Derek just about leaps across the room to tear Scott's head off his fucking neck for suggesting something so completely idiotic, something so unbelievably unhelpful, that he might as well have not come at all. “Are you kidding me.” “You don't get the concept of Valentine's Day, doofus,” Scott stands up and starts walking his empty carton off to the trash can in the kitchen, and Derek just watches him go. “It's not about the money, or the gift, or even what you actually end up doing,” the empty container plops into the garbage, and Scott wheels back around to glare in Derek's direction. “It's about the fact that you actually thought of it yourself – he'll be able to tell if it's my idea, or Laura's idea, and you know he will. As long as you put in effort and actually try, and he can tell, then that's all that matters.”

Derek...thinks that Scott might actually be right. Stiles has been given more gifts from alphas than anyone could easily count or even estimate; he's had money thrown at him, gifts practically poured over his head, food and candy and stuffed animals and balloons all thrust at him before anyone even stopped to ask him if he wanted any of it. None of that would impress him, now. No matter how Valentine's Day themed Derek tried to make it, no matter how red and pink everything was...Stiles would just smile falsely and give a terse, tight thank you like he always did to all the alphas back when he was still unmated. He remembers all those times he'd pause at his locker and watch some fuckoff give Stiles some ridiculous fucking present that Derek knew Stiles didn't even like; remembers the tight line of Stiles' shoulders, the way the second the alpha was out of sight he'd frown and turn the thing around in his hands in near disgust. Derek dented his locker so many times from gripping it too tightly, watching all that go down, that he got suspended for it. Watching that is what finally cracked Derek. Fuck it, he thought; if McCall was just going to take his fucking time with it then Derek was going to step in and do this shit right. The way his fucking mother taught him to treat omegas; with respect and kindness. None of the other alphas at school had any clue what it meant to actually court an omega, and to them it was all primal and careless and rude. Before Stiles' first heat, Derek was honestly too annoyed by Stiles to bother with him – he was annoyed by the way he did his hair and the way his Jeep screeched every time he hit the brakes slamming into his parking spot, only six cars down from Derek's, hated the fucking Jeep in its entirety period, despised the way Stiles spoke with his hands all the time, just...wanted to punch him in the face. After Stiles' first heat, it suddenly made sense why Derek hated him near irrationally for so many years. It's like his mother always told him – before the heat, the feelings come out a little bit stranger than you'd think they would. The first whiff of it hit him from across the hallway, and Derek just froze right where he was standing, in the middle of a conversation with his friends. He didn't even have to seek him out, or check to make sure. He just knew it was Stiles. And, beyond that – he knew he didn't have it in him, back then, to really go after him. Derek is more self aware than people give him credit for. He knows he's not friendly, or amiable, or even nice, at all. He basically beats the shit out of his mate's best friend for fuck's sake – he's not fucking nice or a good person. He's not funny, interesting, clever, or fun to be around. Stiles, though. Stiles is all those things, and then some. Stiles is pretty much everything. And Derek felt (feels) like nothing. So he kept his distance for as long as he could. Watching everyone else give him gift after gift, wondering if that would be the one he would pick or maybe that one, or that one.

He never picked any of them, though. He picked Derek. Out of everyone he could've chosen, McCall included, he chose stupid Derek. So, just like Derek knows Stiles, Stiles knows Derek. He knows and understands perfectly the choice that he made. Stiles knows that Derek is simple, and reserved and cautious. If he had wanted a McCall Valentine's Day, then he'd have mated with McCall. “Okay...” Derek decides slowly, “but my idea was just...dinner? At home?” “That's great!” Scott enthusiastically shouts, and Derek winces at the volume of it. “But I can't cook.” And no fucking way is he inviting his parents or any of his siblings to help him out – they'll all laugh at him and say that his little omega has Derek completely wrapped around his finger (they'd be right, of course – but they don't need to know that.) Scott tsk's, and rolls his eyes like Derek is the thickheaded one in this conversation. “You don't actually have to cook, Derek. Did you ever even think of that? Take out!” Derek actually hadn't thought of that; but now it seems so obvious he wants to punch himself in the face for not thinking of it sooner. Take out. Stiles' favorite thing on the face of the planet, perhaps aside from Star Wars, is take out food. He eats it straight out of the containers, sometimes without a fork, and makes a mess out of everything and everyone around him. The Sheriff doesn't think it's nearly as endearing as Derek does. “Look,” Scott grabs Derek by the shoulders, and he has to resist the urge to smack the hands off of him and punch the kid in the face, “I fucking hate you.” “I fucking hate you-” “But Stiles, for whatever reason, doesn't. That means that no matter what I think, as best friend, it's my job to make sure you don't make any dumbass decisions that wind up hurting him.” Derek sets his jaw. As if he would ever, ever in his entire fucking life, ever in any alternative backward universe, do anything to deliberately hurt Stiles. “Take my advice, asshole.” ---Derek does take Scott's advice. The day before Valentine's Day, as Stiles is dropping him off at his own house like he's done about a zillion time, Derek pauses before climbing out. “So...” he begins. Stiles raises his eyebrows, waiting. “Tomorrow.”

Now, Stiles turns his entire body to face Derek, as much as he can with the seatbelt in his way, and a slow smile spreads across his face. Derek knows he's been wondering – moping, would actually be a much better definition for what Stiles has been doing, if the way he barely said more than two words to Derek during lunch and the drive to school was anything to go by. “Is – do you want to – there's -” he squeezes his eyes shut, tells himself to stop being a fucking idiot, and exhales. “Do you want to come over to my house?” His mate nods, enthusiastically, grinning from ear to ear. “What time?” “Seven?” “Yeah, okay! What are we doing?” Derek grits his teeth, raises his eyes to the ceiling, and says, like this is a shitty B romantic comedy, “it's...a surprise, or whatever.” Stiles appears to like the sound of that quite a bit, and now Derek knows he's really gone and fucking done it. He's gotten his mate's hopes up, and now he has to deliver something that isn't an absolute shit show, all on his own, without his sisters or Scott helping him. If this ends up bad, he'll just blame everything on McCall. He drives to Wal Mart, spends ten minutes sitting in his car outside in the parking lot rubbing his hands over his face again and again, before getting out and slamming the door so hard the metal dents. Trying his hardest to look like this doesn't cause him actual physical pain in his chest, he walks down the first aisle of Valentine's themed garbage with slow, measured steps. Fucking hell. Everything is so red that it almost makes his eyes burn – and who the actual hell needs a pair of mugs with a king's crown and a and queen's crown on it? Who the fuck – who would pay money for that? Apparently, a lot of people, considering how there's only two pairs left sitting on the shelf. Derek glares at them for an inordinate amount of time, eventually having the good sense to turn his eyes away before he winds up getting so angry he picks them up and smashes them on the ground. It wouldn't be a very romantic start to Valentine's Day if Derek got held in the back room of Wal Mart and the Sheriff came in to find his son's mate handcuffed with wolfsbane cuffs to a radiator for going apeshit and destroying things he hasn't even paid for yet. He scans the rest of the shelves, thinking tacky, cliché, hideous, tacky, fucking awful, tacky, tacky, tacky at pretty much every single thing he looks at. Fake roses with pictures of individual members of One Direction tied on with a ribbon, pink fluffy heart shaped pillows, ceramic cats holding flowers in their paws – it's so horrible Derek feels like he needs to take a second, sit down in the middle of the aisle, and take an angry nap. Nobody in their right mind would want any of this shit. Everyone else in the aisles happily grabbing shit off the shelves must have undergone some form of cruel lobotomy to be so okay with these fucking atrocities.

All the same. He came here for a fucking reason. He'd hate himself ten thousand times more if he left with nothing than if he just sucked it up. So he tries to look for the least horrible thing he can find, stumbles upon a pack of streamers – hearts linked together, looking like a ten year old kid made it in art class, sighs through his nose, and throws a couple packs into his basket. Then a box of string lights – that's, like, romantic or something right? In the movies his sisters watch there's always a scene where the lighting is just string lights and it's all, like...fucking hell. Ambiance? Derek doesn't fucking know. He grabs some Hershey's kisses, a half dozen roses rubber banded together at the stems, and then debases himself even farther by standing in the greeting card section. There's one that's shaped like a coffee mug; when he opens it up it says you are exactly my cup of tea! in swirly red writing against a pink background. Derek nearly rips it to pieces. Another has a cartoon stick of butter smiling at him saying something about trans fats that Derek doesn't fucking understand, another with a god damn pair of pears leering at him about we're quite a pear and Derek – Derek has to fucking leave. That is the absolute final straw. Fruit puns? No. He goes home and sweeps in through the front door, hoping that no one will see him before he slinks upstairs to hide all this shit. Unluckily, Laura and Cora are lounging on the couch in the living room across from the foyer, eating apples with peanut butter, turning their heads to stare at him – and what a fucking sight he makes. Wal-Mart bags filled with candy and red and pink with a huge tube of red wrapping paper sticking out, a bouquet of roses in his hands, cheeks turning just as red as the petals. They stare at him, unabashedly. Laura has a dropped jaw, Cora squints at him as if he has a spare head growing out of his neck, and Derek snarls what? Laura raises her eyebrows innocently and shakes her head, “nothing!” while behind her Cora begins cackling, throwing her head back, giving Derek a nice clear view of the chewed up apple rolling around in her mouth. ---Saturday morning, he spends hours in his bedroom trying to get everything right – he deep cleans, organizes his bookshelf and his closet and his dresser, actually makes his bed, mops and vacuums and dusts and asks Laura if he can borrow her Scentsy. Derek normally despises that thing, because the smells are so god damn strong, especially to alphas, that he sometimes feels like puking every time his sisters leave the door to their bedroom open; but Laura has a bunch of packets of the wax named things like Romantic Getaway and Seaside Kisses and he knows Stiles likes things that smell nice – plus, omega's don't have senses as heightened as alphas. He'll like it. Laura holds out the box of choices she has, her face too blank and too composed, like she's

fighting off the snickers with everything she has inside of her; at least she's more decent than Cora. Derek sifts through and finds one called Silk Sheets. Jesus fucking Christ. Who comes up this shit? “That's a good choice,” Laura says when he picks it; and her voice cracks just slightly, quaking around the barely contained laughter. “I'm glad your room is soundproofed.” “Shut – shut your god damn mouth.” Everyone leaves him alone, for the most part. Mostly because they all know that if they even so much as glance inside his bedroom and see what he's doing, without saying a single word, before they have the chance to blink, hell fucking freak out and attack. He hangs the god damn streamers and the idiotic string lights, spends about two entire hours trying to figure out the best configuration for them (he doesn't have an eye for like, decorating at all; his walls are bare, normally), and then stands back and appraises his work with a frown. It looks so fucking idiotic. He scrubs a hand down his face, fantasizes about going back in time and killing the person who invented this form of torture, and then just accepts his fate. Plopping down in the center of the room, he wraps the small present, and then starts in on what he saved for absolute last, because he knew it would be the absolute worst part of this entire thing. The thing that he would be the worst at, the thing that would cause him the most problems. The god damn card. He picked one that he thought Stiles would like – though anyone liking any greeting card ever produced is hard for Derek to conceptualize – and it has some terrible lovey-dovey shit written on the front and something even worse on the inside, and he fucking knows that just writing love, Derek isn't going to be enough. So now he has to come up with his own lovey-dovey shit and he pretty much can't imagine anything worse than having to be...emotional. But it's not a damn option to hand Stiles a blank card. Then again, though; like he said before, Stiles knows Derek. Maybe it would impress Stiles immensely if his alpha actually did manage to sit here and spend the time writing out some romantic hogwash about the fucking moon and stars or some shit like that, just because Derek managed to do it. But that wouldn't necessarily speak to what their relationship is actually like. Derek and Stiles are not the moon and stars, or some other metaphor plucked out of a Lifetime Original Movie; they're way more than that trash. It's beyond words, Derek decides after half an hour of thinking. What Derek has with Stiles, it's beyond anything he could ever think to say, beyond any words he could use to try and describe it. There aren't words. There just aren't. So that's what writes. Simple, concise; exactly like Derek himself.

After that, all he has to do is order the food and get dressed; it's only forty-five minutes until Stiles shows up and Derek is officially reaching the panicked revision stage of the evening – adjusting the table cloth on the dresser he turned into a table, rearranging his furniture, trying to decide whether to save the present and card for last or to make it first. His door is cracked open, so he can hear the unmistakable sound of the Jeep screeching and bumping along on the dirt road to his house. Derek freezes, bent down after just having plugged in the string lights, and feels like absolutely fucking dying. He's never had this feeling before; of fucking unmitigated terror mixed together with anticipation and excitement and anxiety and a hundred other emotions Derek doesn't have names for because he's never felt them before as the Jeep squeals to a stop in the driveway, as the door slams closed with a creak, as Stiles hip-hops up the steps and knocks on the front door. He could jump out the window – his eyes flick over and he imagines himself just leaping clean through the glass and making a break for – no. He's going to fucking stay put and Stiles is going to be so happy and he's going to do this. His mother opens up the door, greets Stiles with a hug and a pat on the head and then there's the perfunctory greetings from the rest of the family – hey Stiles and how's it going, Stilinski and are you ever going to get your brakes fixed because I could take it back into my shop and take a look at them myself and Derek wants to smash through his door to beat the shit out of his father for making him sit in his bedroom with the single worst feeling of his life waiting for Stiles to just hurry up and get upstairs. Stiles accepts the offer of a free brake-fix, asks if Derek is up in his room, and then he starts creaking up the steps. Derek flies into an even bigger panic than he was initially, standing there in the center of the room, feeling like he has to do something. He has to just fucking do something or he's going to swallow his own tongue from freaking out this god damn much so he just – he just... ...punches a hole through his wall. He pulls his fist out, wipes the dry wall off and shakes it around in the air to get the healing to hurry up and get it done, ignoring the blood pouring out; Stiles is only twenty steps away from being outside his room and seeing the gaping hole that's mysteriously landed itself in his wall. Panicking, he grabs the wrapping paper, cuts out a square, and tapes it haphazardly over the hole with shaking fingers, right as Stiles is knocking on his bedroom door. Derek tosses the wrapping paper away from him, wipes the blood off of his hand on his comforter, nearly trips in his rush to open the door, and then he and Stiles are just standing there staring at each other. “Did I just hear-”

“Nope,” Derek cuts him off, shaking his head emphatically back and forth. Stiles cocks his head to the side, amused, like he knows what happened. “You,” he points to Derek, “are dressed nice.” Derek glances down at himself like he fucking forgot what he spent an hour planning on wearing, the dark maroon shirt and jeans, and then looks back up. “I showered, too.” Stiles is wearing a red and white plaid shirt on top of a white undershirt, light jeans, with his hair gelled carefully instead of erratically and all over the place. Derek sniffs the air for a couple seconds, the way he always does when he sees Stiles for the first time after a while, and knits his eyebrows together, detecting something off in Stiles' scent. “Did you get hurt today?” Stiles looks confused for a second, before smiling and shrugging his shoulders. “Technically, but...” he trails off, as his eyes finally focus on what's behind Derek's body and head, what's going on inside the bedroom. He pushes Derek's hand out of the way, ignores Derek's protests, and sidesteps his way into the room. “No. Fucking. Way.” “Um....” Derek starts fidgeting his fingers, something he's never in his life done, watching as Stiles' eyes rake over the idiotic heart streamers, the tiny little table in the middle of the room with the takeout boxes still steaming in the center, the candles, the rose. He stares at the way Stiles' face looks dimly lit by the string lights and...pretty much suddenly gets why dim lighting is considered romantic. Stiles' face looks incredible shadowed that way, his eyes glittering, his features accentuated just right. “No. Way.” He turns back to Derek, face unreadable, and stares. “Is this a joke.” “...um...do you...” Derek gestures awkwardly to the room at large, “...like it?” Stiles takes a second, gazes all over the room once more, spinning around in a slow circle, before his entire face explodes into the hugest grin Derek has ever seen on his face. “Like it, you idiot?” A laugh chokes its way out of his throat. “I love it! You did all this?” Derek nods, stepping closer to him and rubbing anxiously at the back of his neck. “Yeah...” “You,” Stiles' finger jabs into Derek's chest, “went out and bought all this.” Derek nods, again. “You put heart-shaped paper chains on your walls.” Another nod – and then Stiles sniffs the air. “What's that – that fucking vanilla smell?”

The alpha scratches at his neck. “Er...Silk Sheets?” Stiles starts to laugh. His eyes crinkle at the corners, he leans forward and puts his hand on his stomach as if he's having a hard time breathing, and laughs, his entire body shaking with it. Derek just stands there and watches him, confused out of his fucking mind, blinking and rethinking his decision to not jump out of the fucking window. Stiles straightens back up, his laughter dying down, and he must be able to see something written on Derek's face. Something like a frown or a downward curve of his eyebrows coming down in disappointment, because he lunges at Derek, starts grabbing at his face with his long, soft fingers. “No, no, no, I'm not making fun of you, shh, that's not -” he starts laughing again, and then shakes his head and tries suppressing himself. “I'm not laughing at you. I love this so much,” he pecks Derek's lips, runs his fingers down his neck, grins when he pulls back. “I love this, I love you. I'm just...you went to Wal Mart-” Derek rolls his eyes – thinks about throwing Stiles through the window. “Stiles.” “I'm sorry!” He kisses Derek again, harder this time, and it's a better apology than the words. “Sourwolf went out and did all this for me?” Derek swallows, stares down into Stiles' bright eyes, and smiles. “Yes. I – I knew you wanted a nice Valentine's Day, so...” The omega grins again, pushes his fingers back so they curl around the hairs at the nape of Derek's neck. “You caught onto my hints, huh?” Hints? Fucking flare signals is what they were – blinding and loud and directly in Derek's face. But, it's Stiles' day, and Derek doesn't feel like being an ass, so he just nods. For a few seconds, Stiles just stand there, scratching gently at the back of Derek's neck, grinning stupidly up at him like he's never been happier in his entire life, and Derek can genuinely say that the feeling is absolutely mutual. The drive to please Stiles and make him happy is probably one of the strongest Derek has – even stronger than the desire to fuck him senseless, at any given time of the day, which is really saying something. The burning unshakable desire to give him everything he wants, everything he needs, everything he doesn't need, is most of the time a dull ache in the back of his head. Because he always thinks he's falling short. He always thinks he's failing Stiles, that he would've been better off with someone else. It's Derek's stupid self-deprecation, his general disenchantment with the world at large, coupled with Stiles' remarkable ability to always please Derek no matter what he does, that keeps him thinking this way. But, this. This stupid dreamy look on his face and the way he's clinging to Derek so tightly, like he's happy enough to be afraid that he'll have it taken away. This time Derek knows that he's done the right thing.

After a good solid minute of this, Stiles runs his hands down to Derek's shoulders, raises his eyebrows, and says, “I smell food.” “Right,” Derek says, putting his arm around Stiles' waist to tug him against his side instead of in front of him so he can point to the food sitting on his dresser/table next to the candles burning. He leans forward and takes the top off one of the containers, releasing the thick smell of pasta fully into the air. “I got spaghetti and meatballs, because it has red sauce and I thought...you know. Red.” Stiles takes a step forward, looks down into the food containers with interest, a short laugh coming out of his throat. “Right, red. I love it, alpha.” Derek grins in spite of himself – Stiles hardly ever calls Derek 'alpha', mostly because it's, you know...Stiles. He only ever does it usually in front of Derek's parents or his own father, mostly because he knows that he has to. This time, though. This time it was just for him. Halfway through eating his spaghetti, Stiles squints at something behind Derek's head, cocks his head to the side, and says, “What the hell is that?” Derek looks behind himself, sees the square of wrapping paper he had taped to the wall to cover up the hole, and reddens. “It's – decoration.” A square of wrapping paper on the wall as decoration. Derek may be completely fucking inept at all things creative, but Stiles should at least know better than to honestly believe that Derek thinks a twelve by twelve red square taped to the wall is a romantic adage to the ambiance of the room. As expected, Stiles swallows a mouthful of noodles, smirks at Derek. “You punched a hole through the wall because you were nervous.” Derek doesn't say anything. He just focuses in on his plate of spaghetti, twirling the noodles around his fork the way Stiles taught him to, face burning. Stiles kicks gently at Derek's legs underneath the table, laughing. “You're such a complete loser.” “You one time accidentally spat your gum onto a glass display case of hundred thousand dollar rings at the mall in the middle of trying to blow a bubble, and you're calling me a loser.” “You burned soup once.” Chicken and Stars; Stiles' favorite. It was the last can Stiles had in his house, and he's never let Derek fucking live it down. “You threw up in the bushes at Lydia Martin's birthday party and accidentally covered her cat in puke and-” Stiles' gasp cuts Derek off. “You swore you'd never speak of that.”

Derek bought red velvet cupcakes from the bakery down the street, figured, once again, red, and Stiles laughs again as he reaches for one, licking the frosting up off of his fingers. Derek doesn't care much for the stuff, especially not the frosting (way too rich and sweet), so he just sits and listens to Stiles talk around a mouthful of cake about how he's thinking about getting a new paint job for the Jeep because it's starting to chip away (the entire Jeep itself is beginning to chip away, bit by bit, Derek thinks.) Throughout it all, Derek thinks about the present and the card sitting down at his feet, underneath the ends of the table cloth where Stiles can't see it, and starts getting nervous again. He didn't actually...buy Stiles anything. Because like he said, he figured Stiles wouldn't appreciate it very much after years of being showered with meaningless gifts; and he knows he's right about that. He knows Stiles well enough to know that material things don't interest him as much as other things do. He knows this. But, out of nowhere, he thinks it's stupid. Halfway through Stiles' story about how Scott keeps telling him about personal time with Allison and he doesn't fucking appreciate it very much, he stops short, giving Derek a weird look. “You're jiggling the whole table with that.” Derek realizes just then that he's been bouncing his leg up and down nervously against the side of the dresser, and freezes. “Sorry if I'm dragging you down with me with the whole Allison and Scott thing, because if I don't wanna imagine that, then I know you definitely don't want to – I mean, it's not like Scott is gross or anything or like Allison is, but they're my friends and...there should be boundaries between friends, right? I just think-” Derek reaches underneath the table, grabs the gift, and then thwaps it down beside his empty plate, sliding it across the table towards Stiles, whose eyebrows raise into his hairline. “For me?” As if the way Stiles' name is written in Derek's blocky handwriting on the front of the card wasn't enough of an indicator. Derek shakes his head up and down, motioning for Stiles to have at it. He watches with a hand over his mouth, jiggling his leg again, as Stiles picks up the card, pinches it, and drags it out of the envelope. For a second he just stares down at it, reading what's written on the front – and, unlike Derek, he doesn't roll his eyes or snicker or clench his jaw in annoyance. He just sits there and reads, whiskey eyes going back and forth, before popping it open and reading what Derek's written on the inside. Instead of grinning, like Derek had initially thought, and instead of laughing and going aww, sweet, like Derek secondly thought, Stiles just looks up and stares at him for a moment; with an expression on his face that could only be described as searching. His eyes flit all over Derek's

face, like he's trying to find something there, or like he's trying to map it out and memorize it completely; commit this entire moment to memory. Without warning, he reaches across the narrow dresser/table, wraps his languid fingers around Derek's jaw, and pulls him in for a kiss. Not like the kisses earlier in the night; but a slow, gentle thing, sloppy and careless. Derek lets it happen, relishing in the way Stiles tastes when he's this happy. When he pulls back, he doesn't smile; and when he speaks, it's choked. “Since when are you so sappy, Sourwolf?” The alpha shrugs, and answers honestly. “Since you. Open your present.” Stiles looks down at the small square sitting on the table next to the card, and smiles again, picking it up and shaking it back and forth with a rattling noise. “Is it jewelry?” “Yes. It's a diamond necklace.” “Oh, Derek! You shouldn't have!” Stiles snickers, ripping the paper off to reveal a simple white box, and Derek gets that leap out the window feeling again. Maybe he should've actually gotten Stiles a diamond necklace, or just something, because it just feels so simple and idiotic now, but it's too damn late because Stiles is pulling the top off and gazing down at the thing sitting in a pile of tissue paper. With two fingers, Stiles picks the key ring up to drop down into his other palm, holding it there, staring. “Is -” he starts, before lifting his eyes to meet Derek's, “...is this...?” Derek nods. He uses one finger to reach into Stiles' palm, to point to both individual keys on the ring. “My house,” then the next, “my bedroom. I wanted to let you know that you're...what's mine is yours, Stiles. You can come any time you like. I want you to.” Stiles holds the keys in his palm for another moment, staring down at them in near amazement, before his face breaks into another grin. “Is that code for come over and have sex with me anytime you want?” He jokes, fishing his own keys out of his pocket, sliding Derek's keyring on along with the rest, jingling them around for a second as if getting used to the sound. The sex thing, Derek did think about. Of course he did. He thinks about that probably eighty percent of the time he's around Stiles – and even that might be undershooting it a little bit. But the real reason, and Stiles knows this good and well, is because Derek wants him to be with him, be here, so often and for so much time that eventually his scent just sinks into the floorboards, into the cotton of his sheets, into the paint in the walls. Until no one call tell when Stiles is here and when he isn't, until it's Derek/Stiles instead of just Derek in here. It's an alpha thing. Stiles gets that. Stiles dumps the keys back into his pocket, tilts his head to the side, and says, “want to see what

I got you?” Derek blinks for a second. He hadn't expected to be getting anything from Stiles aside from his presence and sex – he never expects anything from Stiles, and is more than happy to just exist wherever he does. Stiles has this annoying habit of always delivering a little bit more than Derek ever deserves or even needs, like he just relishes in surprising Derek and outdoing him all the time. Not only that, but it's not like Stiles walked in here with a box, or a card, or anything in his pockets. “All right,” he says, finally, after staring at Stiles a little too hard for a little too long. Stiles leans back all the way against his chair, pushing back a bit so there's more space between him and the dresser/table. He lifts his hips up just slightly and pulls his shirt up on one side to reveal... A triskele. About the same size as the one between Derek's shoulder blades, if maybe just slightly smaller, tattooed in black ink on the bottom right side of his stomach; parallel to his bellybutton, right where hip meets everything else. Derek just stares at it for a second, opening and closing his mouth, before looking up and meeting Stiles' eyes – he has a smug look on his face, like he knows exactly what this is doing to Derek beyond any shadow of a doubt. Like he just fucking knows and knew all along that no matter what Derek could ever possibly do, nothing could top this shit. Not even if Derek came through and got Ewan McGregor or Natalie Portman to come to Beacon Hills and meet Stiles, not even if Derek fixed the entire Jeep back up to its original glory, not even if Derek fucking just handed Stiles ten million dollars in cash and told him to go wild...nothing could ever beat this fucking tattoo. As an alpha, all Derek ever really wants to do is mark his territory. With Stiles, loathe as the omega is to submit to being anyone's territory or property, Derek usually just rubs his scent all over his mate, touches him for a little too long, growls at anyone who looks at him for too long; that sort of thing. The kind of thing that makes Stiles roll his eyes, push Derek's hands away from him and say something like no one's going to come and eat me, Derek, honestly. By doing this, Stiles knows exactly what he's fucking done. He's been branded as Derek's, and no one else's – it's the same as being fucking barcoded and stamped. This is the equivalent of if Stiles got down on his knees and pronounced Derek as master – for fuck's sake, Stiles won't even call Derek alpha most of the time and then he just bypasses the entire system and gets marked as Derek's god damn property. Like it's nothing. “Where did you-” Derek begins, his voice thin and small.

Stiles grins, running his fingers along the black ink in his skin. “I asked Erica to do it for me. Did you know she knows how to do that? It hurt like a fucking bitch, I swear, I almost passed out at one point. It took Allison and Scott to hold me down, and-” Derek cuts Stiles off by literally launching across the room, almost knocking Stiles off his chair and getting a yelp of surprise from his omega; he traps Stiles' hips in between his hands, crouches down in front of him, in between his spread legs, and licks one solid stripe along the length of the tattoo; tasting the residue of pain and blood on his tongue. Stiles sighs contentedly above him, and says, “does that mean you like it?” Derek looks up at him through his eyelashes, tries to convey all his emotion into a single look, knows that he's not good at the kind of thing, so settles for a choked out Stiles... before working to undo Stiles' belt and tug his jeans and boxers down off of his body in one fell swoop. “Shirts off,” Derek says, tracing the triskele with his index finger and watching as Stiles does as he's told without hesitation, throwing his clothes somewhere off to the side and then trains his eyes back down to Derek between his legs. “I can't believe you did this.” Stiles runs his hand through Derek's hair, smiling. “I wanted to let you know,” he leans down, tilts Derek's head to the side using his hair for leverage, and growls into his alpha's ear, “that I'm yours.” That...absolutely fucking does it. The amount of thought Stiles must've put into this, the amount of time and energy it must've taken him to get comfortable with the idea of saying something like that to Derek – it just fucking cracks him wide open and any semblance of control he was exerting just goes flying out the god damn window. He grabs Stiles tighter around the hips, kicks the chair out from under him and flips the omega over so he's on his hands and knees in front of him. “Christ,” Stiles breathes as Derek starts pulling himself out of his own pants, “you really fucking like it, right?” “You knew I would,” Derek answers, working Stiles open without much preamble, “you fucking knew it, Stiles.” Stiles laughs, looking over his shoulder at Derek, his pupils blown wide, and stares brazenly at him. And it reminds Derek of something, suddenly; that no matter what Stiles tattoos onto his skin, that no matter if he calls Derek nothing but his power title of alpha, no matter that Stiles always lets Derek manhandle him and fuck him the way he likes, Derek's never been the one in power. At least, not entirely. Stiles got this tattoo because he knew what it would do to Derek. He called Derek alpha because he knew how Derek would react. He knows that the things he does all have influence over Derek, in the most fucking achingly sexy way; that Stiles could snap his fingers and Derek would leap to do whatever he fucking wanted.

Derek only gets to fuck Stiles the way he wants to because Stiles lets him. And something about that, something about the way Stiles exerts himself so fucking imperceptibly and subtly over Derek, the way he turns around and stares directly at Derek without even so much as flinching as his alpha slides inside of him until bottoming out... It's fucking irresistible to him. Fucking him like this, on the floor of his bedroom while he mewls into the carpet, while his skin is lit up only by the dim lights of those ridiculous string lights, tinted red by the paper chain of hearts, Derek can't help but think that this is literally what he was made to do. He and Stiles were made for each other. And, yes, okay – that sounds like something that would be written on one of those idiotic Valentine's Day greeting cards that Derek hates so fucking much; but maybe Derek is starting to understand that there's a reason why those cards, and those silly phrases even exist in the first place. Eventually, you come to meet someone who makes even the cheesiest, stupidest, most disgustingly sweet things seem like fucking works of literary god damn genius. Derek gets that shit now. If this is the kind of shit that's waiting for him on every single Valentine's Day until the end of eternity, then maybe Valentine's Day isn't so bad, after all.

End Notes

if you guys are interested to know, the greeting card that Derek picked out for Stiles was this one ; there was going to be this whole scene where Stiles cackles about how it's a Taylor Swift greeting card and Derek is a fucking doofus (look, Taylor is my queen my lord and my savior, but...a greeting card writer she is not lmao) but then I figured I've drowned you all in more Taylor references than you could probably stand so I let you off the hook this time.

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