next thursday
part 1
On Thursday Danny tells Stiles to pick him up from Deaton’s instead of at his house. When he gets there, Stiles waves at Scott as Danny slides into the Jeep.
“How was it?” Stiles asks.
“Good,” Danny says, turning to look out the window.
“Good,” Stiles echoes.
The Jeep is stiflingly silent for between five and ten minutes, or maybe just thirty seconds, before Stiles says, “You can tell me stuff. I--it’s not weird. For me. Unless it’s weird for you. So if you want. Or we could listen to the radio.”
Stiles reaches for the dial to the radio when Danny doesn’t say something, and then Danny starts talking, instead, explaining what Deaton is teaching him--just mountain ash, so far, but it’s a start.
“And runes,” he adds. “We’re doing runes, it’s interesting.”
Stiles nods.
“You’d be good at it,” Danny says, weirdly, because Danny has no way to know that. Stiles isn’t actually good with languages.
“Yeah, I’m sure, that explains why I almost failed French,” Stiles says, and he can see Danny shrug in the corner of his eyes. “I don’t--I think it’s good you’re doing this,” Stiles finishes, awkwardly. He doesn’t mean for it to be awkward, but maybe he shouldn’t be surprised when it is. “I just didn’t want to. But--it’s nothing against you.”
Danny hums a little, puts his hand on Stiles’ on the gearshift. Stiles doesn’t know what to do with that, with the quick swipe of Danny’s calluses against the back of his hand, but then they’re at the coffeeshop and Danny pulls his hand away as Stiles downshifts to park.
“Allison’s going with Scott to Homecoming,” Stiles tells Lydia and Danny once everyone’s sitting down.
“Allison told me,” Lydia says. “Does that mean you’re going alone?”
“Stag,” Stiles corrects, because ‘stag’ sounds better than the alternative. “Unless you want to go with me, Lydia.”
Something weird happens when Stiles says that--Danny flinches, a little, and Lydia glances at Danny before looking back towards Stiles.
“I was joking,” he says. “That was a joke.”
Lydia nudges Danny with her elbow. Stiles looks at Danny.
“Danny’s not going with anyone,” Lydia says, giving Danny a significant look.
“We could go alone together,” Stiles says. Lydia coughs. Stiles can’t read Danny’s expression, his expression is unreadable, but there are definitely no dimples.
“Okay,” he says, but it doesn’t sound okay and Stiles--maybe Danny feels like they’ve trapped him, somehow. Lydia was kind of pushing.
“You don’t have to,” he says quickly. “I mean, I don’t want to throw off your game.”
“Yeah,” Danny snorts a little. “Game.”
“Whatever, you totally have game, and I mean, I’m not going to, like--I have no game, so I could understand how that might get in the way of yours,” Stiles says.
Lydia sighs loudly.
“No,” Danny says. “We can go together. I’d like that.”
Stiles’ heart flips out of his chest, Stiles is fairly certain it’s lying beating on the floor, and this isn’t even a thing, they’re just going as friends or whatever, but suddenly it’s very important that Stiles find something to wear. What a disaster. He would’ve rather had Danny’s weird, unhappy ‘okay’ than something that sounds like he might actually want to go with Stiles, together-together.
But Danny said he’d like that.
But the last dance Stiles went to he went to with Lydia, and that was--not. It just wasn’t anything. Going to dances with people doesn’t magically do anything.
And Stiles has got to stop comparing Danny to Lydia.
“Okay,” Stiles says. He’s not sure how much time has passed. Probably too much. “What color are you going to wear?”
Lydia smirks. Danny looks uncomfortable.
“I mean, it’s not--” Stiles starts. “I don’t know what I’m saying. Sorry.”
“What color are you wearing?” Lydia asks, and Stiles frowns.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know what I’m wearing, don’t ask me.”
Lydia looks thoughtful. Danny looks like he wants to change the subject.
“How’s your Homecoming court campaign going?” Stiles asks, in a desperate bid for a conversation topic that has to do with neither him nor Danny. Lydia purses her lips like she knows what he’s trying to do, but she segues smoothly into something that Stiles is content to listen to without participating in. Stiles wants to make eye contact with Danny, roll his eyes or something. He also wants to never make eye contact with Danny again. It’s kind of a conflict of interests, that.
Stiles probably shouldn’t surprised to get a call from Lydia telling him, curtly, that they’re going shopping for Homecoming together.
“What about Allison?” Stiles asks balefully.
“She’s coming too,” Lydia says.
Stiles tries to pretend that he’s not going to have to sit around in dressing rooms and carry piles of dresses, but that’s pretty obviously what’s going to happen.
“You realize this makes no sense,” Stiles says when they’re at the mall. “You should’ve invited Danny.”
“Because he’s gay?” Lydia asks, arching an eyebrow.
“No,” Stiles says. “Or yes. Because he’s not me.”
“Danny can dress himself,” Lydia says, thrusting a shirt at Stiles.
“I’ll have you know, I’ve been dressing myself--” Stiles starts to count on his fingers up from third grade, but he’s not even sure it’s worth the trouble.
“Danny can dress himself well,” Lydia says. She’s thoughtfully eyeing something shiny, and Stiles can’t tell whether it’s for him or her, but he desperately hopes it’s not for him.
“You didn’t dress me for that dance we actually went to together,” Stiles says, looking at his feet and scuffing them a little and trying to pretend that hadn’t been one of the highlights of his life up to that point.
Lydia gives Stiles a flinty look.
“No one should have to dress their own date,” she says. “Which is why Danny isn’t here.”
Stiles trips on his own feet and takes back everything good he ever said about Lydia Martin. He hates her.
“He’s not!” he says. “We’re not!”
Lydia pats him on the shoulder.
“I’m just trying to help you,” she says, and handing Stiles another shirt. Stiles suspects he’s sulking, but he can’t really be bothered to care.
“I know what you’re doing,” he says. “And it’s weird.”
“What’s that, then?” Lydia asks.
“Trying to set me and Danny up,” Stiles says. “Has this been your plan since the beginning?”
“No,” Lydia says, idly flipping through another rack of clothes.
“I really think we have enough clothes,” Stiles says.
Lydia hums, though it’s difficult to tell what that means.
“It’s not going to work, you know,” Stiles says. “Danny doesn’t like me.”
Lydia stops, turns around, and pats Stiles on the cheek.
“Don’t sell yourself short,” she says. “I know you’re very torn up over me, but there are other fish in the sea.”
Stiles decides it’s best not to engage at this point. Lydia obviously has the high ground. Or better artillery. Or something.
“Where’s Allison?” he asks.
“Coming,” Lydia says brightly. “We’ll need your opinion, of course, when we’re picking things out. Dressing room, now.”
Lydia claims a chair outside the dressing room door and hands Stiles a pile of clothes.
“Put it all on,” she says with a sharp smile. “Quick. We have a few to get through.”
Stiles does not like shopping. He does not like shopping with Lydia Martin. He does not like shopping in boxes, with foxes, and so on and so forth. The nice thing about having a single father was that the two of them usually just go to some arbitrary store, grab a pile of shirts in more or less the right size, and wear them until they fall apart or Stiles outgrows them, whichever happens second.
Shopping with Lydia is not like that.
When Stiles comes out of the dressing room, Lydia taps her chin and swirls her finger, indicating that he should turn around.
“I think I got your pant size wrong,” she says. “Come on.”
“I think these fit,” Stiles says, looking down at himself. “They’re long enough.”
“They’re long enough,” Lydia echoes mockingly. “I’ll be right back.”
That’s pretty much how it goes. Lydia gives Stiles a series of--clothes--and whenever he comes at out of the dressing room she looks at him, taps her chin, and sends him back in.
“I really don’t think this is necessary,” he says around the time ‘they’re not vests, they’re waistcoats’ start getting involved.
“Consider it a gift, from me to you,” Lydia says mildly. She’s picking through a pile of the clothes Stiles has already tried on and sorting them into piles according to some mysterious algorithm (and, knowing Lydia, there probably is an actual algorithm involved). “Clothes that fit.”
“I already have clothes that fit,” Stiles mutters, and Lydia hands him a newly reduced pile.
“You’re buying these,” she says.
“Aw, Lydia, not a vest,” Stiles says, rifling through the pile.
“You’re right,” Lydia says. “It’s not a vest, it’s a waistcoat.”
“I loved you,” Stiles says.
“No you didn’t,” Lydia says, patting him on the back. “But it’s sweet that you think so.”
Stiles lets it slide, because she’s probably right.
“Has Jackson said, is Peter back yet?” he asks after he’s paid for the clothes, because Peter not being around is almost creepier than Peter being around.
“No,” Lydia says, smiling wanly.
“We’ll get him,” Stiles says, bumping her in the shoulder, and Lydia grants him a small grin.
“My pretty?” she asks.
“Yeah,” Stiles says. “And his little dog, too.”
They meet Allison out front and get pretzels before looking at dresses, and after about an hour of that Stiles ends up muttering, “I can’t be your gay best friend if I’m bi,” and effectively coming out to them to the most anticlimactic reception possible.
“Honey,” Lydia says. “You can’t be our gay best friend because you’re terrible at it. Here, take this dress and put it back.”
“I liked that one,” Stiles says. It was shiny.
“Exactly,” Lydia replies.
Allison comes and sits next to Stiles a little after that. She has a satiny green dress draped across her lap, and she runs her hands across the fabric before speaking.
“I suck at this too,” she says.
Stiles is tempted to make a dead mom crack, but it’s pretty much always too soon for those.
“You know, when I was shopping for winter formal Peter showed up?” Allison asks.
“He’s a creep,” Stiles says automatically. Allison gives him a strange look, and Stiles shrugs.
“But, you know, we have a support group for that,” he adds. “Thursdays. Danny and I can give you a ride.”
“You and Danny, huh?” Allison asks, and the way she says it makes it sound like it means more than it does.
“It’s a carpool,” Stiles says. “To stop global warming.”
“Uh-huh,” Allison says wryly. Stiles had kind of missed Allison, and now he wonders why that was. Fairly certain it had to do with Scott and Transformers, and not Allison and her smirky little grin.
“Fine,” Stiles says. “Drive yourself. Don’t save the planet.”
“Lydia already invited me to give her a ride,” Allison says, and then Lydia comes out in another dress.
“That one looks nice,” Allison says,
“Your--um--” Stiles says.
“My breasts, Stiles?” Lydia asks, overly loud. The bored looking girl working in the dressing room glances over at them.
“Yes,” Stiles says. He sounds sheepish. Or feels sheepish. Or a combination thereof.
Lydia nods and goes back into the changing room. Allison looks at Stiles and shakes her head.
“I take it back,” she says. “You’re worse at this than I am.”
“I didn’t ask for this!” Stiles says.
“What did she make you buy?” Allison asks, looking down into Stiles’ bag.
“A vest,” Stiles says. “Seriously.”
“And that’s all you’re going to wear?” Allison says, raising her eyebrows.
“I’m beginning to rethink my positive opinion of you,” Stiles says. Allison laughs and it’s actually good to hear. Stiles hasn’t really been spending time with her, but it’s still been awhile since he heard her laugh, since he’d seen her do anything but walk around school in dark clothes, hunched in on herself like she didn’t want anyone to so much as look at her.
They’re quiet, for a bit, and then Stiles says, “Hey, I’m glad you’re going to Homecoming with Scott.”
“Yeah,” Allison says. “I guess I am, too.”
And that’s how Allison joins them.
At least she has the decency to get a hot chocolate. Stiles says as much, staring at Danny’s small bowl of macaroni and cheese.
“This is pretty good, actually,” Danny says, and then he holds out a forkful to Stiles. Stiles is fairly certain he sees Lydia roll her eyes at Allison, but he takes the bite anyway. Danny’s watching him.
“I’m pretty sure the only things you like are cheese and coffee,” Stiles says around a mouthful of macaroni.
“Probably true,” Danny replies. “I like pizza.”
“Cheese,” Stiles says, nodding. “That’s in the cheese food group.”
“Okay,” Lydia says. “Back on topic, you two.”
“What was the topic?” Stiles asks.
“Peter’s back,” Lydia says, leaning forward.
“Of course he is,” Stiles says. “Peter likes school dances.”
It’s supposed to be a joke, but it doesn’t really work as one because it’s too close to the truth. Allison winces, Lydia flinches, Danny looks uncertain and uncomfortable.
“So,” Stiles says, as casually as possible. “I thought that would be funnier than it actually was.”
“Mmm,” Lydia hums.
“Should’ve stuck with cheese as a conversation topic,” Stiles says, earning himself a smile from Danny, just a little quirk of lips that Stiles is far too quick to capture and catalogue.
God. If Stiles weren’t himself, he doesn’t know what he’d do with himself. He’s avoided discussing Homecoming with Danny at all, because he likes pretending they’re going together, properly, and if they talk about it Danny might say something about how they aren’t. Maybe Danny’s going to go to the Jungle, after, and make out with some guy against a wall behind the building, stroke some stranger’s face with his calloused hand. Maybe, after, they’ll do the kind of things Stiles has only ever seen in porn.
They’re talking about Peter Hale, though, and Stiles really shouldn’t be imagining Danny’s hands on his face or anywhere else. It makes plotting difficult, and Stiles is pretty sure Lydia can tell, even without werewolf senses.
“Scott and Jackson will keep an eye out,” Stiles says, to get his mind out of wherever it’s gone. The gutter, probably. “In case Peter tries anything. Even Derek’s betas wouldn’t just let him.”
“Do you trust them, though?” Lydia asks. “Do you trust a werewolf fight to solve anything? Peter’s cleverer than they are.”
“So the plan’s a pipe bomb, is it?” Stiles asks.
Lydia shrugs, and props her head up on her hands.
“If it comes to that,” she says. “But we have Allison, now that we aren’t rescuing her.”
“Do we really think Peter’s going to try anything?” Danny asks.
“He could,” Lydia says. “Though it’s hard to plan without knowing, or without knowing what.”
“Danny can bring mountain ash,” Stiles provides, and Danny looks at Stiles for a moment before he nods.
“I might be able to do a ward,” he says. “I’ll talk to Deaton.”
On the drive home that night Danny and Stiles mostly talk about jazz band, because Danny says they have a concert coming up and it’s something to talk about. The Beacon Hills High Jazz Band is actually good, in kind of cool in a way where it really shouldn’t be, by all rights, which is maybe a way to describe Danny as well. Beside Stiles, Danny mimics playing bass, tripping his fingers over imaginary chords and humming a few bars.
“When’s the concert again?” Stiles asks. “If air guitar of this caliber is what I can expect--”
“Next Tuesday,” Danny shrugs. “You should come, if you want.”
It’s not an invitation, exactly, but Stiles--Stiles will take what he can get.
“I should,” Stiles says. “I mean, I don’t know jack about jazz, but. Maybe Lydia and Allison can come, too, and it’ll be an outing.”
“Sort of like when we skipped class?” Danny asks, and Stiles wants to say that no, that was a date, but no one paid for anyone’s drink at the coffee shop, and no one really dated anyone, so.
“Yeah,” Stiles says, as he gets out of the car. Then, more quietly, as Danny drives off: “Sort of.”
So Tuesday is the concert, and Thursday they’ll skip coffee because Friday--Friday is the Homecoming dance. Over the weekend Stiles puts on the clothes Lydia made him buy, grey slacks and grey waistcoat-not-vest and dark red shirt and Stiles is going to need to iron this or something. He feels stupid for wearing it and also for trying it on right now, especially when Scott vaults through his window.
“I thought you were supposed to do that to Allison,” Stiles says.
“Um,” Scott says. “Hi dude. What are you wearing?”
Stiles sits down on the bed.
“Remember when I told you Lydia took me shopping?” he says.
“Oh,” Scott draws out the syllable for a few seconds, realization dawning on his face. “Looking good.”
There are finger guns involved.
“Shut up,” Stiles says.
“No, seriously, you should’ve invited me,” Scott says. “I was just going to wear whatever my mom tells me to.”
“You couldn’t come, because Allison did, and that’s against Lydia’s rules or something,” Stiles says.
“So, you going to wear that while we watch Transformers?” Scott asks.
“You’re dating Allison again,” Stiles says, but Scott’s already rifling through Stiles DVDs.
“I sort of like it now,” Scott says.
“I think it Stockholm syndromed you,” Stiles says, flopping back on the bed because he probably is going to need to iron everything he’s wearing, anyway.
“So you’re going with Danny, huh?” Scott says, looking back at Stiles. Stiles stares back at him, because Scott knows Stiles is going with Danny, and it sounds like Scott is fishing for information.
“Yes,” Stiles says slowly. “But it’s not--”
Scott grins.
“It’s not,” Scott repeats, and his grin has gone totally shit eating. “You know, Jackson told me the other day that if my best friend fucked his best friend he would never talk to me again.”
“And that’s a punishment?” Stiles asks.
“That’s what I said!” Scott says. “So, anyway, you think you’re going to get Jackson to stop talking to me?”
“What if it’s the other way around?” Stiles says. “If Jackson’s best friend--”
“Stop please,” Scott says. “You know I’m totally okay with all of this, but if we are having an actual conversation about the dynamics of you and Danny--you know--I may need a little time.”
“You were the one--” Stiles starts, and Scott shakes his head and puts the DVD in the player.
“Nope,” he says. “I know I was, but--nope.”
Stiles leans back against a pillow.
“I’m kind of gone,” he says, mostly to the ceiling. “I’m kind of--I don’t even know.”
“You’re going to Homecoming together!” Scott says. “This is great.”
“It probably doesn’t mean anything,” Stiles says. “It’s like if I was going with you.”
“But you don’t want to--”
“Nah,” Stiles says, propping himself up. “Incest, dude.”
“You should go for it,” Scott says, flipping through the DVD menu. He’s going to make them watch it with commentary. “You should woo him.”
“I should woo him,” Stiles repeats, skeptical.
“Clothes like that--” Scott says, grinning. “I’d let you woo me.”
Stiles throws a pillow at him. Scott starts the movie.
Lydia and Allison both bail on the jazz band concert at the end of the school day on Tuesday, and Stiles probably shouldn’t be surprised.
“Oh,” Allison says when she and Lydia are bailing. “We bought these flowers. Say they’re from you.”
“Scott talked to you, didn’t he,” Stiles says, looking balefully at the--God, there’s hibiscus in the bouquet.
“Woo him, Stiles,” Allison says, turning on her heel. “I need to go look at bows, and the only good archery store is in the next county.”
“But it’s open other days of the week, isn’t it?” Stiles calls after her.
Stiles puts the flowers in the passenger seat of the Jeep and just looks at them. He can’t very well bring them to the concert. If he waits until after to give them to Danny his family will be there, at the very least, and it’ll be awkward.
At the very least.
Danny’s car is in the parking lot, and if Stiles can catch him there, before he goes home, Stiles figures--Stiles doesn’t know what he figures, but he goes home himself and puts the flowers in water, and tries not to think about them.
“There are flowers on the table,” Stiles’ father says when he gets home from work.
“A-plus observation, dad,” Stiles says. “No wonder you’re the Sheriff.”
“This is an interrogation tactic,” he says, mildly. “I was giving you an opportunity to explain.”
“Allison gave them to me,” Stiles says, and he’s doing a terrible job of making eye contact. “To give to Danny. After the jazz band concert tonight.”
“Danny Mahealani?”
“Danny and I are--” Stiles pauses. “Uh. Kind of going to Homecoming together. And I’m bisexual.”
“That explains the new outfit, then,” Stiles’ dad says calmly.
“So you’re not?” Stiles says. “That’s all I get? You told me I wasn’t gay!”
“I told you you weren’t gay dressed like that,” his dad says, and Stiles gapes at him. “Should I go to this concert with you?”
“No,” Stiles says. “I mean, it’s just a school concert. At school.” For good measure he adds, “Most of my clothes are still the same.”
“Good thing, too, because you have no money,” Stiles’ dad says. “What’s for dinner?”
“You realize this has been an extremely anticlimactic coming out experience for me, right?” Stiles asks.
“What did you think I was going to do?” he asks. “I love you, I’m hungry.”
“Fine,” Stiles says. “We’re having spaghetti. Whole wheat.”
“Just a second,” his dad says, and catches Stiles and pulls him into a hug. “Even if you’re making me eat whole wheat spaghetti.”
“It’s not that different,” Stiles says into his father’s chest.
“Just so you know,” Stiles says before he leaves the house. “I’m not even sure Danny likes me. Uh. So don’t, you know, pull him over and interrogate him or anything.”
“For liking you or not liking you?” his dad asks. “Because these both sound like problems.”
“I take back the hug,” Stiles says. “And the spaghetti.”
“Have fun,” his dad calls after him. He’s disturbingly chipper about this. It sort of reminds Stiles of when he gets excited about Stiles getting play time in lacrosse and Stiles--is torn between feeling bad, that he doesn’t do more normal things that make his father grin with a weird sort of pride, and wanting to go back into the house and tell his dad that this isn’t going to happen, probably, that Stiles doesn’t get boyfriends or girlfriends like he doesn’t get off the bench in lacrosse games, so his father really shouldn’t get his hopes up.
The concert is--good, Stiles supposes. He realizes he doesn’t really know that much about jazz. But he sits off to the side in the back of the auditorium, and from there he can see Danny, on the stage, look for his family and wave to them, and then he can see Danny keep looking, and Stiles lifts a hand to wave to him. He sees it, when Danny sees him, and for just a moment Danny’s face lights up. Just for a moment, but it’s there--a grin, dimples.
It’s not much, but it’s enough. Because Lydia and Allison aren’t with him, so it’s just Stiles, and--
And then Jackson sits down next to him.
“Hey,” Jackson says. Stiles doesn’t entirely know how to reply to that.
“So,” Jackson says. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with Danny lately.”
For Jackson, this is a relatively non-confrontational statement, which Stiles counts as a plus.
“I’m not trying to steal your best friend,” Stiles says, before remembering his recent conversation with Scott.
“I’m not worried about that, Stilinski,” Jackson says. “Just try to keep it in your pants when I’m around. Why do you smell like hibiscus?”
They’re halfway through the concert before Stiles realizes that that’s as close as he’ll probably ever come to getting Jackson’s blessing, and he really, really doesn’t know when everyone except Danny decided to support their nonexistent relationship.
He tries to shift his focus to how hot Danny is, playing the bass and totally pulling off a bow tie, until Jackson elbows him and says, pointedly, “I can smell you.”
“So go sit somewhere else,” Stiles mutters, but talking to Jackson is kind of a boner killer all around.
After everything’s over and the standing ovation has been sufficiently ovated or whatever, Stiles goes out to the parking lot and sits in the Jeep, looking at the flowers on the seat next to him. He parked next to Danny’s car, and he pulls his seat back and kicks his feet up on the steering wheel while he waits. He figures it’ll be a little bit, but.
“Mmm,” comes a voice from the backseat. “Where were you, Stiles? That was quite the wait.”
Stiles can’t honestly say that he doesn’t nearly piss himself.
“Time to go!” Peter Hale says brightly, slinking into the front seat and picking up the bundle of flowers. “Though these are nice flowers. Pity, really.”
Peter opens the door and tips the bouquet out onto the pavement, and something inside Stiles deflates. This is--this is happening.
“What the hell,” Stiles says, as slowly as he can, which is not especially slowly. He has wolfsbane in his glovebox, just a little, as a precaution, but Peter is sitting in front of his glovebox, so there goes that plan.
“I’m kidnapping you,” Peter says, claws extending. He reaches over and puts his left hand on the back of Stiles’ neck. “Care to put the key in the ignition, Stiles?”
“Why,” Stiles demands as he starts the car. “You can’t bite me, Peter.”
“No,” Peter says pleasantly. “But I think you have a friend who will want to save you, and I think Allison’s been kidnapped enough, don’t you?”
“So you’re using me to get Scott to join Derek’s pack,” Stiles says.
“Aren’t you a clever one?” Peter asks, grinning toothily. “But no, I’m using you to get Scott to join my pack. He was my beta first, after all. Turn left.”
They’re driving into the woods, towards the old Hale house. It couldn’t be more obvious.
“So Derek doesn’t know you’re doing this,” Stiles says, because he figures you’re supposed to keep the villain talking.
“Well, I certainly hope not,” Peter says.
It’s not going to work. Stiles believes that somewhere deep in his gut, but at this point he’s mostly worried about what will happen to him before Peter’s plan fails to work.
“You want me to call Scott, then?” Stiles asks as they get closer to the woods.
“No,” Peter says. “He’ll show up eventually.”
“Into the cellar with you, then,” Peter says when they get to the house. His hand’s still hot against the nape of Stiles’ neck, and he guides Stiles along and pushes him down the stairs.
“I never understood why this house even has a basement,” Stiles mutters. “We live in California.”
Peter smiles at him, still with too many teeth, and then he pushes Stiles further and cuffs him to the wall.
“And now,” he says. “We wait.”
“Could you just knock me out or something?” Stiles asks.
“Stiles,” Peter reprimands. “You really are no fun at all. I was thinking we could have a chat.”
“I really don’t think we have anything to talk about,” Stiles says. He should probably keep Peter talking, though, because Stiles can get out of cuffs. Sometimes. He used to practice with his Dad’s cuffs at home, and Peter’s only cuffed one of Stiles’ hands, the right one, which means that if Stiles can get his hand in his pocket without Peter noticing--Stiles may not have been able to get his wolfsbane, but he does carry bobby pins, and they certainly aren’t for his hair. Although he has, on occasion, given one to Allison.
“Derek says you’re part of a human pack,” Peter says as Stiles fidgets with his pocket.
“It’s not a pack, it’s a group,” Stiles says. Derek would think it was a pack. “A support group for people who have been used and abused by werewolves.”
“Lydia,” Peter says, almost worshipfully. “Of course. She would. She is quite something, isn’t she?”
“Please stop talking about her,” Stiles says. He’s gritting his teeth, just a little, and it’s not just from trying to get the bobby pin into shape single-handed.
“Do you have anything you want to ask me?” Peter says. “We could have a pleasant chat, while we wait.”
“What were you doing in San Francisco, then?” Stiles asks, and Peter looks at him, too quickly and too sharply. Stiles probably should’ve played that card a little closer to his chest, but at least if Peter’s looking at Stiles’ face he’s not looking at his hands.
“Business,” Peter says sharply. “I’m sure you wouldn’t understand.”
“Okay,” Stiles says. “Good talk. We’re really getting to know each other. This is certainly a two-way street of a conversation.”
Peter scowls, and then he goes up the stairs, presumably to wait for Scott. Stiles looks across the room at the wall, fiddles with the bobby pin a little more and pushes it into the keyhole on the cuffs. He wonders if Peter can hear this. It seems like he should be able to. It’s worth a try, anyway--even if Peter catches him, maybe it’ll make him less of a smug asshole if Stiles breaks his cuffs.
Peter dumped Danny’s flowers out in the parking lot, which doesn’t seem exactly like covering his tracks, and even though Stiles has thought through the ways in which flowers dumped out in the parking lot could be interpreted, he doesn’t think Danny’s the sort to go through the ways in which it might be an insult, so maybe, hopefully, he’ll realize something is wrong. Not that--Danny can’t come, not unless Deaton gives him something.
Jackson actually shows up first. Stiles hears the vicious purr of his Porsche, hears rather than sees him confront Peter.
“Where’s Stilinski, asshole?” Jackson asks. “I smelled you on those flowers.”
“I’m waiting for Scott,” Peter says, almost peacefully.
“I could take you,” Jackson says, and he sounds stiff and angry. “Lydia told me--”
“Lydia again,” Peter says. “You all are quite concerned about her.”
Jackson snarls.
“Don’t disrespect your elders,” Peter says, and then, conversationally: “Did she tell you everything?”
The handcuffs click open. Stiles pulls his hand free and tries to decide whether he should, whether he can, go upstairs and join Peter and Jackson for their werewolf rumble or whatever’s going to happen. He figures there’s a chance he might surprise Peter, though it’s a slim. He hopes Jackson will do something stupid. This is Jackson, after all.
The next car pulls up when Stiles is on the steps. The next car is not Scott, because Scott doesn’t have a car. When Stiles gets upstairs Peter has his back to him, and Jackson’s turning around towards the driveway, and Stiles--Stiles--he doesn’t have anything to hit Peter over the head.
He jumps on Peter’s back, instead, and realizes that was a terrible idea exactly when Peter starts to shift. Stiles shouts. Jackson turns back around, towards Stiles and Peter. Danny is rushing up the steps.
Stiles is still on Peter’s back, and underneath him Peter is writhing, and Jackson shifts, too, and Danny--Stiles can’t tell what Danny’s doing. Peter throws Stiles off his back, and Stiles lands on his own back on the hardwood floor, hits his head, rolls over on his side.
It hurts.
The floor hurts. There’s snarling off to the side, and Stiles doesn’t roll over to see what’s happening until Danny rolls him over.
“Aren’t you--” Stiles says. “Shouldn’t you be doing something?”
“I think Jackson has it covered,” Danny says, softly.
“He can’t possibly,” Stiles mutters. “He’s Jackson.”
“Are you okay?” Danny asks.
Stiles doesn’t know.
“I don’t know,” he groans. “It hurts. Look out for werewolves.”
Danny is running his hand across Stiles’ hair, holding him against his ribs. Stiles winces.
“Werewolves,” he says again, because Danny shouldn’t be looking at Stiles, he should be watching the werewolves, because werewolves don’t exhibit much concern for collateral damage. Stiles can hear the snarling in the background, snarling and hissing and fleshy thuds.
“Scott?” Stiles asks when Danny doesn’t move.
“I called him,” Danny says. “Are you okay?”
And then, behind Danny, there’s a hiss and a snarl and something else, something unidentifiable, and Stiles flails, trying to pull himself up so he can see. He thinks he broke a rib. It hurts like he imagines breaking a rib would hurt.
He can’t see much, but from what he can see--from what he can see Jackson killed Peter. There’s blood. There is a lot of blood. Peter’s not moving. Jackson--is.
“Shit,” Danny says.
Jackson gasps, and when he shifts back, slowly, he looks small.
Scott comes loping up the steps, Allison at his heels. Isaac is behind them, and behind him are Derek, Erica, Boyd. Stiles--Stiles doesn’t know.
“Hello,” Stiles says.
There’s too much happening--Stiles can see something on Derek’s face crack, and he knows he shouldn’t be surprised. Scott is staring at Stiles, Scott is sitting next to Danny saying, “Are you okay?”
“I think I broke a rib,” Stiles says, kind of abstractly. He looks up at the ceiling.
“He--” Jackson says. “Lydia.”
Derek snarls and goes to Peter’s body, which is prone and twisted on the floor, misshapen, half human and half not. His betas go to him, gather around, and Stiles doesn’t know what to make of it. They had to know. They had to know that Peter wasn’t--he should say something. He should tell Derek that Peter wanted his own pack, was going to. He wants to say that this shouldn’t be a surprise, that Peter died once before. But Scott is talking.
“We need to take him to my house,” Scott says. “My mom--”
Danny nods, and tucks Stiles’ head into his shoulder, and picks Stiles up.
Stiles probably should feel embarrassed about this. Danny’s not even a werewolf.
“I’ll call his Dad,” Scott says.
“Take my car,” Stiles mutters into Danny’s shoulder, which is warm and soft and pleasant smelling. “The keys are in it--it’s bigger.”
Scott and Danny are gentle as they slide Stiles into the backseat of the Jeep, and then Danny gets in to drive him and Stiles lets himself sleep.
When Stiles wakes up he’s in the hospital, and his father is there.
“Melissa says there’s something you need to tell me,” he says.
Stiles looks at him, at the lines on his face. Stiles wonders how many lines would be there, if Stiles wasn’t.
“It can wait,” his father says. “But you need to tell me.” And then, before Stiles slips off again: “You know I love you.”
Stiles knows. He sleeps more, longer. When he wakes up, he finds out that he did break ribs. A few of them, actually. Scott’s mom says he’ll be fine.
“Werewolves,” he says to his dad when he wakes up. “I’m sorry, I didn’t--” he doesn’t know where to go from there. He’s sorry he lied, but he didn’t know what else to do, and his apology feels like a flimsy thing.
“I’m sorry too, kid,” his dad says, and then Stiles tells him the rest, watches something in his father’s eyes break a little. Melissa McCall comes in when they’re quiet, puts a hand on Stiles’ father’s back and one on Stiles’ shoulder.
Stiles goes home.
Lydia comes to visit, hair tucked neatly behind her ears.
“Jackson defended your honor,” Stiles tells her.
“Like I needed him to,” she says, but she sounds kind of fond.
“You should’ve given him a pipe bomb,” Stiles says. “To defend your honor with.”
Lydia smiles at him.
“Danny’s here,” she says.
That turns out to be--true.
“Hey,” Stiles says when Danny comes in. “Thanks.”
“Thank you,” Danny says. “For the flowers.”
Stiles--Stiles really doesn’t know what to do with that.
“You’re welcome,” he says, because he was taught to be polite, once.
They’re quiet for a little bit. Stiles might be falling back asleep. Stiles also has three broken ribs.
“I have three broken ribs,” Stiles says, by way of conversation.
“We heard,” Danny says.
Stiles goes back to sleep.
He’s back in school on Thursday, and he’s technically not participating in gym because his ribs still hurt like hell, but he still has to sit there while everyone else does gym, and Stiles is trying to escape the locker room when he’s cornered by a shirtless Danny.
“We’re still on for tomorrow, right?” Danny asks.
“Yes?” Stiles says. “I mean--yes, definitely, of course. Uh. Do you want to go to dinner first?”
Allison and Scott are going to dinner first, so Stiles kind of figures it’s something people do. Danny looks surprised, and shirtless, and Stiles really needs to get out of the locker room before he does something stupid, or stupider. Danny is staring at him. Stiles is trying to maintain eye contact and also not look at Danny’s nipples.
“Yeah,” Danny says, finally.
“Great!” Stiles says, too loud. “I’ll pick you up at six. Uh. I need to go. To class.”
The next class doesn’t start for a good ten minutes, so Stiles is relieved when Danny just says ‘okay’ and goes back to his locker. Stiles goes to wait for Jackson, and ask him where he should take Danny for dinner.
“I don’t know, Stilinski,” Jackson says, slamming his locker shut and walking away. “Just don’t ask Lydia and I to double with you.”
Stiles follows him, dodging the other kids in the hallway.
“Look, Jackson, I know you’re an asshole, I’m just asking for advice here,” Stiles says.
“I saved your life, I don’t owe you anything,” Jackson says.
“Peter wasn’t going to kill me,” Stiles mutters.
“Whatever,” Jackson mutters. “I saved your ass, I’m letting you date my best friend, I am not giving you advice.”
“What’s his favorite restaurant, at least?” Stiles asks. “I’ll leave.”
“He likes sushi,” Jackson says.
Of course he does. Of course Danny, who eats approximately zero foods, likes raw fish. Stiles has never even had sushi, and he figures he might like it because he likes most things, but he still thinks there’s some irony, there.
“Okay,” Stiles calls after Jackson as he leaves. “Thanks.”
Jackson flips him the bird, because Jackson is a classy asshole. Stiles thinks they’re starting to be friends, except not at all.
Stiles goes and finds the best reviewed sushi place in the area on Yelp, and then he calls and makes a reservation.
Six o’clock on Friday finds Stiles outside Danny’s house, wearing freshly ironed clothes and resisting the urge to check himself in the mirror, but just barely. He goes up the walk to Danny’s house and knocks on the front door, and then he’s caught be his elbow by Danny and pulled away.
“Before my mom sees you,” Danny says. “Or my sisters. I tried to text you--really, really you don’t want to do this.”
“Do what?” Stiles asks as Danny catches his hand and pulls him towards the car.
“Pictures,” Danny says, turning back towards Stiles. “And they’ll--” he stops, pauses, swallows. “You look good.”
“So do you,” Stiles says, because it’s true, because Danny never doesn’t look good, but he looks especially nice right now. “Uh, thanks, though. Lydia, you know.”
“Daniel!” a woman calls from the front of the house, who Stiles can only assume is Danny’s mother. “Pictures!”
Danny groans, but he tightens his grip on Stiles’ hand and leads him back towards the house.
“Thanks for distracting me,” he mutters.
“Sorry?” Stiles says, because he’s feeling a bit off kilter. “Daniel.”
“Shut up, like Stiles is your real name,” Danny counters, which is--a point. One point to Danny.
“Nope, it’s not,” Stiles says, and then they’re in Danny’s house and Danny’s mother says, “Oh, aren’t you two handsome.”
And then three girls come stampeding down the stairs, and two of them are twins. There is also a cat, big and striped. Presumably the cat that recently got his shots.
“Hello,” says Stiles.
One of the twins giggles, and the girl who isn’t a twin--the one who’s older, nearly to high school if she isn’t already, gives Stiles a dry, assessing glance, then turns to Danny.
“He’s alright,” she says.
“I’m right here,” Stiles says, but she’s already going back upstairs. The two littler girls--Stiles is somewhat better with small children than he is with teenagers, so he ducks to talk to them. Their names are Joyce and Beth, and they’re wizards. Stiles looks up at Danny, who looks only slightly sheepish.
“Pictures,” Danny’s mother says, and arranges them by the stairs.
“You’ll have to send some to my dad,” Stiles tells her, and she smiles and says, “But of course!”
Stiles is distracted, after that, by Danny’s arm snaking around his waist and Danny’s hand firm on his hip. They’re about even in height, but standing together like this--Stiles feels like he fits, weirdly. He stands still for a photograph, and then another and another, for the first time in a long time, until Danny sighs and says, “Mom, we have to go.”
“Have fun!” she says brightly.
“Your mom is nice,” Stiles says when they’re in the car. “And your sisters.”
“Yeah,” Danny says, and Stiles is wondering if he’s remembering that Stiles’ mom is dead, which happens sometimes in situations like this. It’s impossible to tell. “Where are we going?”
“Sushi?” Stiles asks. “Jackson said you liked sushi, so I found a place on Yelp--I’ve never had sushi, so you’ll have to tell me what to get it. Or if Jackson was lying to me and you don’t like sushi, the alternative is pizza. Your call, really.”
“Sushi’s good,” Danny says. “If you think you can handle it.”
“Are you kidding?” Stiles asks. “Of course I can handle it.”
It turns out Stiles kind of can’t. He mostly sticks to California rolls (“Because we’re in California, this is totally legitimate, right?”) and things Danny orders for him without fish in them, and he is also only somewhat competent at navigating with chopsticks. But it makes Danny laugh and, at one point, reach across the table to feed him, which Stiles is--surprisingly okay with.
He’s surprisingly okay with everything, actually, because Stiles isn’t sure if they’re on a date, and they might very well be, but that doesn’t send him into paroxysms of terror like he kind of expected it to. Mostly he’s just having a conversation with Danny, and they talk about music and werewolves and World of Warcraft, and if they are on a date it’s pretty much like not being on a date, and if they aren’t on a date--that’s also surprisingly like not being on a date.
But Stiles kind of hopes they are, which maybe explains why he says, “No, I can pay,” when the bill comes.
“I ate most of the expensive stuff, though,” Danny says.
“I invited you, though,” Stiles says, and he’s still got his hand on Danny’s, on top of the bill, and Danny looks at him and then shrugs and says, “Alright, I’ll pay next time.”
“Okay,” Stiles says, then he looks up at Danny, and, because Stiles’ self control has lasted this long, it suddenly disintegrates. “Are we dating?”
Danny blinks at Stiles, slow and liquid, and he looks uncomfortable.
“Couldn’t we be?” Danny asks, discomfort shifting towards anger and Stiles--Stiles has very nearly fucked this up.
“No!” Stiles says, and Danny’s face falls a little, and gets a little angrier, and Stiles suspects he’s going to call Jackson and Jackson’s going to come be the king of the assholes at him. “I mean--yes. I don’t know. I didn’t know!”
“Stiles,” Danny says. “What are you trying to say.”
Stiles lifts a hand and rubs his head.
“I want us to be,” he says. “I just--”
“Stiles, you asked me out to dinner,” Danny says. “And I said yes.”
“But we’re going to Homecoming as friends,” Stiles says. “Or something, I don’t even know. Weren’t we?”
“We were,” Danny says carefully. “But then you asked me to dinner. And insisted on paying.”
“Right,” Stiles says. “Because I want to date you.”
Danny looks at him, blinks, and starts to grin.
“Okay,” he says. “You know you’re awful at this?”
“Yes,” Stiles says. “But you’re kind of the hottest boy in school, and I’m kind of a gigantic spaz.”
“The hottest boy in school?” Danny asks, raising his eyebrows. “Don’t even, Stilinski. This isn’t a John Hughes movie.”
“Nah,” Stiles says. “There are werewolves.”
“Besides,” Danny says, leaning forwards. “You aren’t so bad yourself.”
It gives Stiles pause, makes him want to lean forward further, into Danny’s silky voice and this smile he hasn’t seen before, a little toothier, with an edge of something that’s not entirely friendlier.
“So I am attractive to gay guys,” Stiles says, leaning across the table himself and propping his head in his hands, staring at Danny now because he can. “You know, I’d been wondering.”
“Yeah,” Danny says. “Kind of hated you for that, you know?”
“I just wanted to know!” Stiles says.
Danny reaches across the table and tweaks Stiles’ lower lip with his thumb. Stiles isn’t entirely sure what to do with that, isn’t sure what to do with Danny’s large, dark eyes.
“Mouth like that, can’t keep it shut, what do you think?” Danny says, and Stiles mouth slips open. Danny pushes it closed.
“Danny,” Stiles says, and then Stiles licks Danny’s thumb, because he kind of doesn’t know what else to do. He’s not entirely sure how flirting works. He’s pretty sure licking someone’s thumb isn’t sexy, but Danny’s putting on the moves and overwhelming him here.
Danny’s breath flutters in, so maybe Stiles’ moves aren’t too bad.
“Uh,” Stiles says. “If I pay now, can we go make out in the car?”
It seems like where this is going.
“I’ll go get our coats,” Danny says.
Their hands are wrapped together as soon as they’re out of the restaurant, and Stiles can’t put on his coat but he’s too warm to bother, and when they get to the Jeep Danny follows Stiles around to the driver’s side.
“Um,” Stiles says, reaching forward to unlock the car. Danny gently takes him by the shoulders and turns him around.
“Stilinski,” Danny says conversationally. “How do you feel about making out against the car?”
“Pretty good, actually,” Stiles says, and he reaches up for the collar of Danny’s shirt and pulls him in, and Danny gets his hands on either side of Stiles’ face and proceeds to rewrite everything Stiles ever knew about his mouth.
Stiles has kissed before, at a game of spin the bottle he played with he other kids when they snuck away from day camp in middle school, so he totally knows how to kiss, inasmuch as he knows it involves mouths.
Danny does not kiss like a middle school student playing spin the bottle, though.
Probably for the best.
Danny starts out careful, but that doesn’t last very long, and it lasts even less long when Stiles figures out he can bite at Danny’s lower lip and make him melt.
Danny hums a little when they pull apart, studying Stiles.
“You’re a quick study,” he says after a moment.
“You don’t know, I could have loads of experience,” Stiles says, and Danny just grins, a little smugly, maybe, and says, “Oh, I know.”
And then Stiles pulls him in again to prove a point, a point Stiles thinks he kind of proves because Danny makes a low keening noise and pulls Stiles closer before saying, “I think there’s a dance.”
“I don’t really like dances,” Stiles says.
“I think our werewolf friends will come looking for us if we don’t show up,” Danny says.
“Werewolf friends,” Stiles repeats, laughing a little to himself, and he’s not sure if it’s endorphins or whatever, or just Danny, who is--here. “They do worry, don’t they? Okay, let’s go, you convinced me.”
Danny darts in and presses a kiss to the corner of Stiles’ mouth.
“Are you sure you don’t need more convincing?” he asks.
“Stop being smooth,” Stiles mutters. “You don’t need to be smooth with me, I think I’m pretty easy.”
Danny grins, kind of fondly, and slips around to the other side of the car, climbs in so they can drive back to the high school. His hair is a disaster. Did Stiles do that? Stiles is pretty sure he did that.
“You know, with the buzz cut you can’t even tell that I’ve been debauched,” Stiles says.
“Debauched,” Danny repeats. “I debauched you?”
“Did you not?” Stiles asks.
“Is this going to be like the conversation about whether we’re dating?” Danny asks.
“Not unless you make a face like you’re going to sic Jackson on me or something,” Stiles says.
“I made that face?” Danny asks, mock offended, and Stiles is surprised again by how easy this is, that now they’re dating. He slides his hand off the gearshift and puts it on Danny’s thigh, and Danny lets him.
When they get to the school Danny grabs Stiles and kisses him again, with one hand on the small of Stiles’ back like he’s going to bend him over backwards.
“There,” he says. “Now they can tell.”
Stiles puts a hand to his mouth, though it feels more or less the same.
“Uh,” he says. “Thanks, I guess. I mean, I’m glad you aren’t trying to pretend this isn’t a thing.”
Danny just grins at him, and Stiles finds himself reaching forward to fix Danny’s tie.
“Okay,” Stiles says. “Okay. Let’s go.”
They go, into the dimly lit school gymnasium, and the crappy decorations, and the watery punch. They go, and Lydia takes one look at them and smiles like her face is going to break, real and wide and pleased, and Jackson looks mostly uncomfortable but offers Danny a fistbump, anyway, which makes Stiles feels weirdly vindicated as a conquest, and Scott just tosses an arm across Stiles’ shoulders and asks if he can dance with Stiles’ boyfriend, and Stiles shrugs and asks Allison if she’s okay with that. Erica and Boyd and Isaac are there, too, on the fringes and looking uncomfortable, but Scott’s in their pack so he pulls them in, grinning goofily and talking about nothing in particular, or possibly a Transformers movie. Stiles is surprised by how okay it is, all of it, and when he reaches out across the space between them he finds Danny’s hand already there, waiting for his, and that’s better than okay, really.
On Thursday Danny tells Stiles to pick him up from Deaton’s instead of at his house. When he gets there, Stiles waves at Scott as Danny slides into the Jeep.
“How was it?” Stiles asks.
“Good,” Danny says, turning to look out the window.
“Good,” Stiles echoes.
The Jeep is stiflingly silent for between five and ten minutes, or maybe just thirty seconds, before Stiles says, “You can tell me stuff. I--it’s not weird. For me. Unless it’s weird for you. So if you want. Or we could listen to the radio.”
Stiles reaches for the dial to the radio when Danny doesn’t say something, and then Danny starts talking, instead, explaining what Deaton is teaching him--just mountain ash, so far, but it’s a start.
“And runes,” he adds. “We’re doing runes, it’s interesting.”
Stiles nods.
“You’d be good at it,” Danny says, weirdly, because Danny has no way to know that. Stiles isn’t actually good with languages.
“Yeah, I’m sure, that explains why I almost failed French,” Stiles says, and he can see Danny shrug in the corner of his eyes. “I don’t--I think it’s good you’re doing this,” Stiles finishes, awkwardly. He doesn’t mean for it to be awkward, but maybe he shouldn’t be surprised when it is. “I just didn’t want to. But--it’s nothing against you.”
Danny hums a little, puts his hand on Stiles’ on the gearshift. Stiles doesn’t know what to do with that, with the quick swipe of Danny’s calluses against the back of his hand, but then they’re at the coffeeshop and Danny pulls his hand away as Stiles downshifts to park.
“Allison’s going with Scott to Homecoming,” Stiles tells Lydia and Danny once everyone’s sitting down.
“Allison told me,” Lydia says. “Does that mean you’re going alone?”
“Stag,” Stiles corrects, because ‘stag’ sounds better than the alternative. “Unless you want to go with me, Lydia.”
Something weird happens when Stiles says that--Danny flinches, a little, and Lydia glances at Danny before looking back towards Stiles.
“I was joking,” he says. “That was a joke.”
Lydia nudges Danny with her elbow. Stiles looks at Danny.
“Danny’s not going with anyone,” Lydia says, giving Danny a significant look.
“We could go alone together,” Stiles says. Lydia coughs. Stiles can’t read Danny’s expression, his expression is unreadable, but there are definitely no dimples.
“Okay,” he says, but it doesn’t sound okay and Stiles--maybe Danny feels like they’ve trapped him, somehow. Lydia was kind of pushing.
“You don’t have to,” he says quickly. “I mean, I don’t want to throw off your game.”
“Yeah,” Danny snorts a little. “Game.”
“Whatever, you totally have game, and I mean, I’m not going to, like--I have no game, so I could understand how that might get in the way of yours,” Stiles says.
Lydia sighs loudly.
“No,” Danny says. “We can go together. I’d like that.”
Stiles’ heart flips out of his chest, Stiles is fairly certain it’s lying beating on the floor, and this isn’t even a thing, they’re just going as friends or whatever, but suddenly it’s very important that Stiles find something to wear. What a disaster. He would’ve rather had Danny’s weird, unhappy ‘okay’ than something that sounds like he might actually want to go with Stiles, together-together.
But Danny said he’d like that.
But the last dance Stiles went to he went to with Lydia, and that was--not. It just wasn’t anything. Going to dances with people doesn’t magically do anything.
And Stiles has got to stop comparing Danny to Lydia.
“Okay,” Stiles says. He’s not sure how much time has passed. Probably too much. “What color are you going to wear?”
Lydia smirks. Danny looks uncomfortable.
“I mean, it’s not--” Stiles starts. “I don’t know what I’m saying. Sorry.”
“What color are you wearing?” Lydia asks, and Stiles frowns.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know what I’m wearing, don’t ask me.”
Lydia looks thoughtful. Danny looks like he wants to change the subject.
“How’s your Homecoming court campaign going?” Stiles asks, in a desperate bid for a conversation topic that has to do with neither him nor Danny. Lydia purses her lips like she knows what he’s trying to do, but she segues smoothly into something that Stiles is content to listen to without participating in. Stiles wants to make eye contact with Danny, roll his eyes or something. He also wants to never make eye contact with Danny again. It’s kind of a conflict of interests, that.
Stiles probably shouldn’t surprised to get a call from Lydia telling him, curtly, that they’re going shopping for Homecoming together.
“What about Allison?” Stiles asks balefully.
“She’s coming too,” Lydia says.
Stiles tries to pretend that he’s not going to have to sit around in dressing rooms and carry piles of dresses, but that’s pretty obviously what’s going to happen.
“You realize this makes no sense,” Stiles says when they’re at the mall. “You should’ve invited Danny.”
“Because he’s gay?” Lydia asks, arching an eyebrow.
“No,” Stiles says. “Or yes. Because he’s not me.”
“Danny can dress himself,” Lydia says, thrusting a shirt at Stiles.
“I’ll have you know, I’ve been dressing myself--” Stiles starts to count on his fingers up from third grade, but he’s not even sure it’s worth the trouble.
“Danny can dress himself well,” Lydia says. She’s thoughtfully eyeing something shiny, and Stiles can’t tell whether it’s for him or her, but he desperately hopes it’s not for him.
“You didn’t dress me for that dance we actually went to together,” Stiles says, looking at his feet and scuffing them a little and trying to pretend that hadn’t been one of the highlights of his life up to that point.
Lydia gives Stiles a flinty look.
“No one should have to dress their own date,” she says. “Which is why Danny isn’t here.”
Stiles trips on his own feet and takes back everything good he ever said about Lydia Martin. He hates her.
“He’s not!” he says. “We’re not!”
Lydia pats him on the shoulder.
“I’m just trying to help you,” she says, and handing Stiles another shirt. Stiles suspects he’s sulking, but he can’t really be bothered to care.
“I know what you’re doing,” he says. “And it’s weird.”
“What’s that, then?” Lydia asks.
“Trying to set me and Danny up,” Stiles says. “Has this been your plan since the beginning?”
“No,” Lydia says, idly flipping through another rack of clothes.
“I really think we have enough clothes,” Stiles says.
Lydia hums, though it’s difficult to tell what that means.
“It’s not going to work, you know,” Stiles says. “Danny doesn’t like me.”
Lydia stops, turns around, and pats Stiles on the cheek.
“Don’t sell yourself short,” she says. “I know you’re very torn up over me, but there are other fish in the sea.”
Stiles decides it’s best not to engage at this point. Lydia obviously has the high ground. Or better artillery. Or something.
“Where’s Allison?” he asks.
“Coming,” Lydia says brightly. “We’ll need your opinion, of course, when we’re picking things out. Dressing room, now.”
Lydia claims a chair outside the dressing room door and hands Stiles a pile of clothes.
“Put it all on,” she says with a sharp smile. “Quick. We have a few to get through.”
Stiles does not like shopping. He does not like shopping with Lydia Martin. He does not like shopping in boxes, with foxes, and so on and so forth. The nice thing about having a single father was that the two of them usually just go to some arbitrary store, grab a pile of shirts in more or less the right size, and wear them until they fall apart or Stiles outgrows them, whichever happens second.
Shopping with Lydia is not like that.
When Stiles comes out of the dressing room, Lydia taps her chin and swirls her finger, indicating that he should turn around.
“I think I got your pant size wrong,” she says. “Come on.”
“I think these fit,” Stiles says, looking down at himself. “They’re long enough.”
“They’re long enough,” Lydia echoes mockingly. “I’ll be right back.”
That’s pretty much how it goes. Lydia gives Stiles a series of--clothes--and whenever he comes at out of the dressing room she looks at him, taps her chin, and sends him back in.
“I really don’t think this is necessary,” he says around the time ‘they’re not vests, they’re waistcoats’ start getting involved.
“Consider it a gift, from me to you,” Lydia says mildly. She’s picking through a pile of the clothes Stiles has already tried on and sorting them into piles according to some mysterious algorithm (and, knowing Lydia, there probably is an actual algorithm involved). “Clothes that fit.”
“I already have clothes that fit,” Stiles mutters, and Lydia hands him a newly reduced pile.
“You’re buying these,” she says.
“Aw, Lydia, not a vest,” Stiles says, rifling through the pile.
“You’re right,” Lydia says. “It’s not a vest, it’s a waistcoat.”
“I loved you,” Stiles says.
“No you didn’t,” Lydia says, patting him on the back. “But it’s sweet that you think so.”
Stiles lets it slide, because she’s probably right.
“Has Jackson said, is Peter back yet?” he asks after he’s paid for the clothes, because Peter not being around is almost creepier than Peter being around.
“No,” Lydia says, smiling wanly.
“We’ll get him,” Stiles says, bumping her in the shoulder, and Lydia grants him a small grin.
“My pretty?” she asks.
“Yeah,” Stiles says. “And his little dog, too.”
They meet Allison out front and get pretzels before looking at dresses, and after about an hour of that Stiles ends up muttering, “I can’t be your gay best friend if I’m bi,” and effectively coming out to them to the most anticlimactic reception possible.
“Honey,” Lydia says. “You can’t be our gay best friend because you’re terrible at it. Here, take this dress and put it back.”
“I liked that one,” Stiles says. It was shiny.
“Exactly,” Lydia replies.
Allison comes and sits next to Stiles a little after that. She has a satiny green dress draped across her lap, and she runs her hands across the fabric before speaking.
“I suck at this too,” she says.
Stiles is tempted to make a dead mom crack, but it’s pretty much always too soon for those.
“You know, when I was shopping for winter formal Peter showed up?” Allison asks.
“He’s a creep,” Stiles says automatically. Allison gives him a strange look, and Stiles shrugs.
“But, you know, we have a support group for that,” he adds. “Thursdays. Danny and I can give you a ride.”
“You and Danny, huh?” Allison asks, and the way she says it makes it sound like it means more than it does.
“It’s a carpool,” Stiles says. “To stop global warming.”
“Uh-huh,” Allison says wryly. Stiles had kind of missed Allison, and now he wonders why that was. Fairly certain it had to do with Scott and Transformers, and not Allison and her smirky little grin.
“Fine,” Stiles says. “Drive yourself. Don’t save the planet.”
“Lydia already invited me to give her a ride,” Allison says, and then Lydia comes out in another dress.
“That one looks nice,” Allison says,
“Your--um--” Stiles says.
“My breasts, Stiles?” Lydia asks, overly loud. The bored looking girl working in the dressing room glances over at them.
“Yes,” Stiles says. He sounds sheepish. Or feels sheepish. Or a combination thereof.
Lydia nods and goes back into the changing room. Allison looks at Stiles and shakes her head.
“I take it back,” she says. “You’re worse at this than I am.”
“I didn’t ask for this!” Stiles says.
“What did she make you buy?” Allison asks, looking down into Stiles’ bag.
“A vest,” Stiles says. “Seriously.”
“And that’s all you’re going to wear?” Allison says, raising her eyebrows.
“I’m beginning to rethink my positive opinion of you,” Stiles says. Allison laughs and it’s actually good to hear. Stiles hasn’t really been spending time with her, but it’s still been awhile since he heard her laugh, since he’d seen her do anything but walk around school in dark clothes, hunched in on herself like she didn’t want anyone to so much as look at her.
They’re quiet, for a bit, and then Stiles says, “Hey, I’m glad you’re going to Homecoming with Scott.”
“Yeah,” Allison says. “I guess I am, too.”
And that’s how Allison joins them.
At least she has the decency to get a hot chocolate. Stiles says as much, staring at Danny’s small bowl of macaroni and cheese.
“This is pretty good, actually,” Danny says, and then he holds out a forkful to Stiles. Stiles is fairly certain he sees Lydia roll her eyes at Allison, but he takes the bite anyway. Danny’s watching him.
“I’m pretty sure the only things you like are cheese and coffee,” Stiles says around a mouthful of macaroni.
“Probably true,” Danny replies. “I like pizza.”
“Cheese,” Stiles says, nodding. “That’s in the cheese food group.”
“Okay,” Lydia says. “Back on topic, you two.”
“What was the topic?” Stiles asks.
“Peter’s back,” Lydia says, leaning forward.
“Of course he is,” Stiles says. “Peter likes school dances.”
It’s supposed to be a joke, but it doesn’t really work as one because it’s too close to the truth. Allison winces, Lydia flinches, Danny looks uncertain and uncomfortable.
“So,” Stiles says, as casually as possible. “I thought that would be funnier than it actually was.”
“Mmm,” Lydia hums.
“Should’ve stuck with cheese as a conversation topic,” Stiles says, earning himself a smile from Danny, just a little quirk of lips that Stiles is far too quick to capture and catalogue.
God. If Stiles weren’t himself, he doesn’t know what he’d do with himself. He’s avoided discussing Homecoming with Danny at all, because he likes pretending they’re going together, properly, and if they talk about it Danny might say something about how they aren’t. Maybe Danny’s going to go to the Jungle, after, and make out with some guy against a wall behind the building, stroke some stranger’s face with his calloused hand. Maybe, after, they’ll do the kind of things Stiles has only ever seen in porn.
They’re talking about Peter Hale, though, and Stiles really shouldn’t be imagining Danny’s hands on his face or anywhere else. It makes plotting difficult, and Stiles is pretty sure Lydia can tell, even without werewolf senses.
“Scott and Jackson will keep an eye out,” Stiles says, to get his mind out of wherever it’s gone. The gutter, probably. “In case Peter tries anything. Even Derek’s betas wouldn’t just let him.”
“Do you trust them, though?” Lydia asks. “Do you trust a werewolf fight to solve anything? Peter’s cleverer than they are.”
“So the plan’s a pipe bomb, is it?” Stiles asks.
Lydia shrugs, and props her head up on her hands.
“If it comes to that,” she says. “But we have Allison, now that we aren’t rescuing her.”
“Do we really think Peter’s going to try anything?” Danny asks.
“He could,” Lydia says. “Though it’s hard to plan without knowing, or without knowing what.”
“Danny can bring mountain ash,” Stiles provides, and Danny looks at Stiles for a moment before he nods.
“I might be able to do a ward,” he says. “I’ll talk to Deaton.”
On the drive home that night Danny and Stiles mostly talk about jazz band, because Danny says they have a concert coming up and it’s something to talk about. The Beacon Hills High Jazz Band is actually good, in kind of cool in a way where it really shouldn’t be, by all rights, which is maybe a way to describe Danny as well. Beside Stiles, Danny mimics playing bass, tripping his fingers over imaginary chords and humming a few bars.
“When’s the concert again?” Stiles asks. “If air guitar of this caliber is what I can expect--”
“Next Tuesday,” Danny shrugs. “You should come, if you want.”
It’s not an invitation, exactly, but Stiles--Stiles will take what he can get.
“I should,” Stiles says. “I mean, I don’t know jack about jazz, but. Maybe Lydia and Allison can come, too, and it’ll be an outing.”
“Sort of like when we skipped class?” Danny asks, and Stiles wants to say that no, that was a date, but no one paid for anyone’s drink at the coffee shop, and no one really dated anyone, so.
“Yeah,” Stiles says, as he gets out of the car. Then, more quietly, as Danny drives off: “Sort of.”
So Tuesday is the concert, and Thursday they’ll skip coffee because Friday--Friday is the Homecoming dance. Over the weekend Stiles puts on the clothes Lydia made him buy, grey slacks and grey waistcoat-not-vest and dark red shirt and Stiles is going to need to iron this or something. He feels stupid for wearing it and also for trying it on right now, especially when Scott vaults through his window.
“I thought you were supposed to do that to Allison,” Stiles says.
“Um,” Scott says. “Hi dude. What are you wearing?”
Stiles sits down on the bed.
“Remember when I told you Lydia took me shopping?” he says.
“Oh,” Scott draws out the syllable for a few seconds, realization dawning on his face. “Looking good.”
There are finger guns involved.
“Shut up,” Stiles says.
“No, seriously, you should’ve invited me,” Scott says. “I was just going to wear whatever my mom tells me to.”
“You couldn’t come, because Allison did, and that’s against Lydia’s rules or something,” Stiles says.
“So, you going to wear that while we watch Transformers?” Scott asks.
“You’re dating Allison again,” Stiles says, but Scott’s already rifling through Stiles DVDs.
“I sort of like it now,” Scott says.
“I think it Stockholm syndromed you,” Stiles says, flopping back on the bed because he probably is going to need to iron everything he’s wearing, anyway.
“So you’re going with Danny, huh?” Scott says, looking back at Stiles. Stiles stares back at him, because Scott knows Stiles is going with Danny, and it sounds like Scott is fishing for information.
“Yes,” Stiles says slowly. “But it’s not--”
Scott grins.
“It’s not,” Scott repeats, and his grin has gone totally shit eating. “You know, Jackson told me the other day that if my best friend fucked his best friend he would never talk to me again.”
“And that’s a punishment?” Stiles asks.
“That’s what I said!” Scott says. “So, anyway, you think you’re going to get Jackson to stop talking to me?”
“What if it’s the other way around?” Stiles says. “If Jackson’s best friend--”
“Stop please,” Scott says. “You know I’m totally okay with all of this, but if we are having an actual conversation about the dynamics of you and Danny--you know--I may need a little time.”
“You were the one--” Stiles starts, and Scott shakes his head and puts the DVD in the player.
“Nope,” he says. “I know I was, but--nope.”
Stiles leans back against a pillow.
“I’m kind of gone,” he says, mostly to the ceiling. “I’m kind of--I don’t even know.”
“You’re going to Homecoming together!” Scott says. “This is great.”
“It probably doesn’t mean anything,” Stiles says. “It’s like if I was going with you.”
“But you don’t want to--”
“Nah,” Stiles says, propping himself up. “Incest, dude.”
“You should go for it,” Scott says, flipping through the DVD menu. He’s going to make them watch it with commentary. “You should woo him.”
“I should woo him,” Stiles repeats, skeptical.
“Clothes like that--” Scott says, grinning. “I’d let you woo me.”
Stiles throws a pillow at him. Scott starts the movie.
Lydia and Allison both bail on the jazz band concert at the end of the school day on Tuesday, and Stiles probably shouldn’t be surprised.
“Oh,” Allison says when she and Lydia are bailing. “We bought these flowers. Say they’re from you.”
“Scott talked to you, didn’t he,” Stiles says, looking balefully at the--God, there’s hibiscus in the bouquet.
“Woo him, Stiles,” Allison says, turning on her heel. “I need to go look at bows, and the only good archery store is in the next county.”
“But it’s open other days of the week, isn’t it?” Stiles calls after her.
Stiles puts the flowers in the passenger seat of the Jeep and just looks at them. He can’t very well bring them to the concert. If he waits until after to give them to Danny his family will be there, at the very least, and it’ll be awkward.
At the very least.
Danny’s car is in the parking lot, and if Stiles can catch him there, before he goes home, Stiles figures--Stiles doesn’t know what he figures, but he goes home himself and puts the flowers in water, and tries not to think about them.
“There are flowers on the table,” Stiles’ father says when he gets home from work.
“A-plus observation, dad,” Stiles says. “No wonder you’re the Sheriff.”
“This is an interrogation tactic,” he says, mildly. “I was giving you an opportunity to explain.”
“Allison gave them to me,” Stiles says, and he’s doing a terrible job of making eye contact. “To give to Danny. After the jazz band concert tonight.”
“Danny Mahealani?”
“Danny and I are--” Stiles pauses. “Uh. Kind of going to Homecoming together. And I’m bisexual.”
“That explains the new outfit, then,” Stiles’ dad says calmly.
“So you’re not?” Stiles says. “That’s all I get? You told me I wasn’t gay!”
“I told you you weren’t gay dressed like that,” his dad says, and Stiles gapes at him. “Should I go to this concert with you?”
“No,” Stiles says. “I mean, it’s just a school concert. At school.” For good measure he adds, “Most of my clothes are still the same.”
“Good thing, too, because you have no money,” Stiles’ dad says. “What’s for dinner?”
“You realize this has been an extremely anticlimactic coming out experience for me, right?” Stiles asks.
“What did you think I was going to do?” he asks. “I love you, I’m hungry.”
“Fine,” Stiles says. “We’re having spaghetti. Whole wheat.”
“Just a second,” his dad says, and catches Stiles and pulls him into a hug. “Even if you’re making me eat whole wheat spaghetti.”
“It’s not that different,” Stiles says into his father’s chest.
“Just so you know,” Stiles says before he leaves the house. “I’m not even sure Danny likes me. Uh. So don’t, you know, pull him over and interrogate him or anything.”
“For liking you or not liking you?” his dad asks. “Because these both sound like problems.”
“I take back the hug,” Stiles says. “And the spaghetti.”
“Have fun,” his dad calls after him. He’s disturbingly chipper about this. It sort of reminds Stiles of when he gets excited about Stiles getting play time in lacrosse and Stiles--is torn between feeling bad, that he doesn’t do more normal things that make his father grin with a weird sort of pride, and wanting to go back into the house and tell his dad that this isn’t going to happen, probably, that Stiles doesn’t get boyfriends or girlfriends like he doesn’t get off the bench in lacrosse games, so his father really shouldn’t get his hopes up.
The concert is--good, Stiles supposes. He realizes he doesn’t really know that much about jazz. But he sits off to the side in the back of the auditorium, and from there he can see Danny, on the stage, look for his family and wave to them, and then he can see Danny keep looking, and Stiles lifts a hand to wave to him. He sees it, when Danny sees him, and for just a moment Danny’s face lights up. Just for a moment, but it’s there--a grin, dimples.
It’s not much, but it’s enough. Because Lydia and Allison aren’t with him, so it’s just Stiles, and--
And then Jackson sits down next to him.
“Hey,” Jackson says. Stiles doesn’t entirely know how to reply to that.
“So,” Jackson says. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with Danny lately.”
For Jackson, this is a relatively non-confrontational statement, which Stiles counts as a plus.
“I’m not trying to steal your best friend,” Stiles says, before remembering his recent conversation with Scott.
“I’m not worried about that, Stilinski,” Jackson says. “Just try to keep it in your pants when I’m around. Why do you smell like hibiscus?”
They’re halfway through the concert before Stiles realizes that that’s as close as he’ll probably ever come to getting Jackson’s blessing, and he really, really doesn’t know when everyone except Danny decided to support their nonexistent relationship.
He tries to shift his focus to how hot Danny is, playing the bass and totally pulling off a bow tie, until Jackson elbows him and says, pointedly, “I can smell you.”
“So go sit somewhere else,” Stiles mutters, but talking to Jackson is kind of a boner killer all around.
After everything’s over and the standing ovation has been sufficiently ovated or whatever, Stiles goes out to the parking lot and sits in the Jeep, looking at the flowers on the seat next to him. He parked next to Danny’s car, and he pulls his seat back and kicks his feet up on the steering wheel while he waits. He figures it’ll be a little bit, but.
“Mmm,” comes a voice from the backseat. “Where were you, Stiles? That was quite the wait.”
Stiles can’t honestly say that he doesn’t nearly piss himself.
“Time to go!” Peter Hale says brightly, slinking into the front seat and picking up the bundle of flowers. “Though these are nice flowers. Pity, really.”
Peter opens the door and tips the bouquet out onto the pavement, and something inside Stiles deflates. This is--this is happening.
“What the hell,” Stiles says, as slowly as he can, which is not especially slowly. He has wolfsbane in his glovebox, just a little, as a precaution, but Peter is sitting in front of his glovebox, so there goes that plan.
“I’m kidnapping you,” Peter says, claws extending. He reaches over and puts his left hand on the back of Stiles’ neck. “Care to put the key in the ignition, Stiles?”
“Why,” Stiles demands as he starts the car. “You can’t bite me, Peter.”
“No,” Peter says pleasantly. “But I think you have a friend who will want to save you, and I think Allison’s been kidnapped enough, don’t you?”
“So you’re using me to get Scott to join Derek’s pack,” Stiles says.
“Aren’t you a clever one?” Peter asks, grinning toothily. “But no, I’m using you to get Scott to join my pack. He was my beta first, after all. Turn left.”
They’re driving into the woods, towards the old Hale house. It couldn’t be more obvious.
“So Derek doesn’t know you’re doing this,” Stiles says, because he figures you’re supposed to keep the villain talking.
“Well, I certainly hope not,” Peter says.
It’s not going to work. Stiles believes that somewhere deep in his gut, but at this point he’s mostly worried about what will happen to him before Peter’s plan fails to work.
“You want me to call Scott, then?” Stiles asks as they get closer to the woods.
“No,” Peter says. “He’ll show up eventually.”
“Into the cellar with you, then,” Peter says when they get to the house. His hand’s still hot against the nape of Stiles’ neck, and he guides Stiles along and pushes him down the stairs.
“I never understood why this house even has a basement,” Stiles mutters. “We live in California.”
Peter smiles at him, still with too many teeth, and then he pushes Stiles further and cuffs him to the wall.
“And now,” he says. “We wait.”
“Could you just knock me out or something?” Stiles asks.
“Stiles,” Peter reprimands. “You really are no fun at all. I was thinking we could have a chat.”
“I really don’t think we have anything to talk about,” Stiles says. He should probably keep Peter talking, though, because Stiles can get out of cuffs. Sometimes. He used to practice with his Dad’s cuffs at home, and Peter’s only cuffed one of Stiles’ hands, the right one, which means that if Stiles can get his hand in his pocket without Peter noticing--Stiles may not have been able to get his wolfsbane, but he does carry bobby pins, and they certainly aren’t for his hair. Although he has, on occasion, given one to Allison.
“Derek says you’re part of a human pack,” Peter says as Stiles fidgets with his pocket.
“It’s not a pack, it’s a group,” Stiles says. Derek would think it was a pack. “A support group for people who have been used and abused by werewolves.”
“Lydia,” Peter says, almost worshipfully. “Of course. She would. She is quite something, isn’t she?”
“Please stop talking about her,” Stiles says. He’s gritting his teeth, just a little, and it’s not just from trying to get the bobby pin into shape single-handed.
“Do you have anything you want to ask me?” Peter says. “We could have a pleasant chat, while we wait.”
“What were you doing in San Francisco, then?” Stiles asks, and Peter looks at him, too quickly and too sharply. Stiles probably should’ve played that card a little closer to his chest, but at least if Peter’s looking at Stiles’ face he’s not looking at his hands.
“Business,” Peter says sharply. “I’m sure you wouldn’t understand.”
“Okay,” Stiles says. “Good talk. We’re really getting to know each other. This is certainly a two-way street of a conversation.”
Peter scowls, and then he goes up the stairs, presumably to wait for Scott. Stiles looks across the room at the wall, fiddles with the bobby pin a little more and pushes it into the keyhole on the cuffs. He wonders if Peter can hear this. It seems like he should be able to. It’s worth a try, anyway--even if Peter catches him, maybe it’ll make him less of a smug asshole if Stiles breaks his cuffs.
Peter dumped Danny’s flowers out in the parking lot, which doesn’t seem exactly like covering his tracks, and even though Stiles has thought through the ways in which flowers dumped out in the parking lot could be interpreted, he doesn’t think Danny’s the sort to go through the ways in which it might be an insult, so maybe, hopefully, he’ll realize something is wrong. Not that--Danny can’t come, not unless Deaton gives him something.
Jackson actually shows up first. Stiles hears the vicious purr of his Porsche, hears rather than sees him confront Peter.
“Where’s Stilinski, asshole?” Jackson asks. “I smelled you on those flowers.”
“I’m waiting for Scott,” Peter says, almost peacefully.
“I could take you,” Jackson says, and he sounds stiff and angry. “Lydia told me--”
“Lydia again,” Peter says. “You all are quite concerned about her.”
Jackson snarls.
“Don’t disrespect your elders,” Peter says, and then, conversationally: “Did she tell you everything?”
The handcuffs click open. Stiles pulls his hand free and tries to decide whether he should, whether he can, go upstairs and join Peter and Jackson for their werewolf rumble or whatever’s going to happen. He figures there’s a chance he might surprise Peter, though it’s a slim. He hopes Jackson will do something stupid. This is Jackson, after all.
The next car pulls up when Stiles is on the steps. The next car is not Scott, because Scott doesn’t have a car. When Stiles gets upstairs Peter has his back to him, and Jackson’s turning around towards the driveway, and Stiles--Stiles--he doesn’t have anything to hit Peter over the head.
He jumps on Peter’s back, instead, and realizes that was a terrible idea exactly when Peter starts to shift. Stiles shouts. Jackson turns back around, towards Stiles and Peter. Danny is rushing up the steps.
Stiles is still on Peter’s back, and underneath him Peter is writhing, and Jackson shifts, too, and Danny--Stiles can’t tell what Danny’s doing. Peter throws Stiles off his back, and Stiles lands on his own back on the hardwood floor, hits his head, rolls over on his side.
It hurts.
The floor hurts. There’s snarling off to the side, and Stiles doesn’t roll over to see what’s happening until Danny rolls him over.
“Aren’t you--” Stiles says. “Shouldn’t you be doing something?”
“I think Jackson has it covered,” Danny says, softly.
“He can’t possibly,” Stiles mutters. “He’s Jackson.”
“Are you okay?” Danny asks.
Stiles doesn’t know.
“I don’t know,” he groans. “It hurts. Look out for werewolves.”
Danny is running his hand across Stiles’ hair, holding him against his ribs. Stiles winces.
“Werewolves,” he says again, because Danny shouldn’t be looking at Stiles, he should be watching the werewolves, because werewolves don’t exhibit much concern for collateral damage. Stiles can hear the snarling in the background, snarling and hissing and fleshy thuds.
“Scott?” Stiles asks when Danny doesn’t move.
“I called him,” Danny says. “Are you okay?”
And then, behind Danny, there’s a hiss and a snarl and something else, something unidentifiable, and Stiles flails, trying to pull himself up so he can see. He thinks he broke a rib. It hurts like he imagines breaking a rib would hurt.
He can’t see much, but from what he can see--from what he can see Jackson killed Peter. There’s blood. There is a lot of blood. Peter’s not moving. Jackson--is.
“Shit,” Danny says.
Jackson gasps, and when he shifts back, slowly, he looks small.
Scott comes loping up the steps, Allison at his heels. Isaac is behind them, and behind him are Derek, Erica, Boyd. Stiles--Stiles doesn’t know.
“Hello,” Stiles says.
There’s too much happening--Stiles can see something on Derek’s face crack, and he knows he shouldn’t be surprised. Scott is staring at Stiles, Scott is sitting next to Danny saying, “Are you okay?”
“I think I broke a rib,” Stiles says, kind of abstractly. He looks up at the ceiling.
“He--” Jackson says. “Lydia.”
Derek snarls and goes to Peter’s body, which is prone and twisted on the floor, misshapen, half human and half not. His betas go to him, gather around, and Stiles doesn’t know what to make of it. They had to know. They had to know that Peter wasn’t--he should say something. He should tell Derek that Peter wanted his own pack, was going to. He wants to say that this shouldn’t be a surprise, that Peter died once before. But Scott is talking.
“We need to take him to my house,” Scott says. “My mom--”
Danny nods, and tucks Stiles’ head into his shoulder, and picks Stiles up.
Stiles probably should feel embarrassed about this. Danny’s not even a werewolf.
“I’ll call his Dad,” Scott says.
“Take my car,” Stiles mutters into Danny’s shoulder, which is warm and soft and pleasant smelling. “The keys are in it--it’s bigger.”
Scott and Danny are gentle as they slide Stiles into the backseat of the Jeep, and then Danny gets in to drive him and Stiles lets himself sleep.
When Stiles wakes up he’s in the hospital, and his father is there.
“Melissa says there’s something you need to tell me,” he says.
Stiles looks at him, at the lines on his face. Stiles wonders how many lines would be there, if Stiles wasn’t.
“It can wait,” his father says. “But you need to tell me.” And then, before Stiles slips off again: “You know I love you.”
Stiles knows. He sleeps more, longer. When he wakes up, he finds out that he did break ribs. A few of them, actually. Scott’s mom says he’ll be fine.
“Werewolves,” he says to his dad when he wakes up. “I’m sorry, I didn’t--” he doesn’t know where to go from there. He’s sorry he lied, but he didn’t know what else to do, and his apology feels like a flimsy thing.
“I’m sorry too, kid,” his dad says, and then Stiles tells him the rest, watches something in his father’s eyes break a little. Melissa McCall comes in when they’re quiet, puts a hand on Stiles’ father’s back and one on Stiles’ shoulder.
Stiles goes home.
Lydia comes to visit, hair tucked neatly behind her ears.
“Jackson defended your honor,” Stiles tells her.
“Like I needed him to,” she says, but she sounds kind of fond.
“You should’ve given him a pipe bomb,” Stiles says. “To defend your honor with.”
Lydia smiles at him.
“Danny’s here,” she says.
That turns out to be--true.
“Hey,” Stiles says when Danny comes in. “Thanks.”
“Thank you,” Danny says. “For the flowers.”
Stiles--Stiles really doesn’t know what to do with that.
“You’re welcome,” he says, because he was taught to be polite, once.
They’re quiet for a little bit. Stiles might be falling back asleep. Stiles also has three broken ribs.
“I have three broken ribs,” Stiles says, by way of conversation.
“We heard,” Danny says.
Stiles goes back to sleep.
He’s back in school on Thursday, and he’s technically not participating in gym because his ribs still hurt like hell, but he still has to sit there while everyone else does gym, and Stiles is trying to escape the locker room when he’s cornered by a shirtless Danny.
“We’re still on for tomorrow, right?” Danny asks.
“Yes?” Stiles says. “I mean--yes, definitely, of course. Uh. Do you want to go to dinner first?”
Allison and Scott are going to dinner first, so Stiles kind of figures it’s something people do. Danny looks surprised, and shirtless, and Stiles really needs to get out of the locker room before he does something stupid, or stupider. Danny is staring at him. Stiles is trying to maintain eye contact and also not look at Danny’s nipples.
“Yeah,” Danny says, finally.
“Great!” Stiles says, too loud. “I’ll pick you up at six. Uh. I need to go. To class.”
The next class doesn’t start for a good ten minutes, so Stiles is relieved when Danny just says ‘okay’ and goes back to his locker. Stiles goes to wait for Jackson, and ask him where he should take Danny for dinner.
“I don’t know, Stilinski,” Jackson says, slamming his locker shut and walking away. “Just don’t ask Lydia and I to double with you.”
Stiles follows him, dodging the other kids in the hallway.
“Look, Jackson, I know you’re an asshole, I’m just asking for advice here,” Stiles says.
“I saved your life, I don’t owe you anything,” Jackson says.
“Peter wasn’t going to kill me,” Stiles mutters.
“Whatever,” Jackson mutters. “I saved your ass, I’m letting you date my best friend, I am not giving you advice.”
“What’s his favorite restaurant, at least?” Stiles asks. “I’ll leave.”
“He likes sushi,” Jackson says.
Of course he does. Of course Danny, who eats approximately zero foods, likes raw fish. Stiles has never even had sushi, and he figures he might like it because he likes most things, but he still thinks there’s some irony, there.
“Okay,” Stiles calls after Jackson as he leaves. “Thanks.”
Jackson flips him the bird, because Jackson is a classy asshole. Stiles thinks they’re starting to be friends, except not at all.
Stiles goes and finds the best reviewed sushi place in the area on Yelp, and then he calls and makes a reservation.
Six o’clock on Friday finds Stiles outside Danny’s house, wearing freshly ironed clothes and resisting the urge to check himself in the mirror, but just barely. He goes up the walk to Danny’s house and knocks on the front door, and then he’s caught be his elbow by Danny and pulled away.
“Before my mom sees you,” Danny says. “Or my sisters. I tried to text you--really, really you don’t want to do this.”
“Do what?” Stiles asks as Danny catches his hand and pulls him towards the car.
“Pictures,” Danny says, turning back towards Stiles. “And they’ll--” he stops, pauses, swallows. “You look good.”
“So do you,” Stiles says, because it’s true, because Danny never doesn’t look good, but he looks especially nice right now. “Uh, thanks, though. Lydia, you know.”
“Daniel!” a woman calls from the front of the house, who Stiles can only assume is Danny’s mother. “Pictures!”
Danny groans, but he tightens his grip on Stiles’ hand and leads him back towards the house.
“Thanks for distracting me,” he mutters.
“Sorry?” Stiles says, because he’s feeling a bit off kilter. “Daniel.”
“Shut up, like Stiles is your real name,” Danny counters, which is--a point. One point to Danny.
“Nope, it’s not,” Stiles says, and then they’re in Danny’s house and Danny’s mother says, “Oh, aren’t you two handsome.”
And then three girls come stampeding down the stairs, and two of them are twins. There is also a cat, big and striped. Presumably the cat that recently got his shots.
“Hello,” says Stiles.
One of the twins giggles, and the girl who isn’t a twin--the one who’s older, nearly to high school if she isn’t already, gives Stiles a dry, assessing glance, then turns to Danny.
“He’s alright,” she says.
“I’m right here,” Stiles says, but she’s already going back upstairs. The two littler girls--Stiles is somewhat better with small children than he is with teenagers, so he ducks to talk to them. Their names are Joyce and Beth, and they’re wizards. Stiles looks up at Danny, who looks only slightly sheepish.
“Pictures,” Danny’s mother says, and arranges them by the stairs.
“You’ll have to send some to my dad,” Stiles tells her, and she smiles and says, “But of course!”
Stiles is distracted, after that, by Danny’s arm snaking around his waist and Danny’s hand firm on his hip. They’re about even in height, but standing together like this--Stiles feels like he fits, weirdly. He stands still for a photograph, and then another and another, for the first time in a long time, until Danny sighs and says, “Mom, we have to go.”
“Have fun!” she says brightly.
“Your mom is nice,” Stiles says when they’re in the car. “And your sisters.”
“Yeah,” Danny says, and Stiles is wondering if he’s remembering that Stiles’ mom is dead, which happens sometimes in situations like this. It’s impossible to tell. “Where are we going?”
“Sushi?” Stiles asks. “Jackson said you liked sushi, so I found a place on Yelp--I’ve never had sushi, so you’ll have to tell me what to get it. Or if Jackson was lying to me and you don’t like sushi, the alternative is pizza. Your call, really.”
“Sushi’s good,” Danny says. “If you think you can handle it.”
“Are you kidding?” Stiles asks. “Of course I can handle it.”
It turns out Stiles kind of can’t. He mostly sticks to California rolls (“Because we’re in California, this is totally legitimate, right?”) and things Danny orders for him without fish in them, and he is also only somewhat competent at navigating with chopsticks. But it makes Danny laugh and, at one point, reach across the table to feed him, which Stiles is--surprisingly okay with.
He’s surprisingly okay with everything, actually, because Stiles isn’t sure if they’re on a date, and they might very well be, but that doesn’t send him into paroxysms of terror like he kind of expected it to. Mostly he’s just having a conversation with Danny, and they talk about music and werewolves and World of Warcraft, and if they are on a date it’s pretty much like not being on a date, and if they aren’t on a date--that’s also surprisingly like not being on a date.
But Stiles kind of hopes they are, which maybe explains why he says, “No, I can pay,” when the bill comes.
“I ate most of the expensive stuff, though,” Danny says.
“I invited you, though,” Stiles says, and he’s still got his hand on Danny’s, on top of the bill, and Danny looks at him and then shrugs and says, “Alright, I’ll pay next time.”
“Okay,” Stiles says, then he looks up at Danny, and, because Stiles’ self control has lasted this long, it suddenly disintegrates. “Are we dating?”
Danny blinks at Stiles, slow and liquid, and he looks uncomfortable.
“Couldn’t we be?” Danny asks, discomfort shifting towards anger and Stiles--Stiles has very nearly fucked this up.
“No!” Stiles says, and Danny’s face falls a little, and gets a little angrier, and Stiles suspects he’s going to call Jackson and Jackson’s going to come be the king of the assholes at him. “I mean--yes. I don’t know. I didn’t know!”
“Stiles,” Danny says. “What are you trying to say.”
Stiles lifts a hand and rubs his head.
“I want us to be,” he says. “I just--”
“Stiles, you asked me out to dinner,” Danny says. “And I said yes.”
“But we’re going to Homecoming as friends,” Stiles says. “Or something, I don’t even know. Weren’t we?”
“We were,” Danny says carefully. “But then you asked me to dinner. And insisted on paying.”
“Right,” Stiles says. “Because I want to date you.”
Danny looks at him, blinks, and starts to grin.
“Okay,” he says. “You know you’re awful at this?”
“Yes,” Stiles says. “But you’re kind of the hottest boy in school, and I’m kind of a gigantic spaz.”
“The hottest boy in school?” Danny asks, raising his eyebrows. “Don’t even, Stilinski. This isn’t a John Hughes movie.”
“Nah,” Stiles says. “There are werewolves.”
“Besides,” Danny says, leaning forwards. “You aren’t so bad yourself.”
It gives Stiles pause, makes him want to lean forward further, into Danny’s silky voice and this smile he hasn’t seen before, a little toothier, with an edge of something that’s not entirely friendlier.
“So I am attractive to gay guys,” Stiles says, leaning across the table himself and propping his head in his hands, staring at Danny now because he can. “You know, I’d been wondering.”
“Yeah,” Danny says. “Kind of hated you for that, you know?”
“I just wanted to know!” Stiles says.
Danny reaches across the table and tweaks Stiles’ lower lip with his thumb. Stiles isn’t entirely sure what to do with that, isn’t sure what to do with Danny’s large, dark eyes.
“Mouth like that, can’t keep it shut, what do you think?” Danny says, and Stiles mouth slips open. Danny pushes it closed.
“Danny,” Stiles says, and then Stiles licks Danny’s thumb, because he kind of doesn’t know what else to do. He’s not entirely sure how flirting works. He’s pretty sure licking someone’s thumb isn’t sexy, but Danny’s putting on the moves and overwhelming him here.
Danny’s breath flutters in, so maybe Stiles’ moves aren’t too bad.
“Uh,” Stiles says. “If I pay now, can we go make out in the car?”
It seems like where this is going.
“I’ll go get our coats,” Danny says.
Their hands are wrapped together as soon as they’re out of the restaurant, and Stiles can’t put on his coat but he’s too warm to bother, and when they get to the Jeep Danny follows Stiles around to the driver’s side.
“Um,” Stiles says, reaching forward to unlock the car. Danny gently takes him by the shoulders and turns him around.
“Stilinski,” Danny says conversationally. “How do you feel about making out against the car?”
“Pretty good, actually,” Stiles says, and he reaches up for the collar of Danny’s shirt and pulls him in, and Danny gets his hands on either side of Stiles’ face and proceeds to rewrite everything Stiles ever knew about his mouth.
Stiles has kissed before, at a game of spin the bottle he played with he other kids when they snuck away from day camp in middle school, so he totally knows how to kiss, inasmuch as he knows it involves mouths.
Danny does not kiss like a middle school student playing spin the bottle, though.
Probably for the best.
Danny starts out careful, but that doesn’t last very long, and it lasts even less long when Stiles figures out he can bite at Danny’s lower lip and make him melt.
Danny hums a little when they pull apart, studying Stiles.
“You’re a quick study,” he says after a moment.
“You don’t know, I could have loads of experience,” Stiles says, and Danny just grins, a little smugly, maybe, and says, “Oh, I know.”
And then Stiles pulls him in again to prove a point, a point Stiles thinks he kind of proves because Danny makes a low keening noise and pulls Stiles closer before saying, “I think there’s a dance.”
“I don’t really like dances,” Stiles says.
“I think our werewolf friends will come looking for us if we don’t show up,” Danny says.
“Werewolf friends,” Stiles repeats, laughing a little to himself, and he’s not sure if it’s endorphins or whatever, or just Danny, who is--here. “They do worry, don’t they? Okay, let’s go, you convinced me.”
Danny darts in and presses a kiss to the corner of Stiles’ mouth.
“Are you sure you don’t need more convincing?” he asks.
“Stop being smooth,” Stiles mutters. “You don’t need to be smooth with me, I think I’m pretty easy.”
Danny grins, kind of fondly, and slips around to the other side of the car, climbs in so they can drive back to the high school. His hair is a disaster. Did Stiles do that? Stiles is pretty sure he did that.
“You know, with the buzz cut you can’t even tell that I’ve been debauched,” Stiles says.
“Debauched,” Danny repeats. “I debauched you?”
“Did you not?” Stiles asks.
“Is this going to be like the conversation about whether we’re dating?” Danny asks.
“Not unless you make a face like you’re going to sic Jackson on me or something,” Stiles says.
“I made that face?” Danny asks, mock offended, and Stiles is surprised again by how easy this is, that now they’re dating. He slides his hand off the gearshift and puts it on Danny’s thigh, and Danny lets him.
When they get to the school Danny grabs Stiles and kisses him again, with one hand on the small of Stiles’ back like he’s going to bend him over backwards.
“There,” he says. “Now they can tell.”
Stiles puts a hand to his mouth, though it feels more or less the same.
“Uh,” he says. “Thanks, I guess. I mean, I’m glad you aren’t trying to pretend this isn’t a thing.”
Danny just grins at him, and Stiles finds himself reaching forward to fix Danny’s tie.
“Okay,” Stiles says. “Okay. Let’s go.”
They go, into the dimly lit school gymnasium, and the crappy decorations, and the watery punch. They go, and Lydia takes one look at them and smiles like her face is going to break, real and wide and pleased, and Jackson looks mostly uncomfortable but offers Danny a fistbump, anyway, which makes Stiles feels weirdly vindicated as a conquest, and Scott just tosses an arm across Stiles’ shoulders and asks if he can dance with Stiles’ boyfriend, and Stiles shrugs and asks Allison if she’s okay with that. Erica and Boyd and Isaac are there, too, on the fringes and looking uncomfortable, but Scott’s in their pack so he pulls them in, grinning goofily and talking about nothing in particular, or possibly a Transformers movie. Stiles is surprised by how okay it is, all of it, and when he reaches out across the space between them he finds Danny’s hand already there, waiting for his, and that’s better than okay, really.