Work Text:
When Stiles’ car breaks down just as he turns onto the long road that leads to the Hale place, it isn’t even the worst thing that’s happened to him so far today.
He grabs his trunk of supplies, hops out without bothering to lock the doors, and bolts down the road towards the cheque that’s waiting for him if he ever manages to show up to collect it.
Things wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t already been running forty minutes late, but whatever, it wasn’t his fault. He’d been about to leave right on time when Jackson had started a ridiculous fight about Stiles not cleaning the bathroom, or having been mooching around his apartment for three months longer than the two weeks they’d agreed or whatever, and then he’d taken the hose from the kitchen sink and sprayed Stiles’ face.
He’d sprayed Stiles’ face off, he’d ruined it, and Stiles had to take the time to fix it or he might as well not have showed up for this job at all.
Stiles can’t put up with that kind of treatment; he’s going to have to move out, which was probably Jackson’s intention all along. Stiles hates letting Jackson win.
Stiles’ trunk bangs against his legs as he runs, and why had he ever thought it was a good idea to make a wooden container for his work implements? What was wrong with a nice, big, cloth bag like everybody else used?
He’s limping and trying to avoid the rock of his trunk when the Hale place comes into view, and the relief gives him a burst of energy, so he speeds to a sprint, and when he hops up the steps and the door swings open before he can even knock on it, he barrels straight into the man who had opened the door.
“Hi,” he says breathlessly, getting his balance back and tugging at the raised wrist the man has clasped tightly.
It takes a minute, but he lets it go.
“Sorry I’m late,” Stiles says, rubbing at his wrist out of irritation more than anything else, and then he gets a look at the man. “Why are the—“ he starts, and then has to blink into the man’s face while he waits for a continuation that isn’t going to come, but it’s true: why are the good ones always married? Just last week Stiles had been hired by a single dad, but he had the beginnings of a comb-over and didn’t even tip, so Stiles doesn’t count it.
Also, if Scott wasn’t married Stiles would be living with him right now instead of stupid Jackson, not that he’s saying Scott is a good one.
That had always been the plan; no way would Stiles have come back to Beacon Hills after college to look for work as a teacher if he’d known the welcome home party Scott was going to throw would be a shotgun wedding.
Even if there had technically been no reason for shotguns to be involved, Allison’s dad has an arsenal, Stiles has seen it, so the point stands.
“Your makeup is running,” the hot guy in the doorway says.
“Crap,” Stile says, then, “I mean, fiddlesticks!”
The guy’s eyebrows rise.
“Is there a reason you’re dressed as a clown?” he asks. “I understood we were getting a magician.”
“You are!” Stiles says. “Both!” The sceptical look remains, so he explains. “Sometimes I do one, sometimes the other, and kids think it’s funny to see a clown do magic, so.”
Also, he only has the one outfit.
“Hmm,” the guy says, examining Stiles’ face closely. “The bathroom’s this way.”
“Thanks,” Stiles says, and stumbles after him, trunk hobbling him again.
He recoils from his reflection in the bathroom. Sweat has caused his pigment to run in streaks down his face; he looks like one of those surreal creepy clown paintings. He would have been better off walking and being the extra ten minutes late. No wonder Hotass was staring.
Stiles feels guilty about not being able to remember the guy’s real name, so he gave the nickname serious consideration, and he got a good look while the guy was leading him to the bathroom, so he knows it’s accurate.
His face is back on when he emerges, and Hotass is waiting for him outside.
“Jesus,” Stiles says, jumping, and his squeaker goes off loudly. “Warn a guy!”
“What’s your name?” Hotass asks.
“Stiles,” Stiles says automatically, and tries to quell the blush he can feel rising. “Wait, no, that’s my real name.”
Hotass looks hotly dubious, like he suspects there is somehow a chance anybody would choose Stiles as a stagename. “Sometimes it’s Mysterion, or Mister Ron, but today it’s Splat,” Stiles says, and tries not to feel like that’s an augur.
*
The kids are—cute.
“You understand we don’t want your routine to be longer than fifteen minutes,” Hotass says. “And nothing too startling.”
“Derek,” a woman yells across the yard. “Down!”
Derek looks flummoxed for a moment, before Stiles hesitantly points out the small child attempting to scale the wall of the house behind Derek.
Well, Stiles says attempting, but he means succeeding.
Derek plucks the little scamp from the wall just before he ascends beyond reach. “Mikey,” he says. “What have we told you?”
“Guests,” Mikey says, giving Stiles huge eyes. Stiles has spent a lot of time around kids, and is well used to the melting eyes, but he melts.
“Hey, Mikey,” he says. “Is it your birthday?”
“Yes,” Mikey says, giving Stiles a look. “Why else would I be getting a party and a—“ He surveys Stiles, then turns a glare on Derek. “I asked for a magician,” he finishes, and he resembles Derek so much when he turns that judgemental gaze on Stiles, and then there are two identical judgemental gazes trained on him.
Stiles’ heart thumps erratically, inexplicably.
“I am a magician,” he says. “Want me to show you?”
“Yes,” Mikey says.
“How old are you today?”
“It isn’t my birthday today, just my party,” Mikey says triumphantly.
“I never claimed to be a psychic,” Stiles says, and Mikey grudgingly admits, “Three.”
“Three!” Stiles says, mostly faux-incredulous.
“Yeah,” Derek says, longsuffering.
“Well,” Stiles says. “I didn’t know how to do this trick when I was three, but maybe you can figure it out.”
“Magic,” Mikey’s mom corrects as she breezes by with a squirming child under one arm and a plateful of cupcakes precariously balanced on the other.
“...Yeah,” Stiles says, trying to squash down the instinct to explain, show, tell, and teach, and Derek’s lips twitch along with a different, unwelcome part of Stiles. Derek looks interested, Stiles thinks, and suppresses the thought quickly. “Magic, okay.”
He pulls out a coin. “Watch this,” he tells Mikey, “keep your eyes on it so you don’t miss anything.”
Mikey struggles around in Derek’s arms to get a better view, and Derek seriously needs to stop holding his kid like that and being so gorgeous and dark and sweet; this is a poster come to life straight off the bedroom wall of a teenage girl, and Stiles has never claimed to be above that kind of thing.
He flicks the coin around his fingers while Mikey follows the distraction with an eagle-eye, and then he transfers three feathers from his other palm, and holds them up for Mikey to count right before they catch flame.
“Oh,” Mikey says, and the look of wonder in his eyes is only mildly reduced when Stiles has to drop the feathers to the ground and stamp them out.
“Alla shazam,” Stiles says.
“Pretty sure magic words aren’t an exclamation of triumph,” Derek says, but his son is muttering, “Shazam—Alla shak—“
Derek gaze flicks between Mikey and Stiles, and when he smiles at Stiles his eyes are warm.
“Tell me again,” he says, juggling Mikey until he gets a hand free and can reach out and touch Stiles’ elbow. “Why are you dressed like a clown?”
And suddenly fifteen minutes is way too long to have to be here, because Stiles is pretty sure if he jumps the dad right onto the bouncy-castle at his own son’s birthday party he’s never going to get hired in this town again.
*
The performance goes okay, weird kids restless and wild, which would be more understandable if the long candy-table didn’t look untouched and pristine.
They respond well when he can hold their attention. He holds Mikey’s attention the whole time, which is the important part, and also that none of the uncommonly blasé parents seem to mind when Stiles has to pull out the fire extinguisher. Twice.
Derek stands back, watching Stiles’ act with narrowed eyes while his wife rushes around in the background, arranging presents, and the entire time all Stiles is thinking about is tearing one of those bows off Derek’s body with his teeth.
Stiles is going to hell, he’s pretty sure. Derek’s wife looks capable of sending him there, if she had any idea what he was thinking.
“That went well, right?” Stiles says. “I have to—“
“I think Mikey believes in magic,” Derek says, smiling wide at Stiles. It makes his eyes crinkle.
Stiles has to get out of here, because Derek with a kid in his arms is sexy enough, but standing alone in front of Stiles, loose and relaxed and happy, he’s something else altogether.
Stiles means to make his excuses, but he finds himself saying, “What kid doesn’t, at that age?” and smiling back.
“Magic doesn’t exist,” Derek says, weirdly informative tone to his voice. “Mikey knows that; we taught him when he was younger.”
“Okay,” Stiles says.
Derek seems to realise he’s said something strange, because he moves in closer and puts his hand on Stiles’ arm. Stiles can’t bring himself to move away, to shake his hold.
“How long have you lived here?” Derek asks, seemingly genuinely curious.
“All my life,” Stiles says. “Apart from when I left for college.”
“You came back for work?” Derek asks politely.
“Hah,” Stiles says. “No. I’m actually a qualified teacher, but I won’t have the chance to get a job here until next year. I came back to be near my dad.”
“Oh,” Derek says. “Family is important to you?”
He sounds approving, and then he moves in, in and in and in, moves nearer until Stiles is gasping for breath and wanting to scream. Derek’s nose brushes Stiles’ ear, and Stiles thinks he breathes Stiles in.
“You smell—“ Derek says, voice thick and low. “You smell so—“
He sniffs sharply, breathes Stiles deep.
Stiles wobbles a little, unsteady on his feet, and Derek grabs him, holds him upright and too close, much too close, and his mouth is right there, right by Stiles’ neck, gusts of air rushing over his skin, and when Derek’s lips brush his throat Stiles shoves him away hard.
“Yes,” Stiles says, feeling the hectic colour spread and his stomach turn over simultaneously. “Yeah, it’s important.”
Derek watches him, his hands, his face and everything in between, and that isn’t helping the flush. “Good,” Derek says quietly, small smile still tugging at his lips. “We should—“
“You came back here six months ago,” Stiles interrupts, not wanting to hear what Hotass Married Derek thinks he and Stiles should do.
Fornicate on the awesome blue rocket-cake, if Stiles is very, very lucky and badbadwrong. He wants to get closer to the cake and also to touch Derek, and he needs to stop thinking about both of those things.
“Yeah,” Derek says, eyes on Stiles’ mouth.
“Same time as the Argents,” Stiles says, just to have a reason for Derek to keep looking.
But Derek looks up abruptly instead.
“You know the Argents?” he asks sharply.
“Not really,” Stiles says, puzzled. “The daughter’s married to a friend of mine. Do you know them?”
Derek hesitates, mouth hovering around whatever it is. Mikey is careening around in the back of Stiles’ vision, not enough to distract him from Derek, but Stiles isn’t sure anything would be.
“Mikey Evans!” Derek’s wife yells, coming to a sudden stop beside them. “I will not let you have any cake! Stop that this instant!”
“Hard woman,” Derek says.
“Yeah,” she agrees with a grin, then takes in Stiles’ presence. “What are you still doing here?” she asks, voice strained. “We said fifteen minutes, yes?”
“Yeah,” Stiles says awkwardly. “Mr Evans was just—“
“Hale,” Derek interrupts, frowning.
“What?”
“I’m Laura Hale, he’s Derek,” Derek’s wife says, which makes sense.
“But your son is Evans,” Stiles protests.
“Yeah,” Laura says. “I didn’t change my name when I got married.”
“But—oh.”
“Liam’s around here somewhere,” she says. “I’d introduce you, but you were just leaving. You did a really great job, thanks.”
Stiles isn’t listening.
“I’m her brother,” Derek says, all irritation, hand large and warm on Stiles’ back, and Stiles tries not to let Derek’s gaze affect him, knows his expression is changing entirely as Derek watches and lets it happen.
Derek’s changes too, annoyance dissipating, and they feed off each other until Stiles feels giddy with it.
“Leave,” Laura breaks in.
“Right,” Stiles says, grinning brightly at her. Derek’s hand is on his shoulder. “I’m not expecting a piece of the cake, don’t worry—“
“Splat!” Mikey shouts, running up with a friend trailing behind. “Splat, look, I can do something too! I can’t turn a ribbon into a rabbit-bear, but I can turn myself!”
And with a twist Stiles’ eyes can’t quite interpret, Mikey is gone and suddenly there’s a young wolf charging towards Stiles instead.
And that’s when Stiles’ day really goes to hell.
*
“He’s fine,” Derek says, ineffectually trying to brush the mud off Stiles’ back from where Mikey had knocked him flat on the ground in excitement, joyous and trying to play. “We’re leaving.”
“Do that,” Laura snarls at him, and then turns to Stiles. “See you soon,” she says, and then perhaps realising how creepy that sounds, “Come again. Mikey would love to see you.”
Stiles can hear fragments of muttered conversations as Derek prods him over to his stuff.
“—shouldn’t let him go without—“
“—won’t let him out of his—“
“—the bite, he needs—“
“Not yet.” That’s Laura, definitive, and Stiles tries not to shiver where she can see him.
Derek grabs his trunk like it’s nothing, carries it effortlessly with one hand and puts the other on the back of Stiles’ neck.
“Your family is scary,” Stiles says, as soon as they’re out of hearing distance.
“They are,” Derek says, amused. “And now they know you think so.”
“What—shut up, stop trying to freak me out.”
“I’m not,” Derek denies, eyes crinkling again.
“Well you’re doing it,” Stiles says, watching the Hales’ cluster of cars draw nearer.
“Yeah,” Derek says. “Sorry.”
“You can drop me at my car,” Stiles ventures, not feeling very sincere about the offer. “I can figure something out.”
“Yeah,” Derek says, “No. I’ll drop it back to you tomorrow.”
“They’re scary,” Stiles says again, uncertain, because it deserves repeating, but he isn’t sure what he wants Derek to say in response.
“I’m scary,” Derek says, dropping Stiles’ trunk and coming up against Stiles, pressing him against a car with his hard, warm body. “You don’t need to worry.”
And then he’s kissing Stiles.
“Is that supposed to reassure—“ Stiles tries to ask when Derek lets him suck in a breath, but before he can finish the sentence, Stiles is leaning forward to lick into Derek’s mouth, words forgotten.
It’s a little while before Derek pulls back, leaves Stiles panting and slumped against the car, wanting it again, no other consideration in his mind.
Derek licks his lips cautiously.
“So,” Derek says, with the air of a man about to broach a sensitive topic. “Stiles. Is this a lifestyle choice?”
“What?” Stiles asks, eyes widening.
“The makeup,” Derek says pointedly, rubbing at the white and red streaks Stiles has left on his face. “Do you wear it all the time?”
And Stiles is laughing when Derek shoves him into the car to drive him home.