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Stiles is just starting to realize that the broad, leather-clad back he’s hiding behind is a lot more muscular than he thought it was before the man in front of him whirls around with eyes that are flashing gold – oh fuck, werewolf – and an absolutely outraged expression on his face. Someone is cackling madly behind him, but he’s too busy being distracted by the most gorgeous, deliciously stubbly jawline he’s ever seen. And … eyebrows?
“This is what I’m saving you from?”
The cackling behind Stiles turns into outright howls of laughter, interrupting Gorgeous Werewolf Dude, whose face is now twisted somewhere between indignation and horror. Stiles hears Scott, who had been tumbling downstairs behind him, miss the next step and tumble halfway down the stairs, catching himself with a muffled ‘oof’.
When Stiles was younger, he was convinced that his soulmate was going to be a cop, like his dad, or maybe a firefighter. Deep down, especially after jeers and taunting from his classmates, or a teacher snapping at him because he literally could not sit still, he would imagine his soulmate was a superhero, and he’d go off with them and they would be superheroes together. Later in life, after perhaps just a touch too much time in the more … out there forums, Stiles envisioned having some mysterious figure sweep aside a curtain to show him a Matrix-like setup, ominously proclaiming his salvation.
This was something of a letdown.
Which is honestly the only justification for the next words out of his mouth, “I’ll have you know that Scott is a well-known tickle-fight cheater, and” The rest of his explanation that a plea for aid was absolutely warranted is cut off by a full body flail that sends him tripping over his feet to sit down hard on the floor as the back he was partially leaning on turns into a chest that he yanks his hands away from.
On the stairs, Scott somehow manages to audibly face palm, despite having an arm trapped under him.
Mystery Person behind Stiles sounds like they’re having trouble breathing, and GWD is pinching the bridge of his nose with an incredibly pained expression on his face. Sighing, he reaches out to offer Stiles a hand up. Half of his attention is on MP, so, in a move he’s going to regret later, Stiles twists around to see just who the hell is finding this so funny, which throws his balance off, which means GWD has to lunge to catch him, and that’s how he winds up sprawled in an ungainly heap on top of a surprisingly comfortable expanse of muscled werewolf.
“Laura, for the love of god, stop laughing and get him off of me.”
Stiles starts to prop himself up, (he’d be insulted, but GWD sounds like Stiles landed square on his lungs, so he’ll give him a pass this time) only realizing where his hand is when GWD makes a strangled sound as Stiles squeezes his thigh.
Several things clamour for Stiles’ attention all at once:
He needs to hear that sound again. Repeatedly
He needs to bounce on these thighs. Repeatedly.
He should really take his hand off of GWD’s thigh now.
And get his name.
And relationship status.
And find out who the fucking hell the dark-haired woman leaning against the wall, still laughing hysterically at them.
Also, why is there a strap under GWD’s painted-on jeans, and that is in the absolute wrong place for a dick …
“Are you a cop after all?”
GWD blinks at him from a few inches away.
“You’re carrying concealed, which wow, I did not realize how that was going to sound. So, are you a cop? FBI?”
His soulmate’s face just gets more confused with each option Stiles rattles off, and a horrified thought crosses his mind - “Oh god, you’re not an NRA member, are you?”
At this, GWD snorts and rolls his eyes, but he’s suddenly acting very . . . squirrelly. Which is not a word Stiles thought he would ever apply to six feet of solidly muscled werewolf. But yup, he’s squirming under Stiles his eyes have gone all shifty, and the tips of his ears were turning very red.
Over by the door, Laura manages to pull in a breath, and, between giggles, gasps out, “Go ahead, Der. Tell him.”
'Der’ (and god, Stiles knows he has no room to judge, but please let that be a nickname) is now solidly red and studiously avoiding looking Stiles in the face as he gets them both upright in an obvious diversionary tactic. His hands are hovering slightly in the air near Stiles, like he wants to touch, but isn’t sure how to ask.
Stiles is totally going to get all up in the 'being touched by incredibly hot soulmate with cute ear-blushes’ train, but there’s some very important questions he needs to ask first.
“Seriously dude, I know how much of a bitch it is for a werewolf to get a concealed carry permit. So, seeing as how I’m the Sheriff’s son” (he watches Der’s eyes widen almost comically and Laura is now bent double at the waist, laughter escaping her in near shrieking bursts) “I just need to know – is someone after you? 'Cause I'm sure Dad would be more than willing to make sure you get some kind of protection . . .”
Der winces slightly as Laura hits the floor and starts rolling. He’s looking down at his feet as he scuffs them on the floor and mumbles something under his breath.
Stiles is just about to ask him to repeat himself when Scott thumps down another stair, choking in the way he only does when he’s trying very hard not to laugh.
Heaving out a huge sigh, looking like he regrets everyone of his life choices that brought him to this moment, Der grits out, “I thought you were going to be in serious trouble. I, ” He pauses, then sets his shoulders and grimly soldiers on, “I wanted to be able to help you.”
Stiles has to bite his knuckles to stop the squeeing noise from escaping. It does absolutely nothing to hide the grin that’s splitting his face, or the warm, fuzzy feeling that’s filling his chest.
His soulmate is a toasted marshmallow – slightly crunchy on the outside and all hot and melty, gooey goodness inside … and Stiles really needs to stop that train of thought before it gets too much further out of the station, especially in the company of werewolves.
Laura has mostly composed herself, though she still has a shit-eating grin on her face. “He’s taken every self-defense or martial arts class that would teach werewolves since he was eight.” She says it with an affectionate mix of teasing and pride, though the slight shake in her voice says that Der is in for a lot of teasing later.
Stiles stares at Der in awe. He can see it clearly in his mind – little eight-year old Derek, eyes scrunched in concentration under those ridiculous eyebrows, all determined to learn how to protect his future mate – and a high-pitched noise escapes past his knuckles.
“Ohgod, dude, please tell me I can hug you, because that is the most amazing thing I have ever heard in my life.”
“Derek.”
“Huh?”
“My name. It’s Derek, not 'dude’.” The word 'dude’ is imbued with an amazing amount of disdain for a one syllable word.
Stiles rolls his eyes. “So, Derek. Can I hug you now?”
Derek is giving him this disbelieving look, but he slowly, almost hesitantly, opens his arms and nods slightly.
Stiles is wrapping his arms around him and squeezing almost before the nod has finished. Werewolves are notorious for how much they dislike guns, what with the scent of gunpowder and the sharp, loud noises that fuck their hearing over. Self-defense and martial arts instructors don’t tend to want werewolves in their classes because a depressing number of people take them out of fear of werewolves.
And his soulmate, based off of nothing more than a few words on his wrist, spent almost his whole life dealing with that so he could be ready to help him.
“I am the luckiest fucking person on the planet.” Stiles’ voice is muffled by Derek’s chest, but he still pulls back slightly to give him an incredulous look. One eyebrow cocks in a clear comment on Stiles’ general mental state.
“Du – Derek. I’m gonna hold this over you for the rest of your life, okay, but when I say that this is the most awesome thing anyone has ever done for me, even better than when Scott gave me half of his Reese’s cup in second grade,” Scott yelps from where he still hasn’t picked himself up from what must be an awfully uncomfortable position by now, “even better than Lydia telling Harris’ wife about his mistress, this is it, nothing is topping this. You went through a training montage for me.”
He’s slightly breathless at the end of it, and that’s only a little bit because of how quickly he was speaking and mostly because Derek’s face is softening and his ears are all red again, and he’s looking at Stiles with this look of wonder, and then the smile breaks out over his face.
Stiles lied. He is never going to mock Derek for this ever, not if it means he gets smiles like that for the rest of his life. >
(He holds out for a week, but that’s okay. Derek smiles at him anyway.)