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Dos Lobos Papas Fritas Especial

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Derek pulls his hood down low over his forehead and hunches his shoulders up - the leather of his jacket creaking around his ears - as he slides from the car. The Camaro would be as bad as a flashing neon sign if the black exterior didn’t blend in so well with the shadows. Expensive car parked in a shady alley behind an abandoned warehouse?
Yeah, not hard to guess what’s going down there. He grips a brown paper bag tightly underneath one arm, careful to make sure nothing spills. The only thing off to a casual observer of this little drop would be the fact that Derek is currently walking toward the police cruiser parked just a few feet further down the alley with his eyes on the concrete, instead of booking it back the way he came.

The Sheriff of Beacon Hills is leaning against the side of the car, legs crossed casually, tapping his fingers on the hood of the cruiser impatiently. There’s not much to see in the dark but there’s a floodlight a few feet away, facing in the other direction, and it’s giving off enough illumination that Derek can see some of the Sheriff’s face, and he looks hungry.

“You got the goods, Hale?” The Sheriff’s voice is low but it sounds thunderous in the silence only previously broken by the sound of Derek’s footsteps. Derek nods, holds out the bag. The bottom is so saturated, it’s nearly translucent and the Sheriff licks his lips at the sight. “Good man.”

The Sheriff takes the bag carefully, sets it down on the hood of the cruiser and unrolls the top slowly. If he couldn’t smell it before, the air is thick with the scent of it now and the
Sheriff grins. “TGIF,” he says, reaching into the bag and pulling out a handful of glistening, greasy fries. “Duck Fat Fridays. You, Hale, are a genius.”

Derek allows himself a smug smile. It’s too dark for it to really be seen and the Sheriff is distracted with his food anyway. “There’s a couple corndogs in there too,” he offers. “A duck fat beef dog and a spicy chicken sausage.”

The Sheriff’s face lights up like a little boy on Christmas and Derek feels a little glow of his own. He needs to get back to the truck, but he likes to make sure the Sheriff is happy before he goes. It’s a Friday night ritual. All Derek has to give the Sheriff are the fries, but he knows throwing in a few extras can only help him in the long run. The Sheriff gets his fatty foods and Derek gets to park his truck pretty much anywhere in Beacon Hills without worry of a fine. It’s the perfect agreement as far as Derek is concerned.

He questioned the method of delivery at first, of course. Derek isn’t stupid, he would have given the Sheriff free food no matter what, even if he was doing it under the guise of simply showing respect to authority, and the Sheriff is a good man. People genuinely like him and he deserves it. It wasn’t Derek’s idea to make the Sheriff’s order special before the truck is officially opened and bring the food to him in increasingly shadier places, but Derek understands.

Boy, does he understand what it’s like to have someone constantly breathing down his neck, questioning his decisions, telling him how to live his life. Of course Derek is talking about his uncle and the man’s refusal to accept that Derek doesn’t want to take over the family restaurant, not now, not ever. Yes, Peter, selling French fries out of a truck to pretentious twenty-somethings who can’t appreciate his culinary genius is satisfying and what he wants to do with his life.

The Sheriff’s problem is a little more minor than that. The Sheriff is a widower with a paranoid kid who’s made it his mission to deprive his hardworking father of everything good in the world. That’s how the Sheriff put it and that’s why Derek is currently hanging out on the bad side of the town making sure the Sheriff gets a healthy portion of potential heart attack somewhere his son won’t see. Derek is a dutiful person, if nothing else.

 

 

Derek gets back to the truck around ten. Laura should almost be done prepping by now but the truck is still closed. They’ve been parked for about an hour and a half, enough time for a few people to drive by and see it. By the time they open the window someone will have tweeted their location and by the time the bars let out they’ll have a crowd. The first few times they tried this, Laura had to start the tweet chain herself, but now Derek’s truck has a reputation and Duck Fat Friday’s are kind of like a game to the citizens of Beacon Hills. Nowadays Derek owns two trucks for the regular weekday shifts and Saturday nights, but it started out just him and Laura – the original Dos Lobos – with the one truck and a lot of determination.

Once the truck started gaining attention, Derek started experimenting and the people responded. He wasn’t expecting the French fries cooked in duck fat to be so popular though. Duck isn’t exactly something he can just pick up at the market any time for the same price as normal oil. It was Laura’s idea to limit the duck fat fries to Fridays and to keep the location of the truck a secret. Derek questioned how hard people would try to find a fast food truck that primarily focused on French fries at first, but he’d underestimated how hungry drunk kids could get and the pull of a good puzzle in general. People loved chasing the truck almost as much as they loved Derek’s food, maybe even a little more.

Every other day of the week, the trucks are parked in the same few spots, serving the same food, catering to high school kids as they’re leaving Lacrosse games or track meets, and the hipster crowd whe they’ve finally been kicked out of Starbucks. Derek works days at his family’s restaurant and nights in the truck and doesn’t have time for much else and he’s happy that way.

There’s already a small crowd gathering around the truck, parked in one of the prime spots Derek pays the Sheriff off for, and it is a small crowd. There are two boys and a girl hanging out in front of the truck and Laura’s got the window open. She’s leaning out and smiling at one of the boys, but when Derek gets closer and parks the Camaro a little ways from the truck, he can tell it’s her fake patience smile, the one that says she’s putting up with whatever is bothering her for right now, but the second she sees Derek she’ll be making it his problem.

He seriously thinks about jumping back in his car and just driving away, abandoning all of his dreams and everything he’s worked for just to avoid whatever it is that’s put that look on her face. That looks says Derek is going to pay for Laura’s decision to open the window early and for all of the prep work Laura’s done for him while he was meeting with the Sheriff and for that time he put a lizard in her shoes when they were kids, because she’s never forgotten any transgression he’s committed against her in their lives. But
Derek is a grown man and while he is not too proud to admit he lives in constant fear of his older sister, he loves that truck and he would miss it if he had to go into hiding. Which he would if he ran away right now, because Laura would find him.

“Der Bear!” Laura calls the second she catches sight of him, her voice full of false cheer. She actually seems almost frazzled, her voice straining just that much that no one else will notice but Derek can hear it loud and clear.

The two boys look his way and Derek instantly recognizes the dopey grin on the nearest one. He shrugs the leather jacket from his shoulders and unzips the hoodie beneath it as he gets near the truck. “Scott, what are you doing here?” He growls, throwing the hoodie at the boy and hitting him square in the face.

Scott battles with the cloth for a minute before he finally gets it under control and rolls it up in his arms, grinning goofily. “I’m hungry?”

“Are you asking me if you’re hungry?”

“No?”

Derek huffs impatiently and throws open the back door of the truck, hanging his jacket on a hook and grabbing an apron from its place.

“Hey Der,” Laura sing songs, turning away from the window with a crazed look in her eye. “Scott’s here.”

“I saw him.”

“Scott brought a friend.”

Derek is afraid to look straight at her, so he focuses on the fryers instead. All four of them are full of oil and heated up and Laura had apparently started cutting up the potatoes before she got distracted. There’s a heap of shoe strings ready to be dumped into a fryer and a basket of sweet potatoes already peeled.

“Scott’s friend asks a lot of questions, Derek.” So far Laura still sounds perfectly chipper to the untrained ear, but she’s edging on manic. Laura is not the most patient person ever, but she is normally incredibly talented at pretending like nothing fazes her. This kid must have done a real number to have her losing it like this. “I need a cigarette. You can finish the prep yourself, right? Great talk.” And now she’s leaving Derek alone with him.

“You don’t smoke,” Derek says, not desperately.

“Every habit has to start somewhere, am I right?” Then she’s gone, out the back of the truck and storming off into the shadows. She’ll be back, eventually.

There’s an easy solution to Laura’s problem – shut the window. Derek always feels a special kind of satisfaction at the end of the night when he hears the clang of metal on metal, shutting him off from the rest of the world. Derek loves his truck, loves that people love his food enough to make it their mission to find it Friday nights, but Derek does not love people. Laura likes to tell him he doesn’t have a social bone in his body. Which is why Laura is constantly reminding him that he should be eternally grateful for her help manning the window of his food truck, otherwise he would scare all the potential customers away with his face.

He’s preparing to unlatch it when Scott pokes his head through, still grinning. “Hey, where’d Laura go?”

“Your friend drove her away,” Derek says flatly, giving up on finishing his prep in peace. It’s not like Scott’s the worst, but as far as Derek is concerned not having to interact with anybody is the best.

“Stiles? Oh. He gets really curious about things. I wasn’t really paying attention,” Scott says sheepishly, shrugging his shoulders and glancing over at the third member of his posse – a striking dark haired girl who is currently smiling fondly with just a tiny hint of exasperation at the kid that must be Stiles. Stiles is gesturing wildly as he tells her some story, using his hands to emphasize his points with way more oomph than is probably necessary.

“That’s Stiles?” Derek doesn’t know why he asks, regrets giving Scott an opening to pursue conversation as soon as the words are out of his mouth but it’s too late. Scott’s already taking Derek’s offered inch and sprinting to the mile marker.

“Yeah,” he says with a grin. “You remember him?”

Derek does, sort of. He’s seen Stiles in passing, picking Scott up from his shifts at the restaurant, but the only time they’ve been formally introduced was probably years ago when Scott was still in high school and had just started working as a busboy. The Stiles that Derek remembers was a spazzy, goofy thing who hadn’t grown into his limbs and didn’t quite look like he was ever going to.

Now that Derek is looking, this kid could definitely be an older version of that kid. His personality hasn’t changed a whole lot since he clearly still talks too much, but apparently he grew into those arms and legs. Despite the clear evidence that Stiles hasn’t grown out of talking with his entire body, the movements seem more graceful now than Derek remembers… or maybe it’s just time smoothing the memories over. There was an incident with a glass of fruit punch and Derek’s white chef uniform on the night of their first meeting that Derek isn’t likely to ever forget completely.

“Thought he went off to school or something,” Derek says, because apparently his brain is in betrayal mode today, making him open his mouth and speak words when all he wants is for Scott to go away.

“He did, to Berkeley, but he graduated last month and moved back! It’s awesome!”

Derek steals another glance at Stiles only to look away immediately when it turns out Stiles is already looking at him. He turns his back like that will stop the kid from taking Derek’s look as an invitation to come bother him. It doesn’t.

“Hey, Derek!”

“Stiles,” Derek says without turning around.

“Whatcha doin’?”

Derek doesn’t respond. The obvious answer is cooking, the less than obvious answer requires explanation which means Derek has to talk. He pulls on a pair of thin plastic gloves instead, snapping the edges against his wrists. Laura left a few piles of sliced potatoes ready to be dumped into the fryers so he gets busy with that, hoping Stiles and Scott will get the hint and wander away.

“Where do you get the duck fat anyway?” No such luck.

“Specialty market,” Derek says through clenched teeth.

“Did you know Labrador Retrievers can hold an egg in their mouths without breaking it?”

What?” Derek actually stops what he’s doing and turns just enough to side eye Stiles. He has no idea how to follow that train of thought. Stiles is grinning and once again, Derek realizes his mistake too late.

“Labrador Retrievers were originally bred to help with hunting, primarily to retrieve waterfowl after they’d been shot down. Like ducks. So their coats are practically waterproof and their mouths are super gentle. Like they’ll just put your hand in their mouths and hold it and it’s cool. So, like, they can hold eggs in their mouths without breaking them because they’re so gentle.”

“Okay.”

“Animal planet said they were the only dogs that could do it and then Reddit blew up with people posting pictures of their dogs holding eggs and a lot of pictures of people’s dogs dropping eggs, so they’re not the only ones but still. The hand holding thing is pretty cool.”

Derek just looks for a minute because he honestly doesn’t know how to react to that.

“I could have happily died without knowing that,” he decides, but it doesn’t deter Stiles at all. The kid’s grin just widens like he thinks Derek is trying to be funny. Stiles shrugs and rocks back up onto his toes, hands shoved into the back pockets of his jeans. His hair is longer than the last time Derek saw him, tousled like he’s never heard of a comb before. It actually serves to make him look infinitely more impish.

“I’m a wealth of unnecessary factoids. I missed my calling not trying out for high school Jeopardy!.”

“You can still try out for Jeopardy! you know.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so. I’m no Ken Jennings.” He pulls a hand from his pocket and waves it around. Derek flinches automatically, but there’s nothing in the vicinity for Stiles to knock over.

Derek looks around for Scott, as if Scott could help him out here when in reality he’d probably only exacerbate the problem, but he’s at the curb with the girl, mooning over her every word. Stiles looks over his shoulder, following Derek’s line of sight, and sighs. It seems mostly fond though.

“That’s Allison. They’re in looooove. It’s disgusting.”

“That’s fascinating.” Derek ‘s being sarcastic, but it does make a lot of sense. Scott’s on the line now and there have been more than a few times in the past couple months that
Derek’s been legitimately worried that he might lose a finger because he isn’t paying attention.

Derek goes back to his prep while Stiles is distracted. He’s hoping Laura decides to come back soon. He can handle a normal night on his own but not Duck Fat Friday and he’d really rather not ask Scott for help. While the fries are going, he pulls out a bowl and two heavy German beers, popping the caps with the ring on his middle finger.

“Whoa! That was sweet. Do it again.”

Derek nearly jumps a foot at the voice in his ear, and it’s just by natural grace that he doesn’t drop a bottle.

“Stiles, what the hell?!”

“Sorry.” He doesn’t look even the slightest bit apologetic. Derek has no idea how Stiles was able to get into the truck without him noticing, except that Laura left the back open and he does have to focus when working with hot oil or risk third degree burns.

“You can’t be in here,” Derek growls, trying to put as much force into it as possible. He does not appreciate the way Stiles doesn’t even flinch. Derek is a scary person and this kid should be scared.

“Aw, come on, amargo lobo.”

“Seriously?” Derek can feel his eyebrows climb halfway up his forehead and that just makes Stiles look absolutely gleeful.

“Yea, you know, because the truck is named Dos Lobos and you’re such a grumpy pants, so sourwolf but in Spanish. To fit the theme. Oh my God, your eyebrows. It’s like they’re trying to get free from your face.” Stiles actually reaches out like he’s going to touch and for a second Derek almost lets him because he’s too shocked not to. He jerks back just as Stiles is about to make contact with his forehead.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“So many things,” Stiles says, like it’s just a sad fact that has to be accepted. “So what are you making?”

“Derek! Why would you let it inside?”

It says something about him that Derek is so relieved for Laura to show up at that moment, that he’s at such a loss as to what to do with Stiles he needs his big sister to save him. Forget that he’s twenty-eight years old and should have already managed to master basic human interaction.

“Hey Laura,” Stiles chirps. “I was just keeping Derek here company since you so rudely abandoned him.”

“Get out of here, Stiles, or I will deep fry your face,” Derek finally snaps because he can sense the smoke starting to spiral out of Laura’s ears.

“But I’m hungry!”

“Are you making us leave?” That’s Scott back at the window and Derek doesn’t have to look at him to know he’ll be using his big brown eyes for evil. Derek is immune to Scott’s puppy dog looks but Laura is not. She turns to goo and it’s ridiculous.

Derek sighs loudly, letting his shoulders slump. “If I feed you, will you go somewhere else? Somewhere you won’t scare my customers away?”

“That sounds reasonable.”

“Fine,” Derek grunts, huffing out an exasperated breath. He turns back to the mixing bowl, ready to pour the beers in, and realizes Stiles hasn’t moved at all. He’s still standing right at Derek’s elbow, watching intently, a massively dopey grin on his face. “Why are you still in here?”

Stiles’ grin widens, if that’s even possible, displaying two rows of perfect white teeth, and causing little crinkles at the corners of his eyes that are in no way mind melting. “Maybe I’m interested in cooking.”

Derek can feel one side of his mouth curling up in a snarl and Stiles raises his hands, palms forward, in a placating manner. “Okay, you got me. Maybe I’m just interested in watching you cook.”

There’s a twinkle of mirth in Stiles’ eye that gets brighter the longer it takes Derek to snap his mouth closed in surprise. Laura snorts behind him, and when Derek looks she’s got her face buried in her hands, silent laughter shaking her shoulders. Stiles is still grinning, looking like he just threw down a challenge and he’s waiting to see if Derek’s going to rise to it. Which he is not.

“Oh my god, I think he just hit on you,” Laura squeals, voice muffled by her hands. It’s her reaction more than what Stiles actually said that finally makes Derek lose his cool.

“Get out,” he all but shouts, and it’s only slightly gratifying to see Stiles’ tiny flinch.

“I’ll have you know I’m only going back outside because it’s hot in here,” Stiles protests as he back steps to the door, never taking his eyes off Derek. “I’m not afraid you.”

Derek just glares and Stiles crosses his arms over his chest and returns it full force even as he steps down onto the asphalt.

“Is this real life?” Laura gasps, dissolving into another fit of silent laughter until Derek pushes around her and bolts the back door of the truck.

 

 

Saturdays Derek has to dedicate to the restaurant. It’s part of the deal he has with his uncle. He gets to keep the trucks in the restaurant’s parking lot when they’re not in use and use the restaurant’s account at the local food depot for his trucks, and he only has to listen to his Uncle Peter’s snarky comments four days and one night a week. The Bite is actually partially his, left to him and Peter and Laura when his parents decided they’d worked hard enough and deserved to finally travel. So he stays on out of genuine guilt about abandoning the dream his parents worked so hard for which Peter makes certain to remind him of every day.

Derek started working at The Bite as a busser just like Scott when he was in high school. His parents still owned it then and felt it would teach Derek work ethic to start at the bottom. Derek worked his way up through the ranks just like anyone else, just like Scott has. He worked the line under Peter while he went to culinary school and now he’s acting sous chef when Peter’s not benevolently giving him time off to run the truck.

He hates his uncle just a little bit.

Saturday nights are on the Beta truck, which always makes Derek nervous. He’s a control freak and Dos Lobos is his baby, his creation, his recipes that he’s absolutely positive don’t taste the same when he’s not the one making them. But the Beta truck brings in about as much money as the Alpha truck except on Duck Fat Fridays, so he has to force himself to trust his betas.

Each of the betas is good at one aspect of the business. Erica brings it in with her sharp smile and killer curves and Boyd mans the window with a flat expression that books no bullshit. Isaac might be Derek’s favorite, even if he would never admit it, because Isaac is the only person besides Laura who has access to Derek’s recipe book. Not even Peter is privy to those particular scribbles. Peter gets anything Derek comes up with for the restaurant, but the truck is his baby and as much as he’d rather not trust anyone, without the recipes the beta truck doesn’t run. So he entrusts them to Isaac, who is quiet and sometimes tries to act tougher than he is, but who reminds Derek a lot of himself.

Isaac was working as a gravedigger before, which made the truck a perfect place to get an off hour meal, and after the seventh or eighth time Derek caught the kid tearing his food apart instead of eating it straight away -as if he could figure out the flavors if he just dug deep enough- Derek offered him a job. He’d been planning the beta truck for a while and figured that was a good enough time to get started creating his team.

The Saturday rush at The Bite lasts until nine or ten on a good night, then with clean up and side work, Derek is never out before midnight. He usually goes to check on the beta truck after that, much to their dismay, and he usually finds it operating more smoothly than his own does. He knows he should trust his team, but he has a hard time relinquishing control. It’s why Saturdays are such a pain, working directly underneath Peter and directly above Scott. Scott is a competent cook and could be a competent sous chef if there wasn’t some weird tension between him and Peter that Derek has to buffer. Peter can be a bit overbearing and Scott isn’t the best with authority, but it’s come to a head lately that absolutely baffles Derek.

“Hey Derek.” Scott slinks in, obviously moping.

Derek knows better than to ever ask anyone what’s wrong when it’s clear something is, so he passes Scott a knife and an onion with a grunt, and tries to pretend that Scott’s intermittent sniffling is only related to the onion.

“What’s got you so down in the dumps, Sotty boy?” After years of living with Peter, Derek doesn’t flinch anymore when the man silently sneaks up behind him. Scott, on the other hand, nearly takes off the tip of his index finger when his hand slips in surprise. He glowers down at the onion like it’s ruined his life and Peter just laughs.

“Shut up, Peter,” Scott grumbles, resolutely not looking up.

“Aw, but Scott, you’re going to make the food taste sad.”

Peter likes to tease Scott and Derek’s pretty sure Scott hates Peter with a burning passion and Derek just chooses not to get involved. Scott stays at The Bite out of a weird sense of loyalty probably. Peter’s been training him since before he could drive and Scott’s a pretty dutiful kid, so he probably doesn’t feel like he can leave.

“Dinner with the parents not go so well?” Sott’s face gets stormy at Peter’s condescending tone and Derek does his best to ignore the whole confrontation, but it’s hard when it’s happening less than two feet away from him.

“How shocking they didn’t like you. If only some wise person had warned you about what you were getting into.” Peter’s voice is light, but there’s an undertone of actual anger there that has Derek looking up without thinking. That one knee-jerk reaction is all it takes for Peter to latch on and pull Derek into whatever argument is happening. The only way he can get out of it now is to physically run away and that seems like overkill, even for him.

“Derek,” Peter drawls. “Did you know Scott here has a little girlfriend?”

“Don’t drag me into this, Peter.”

“But you’re the expert on dating Argents, aren’t you, Derek?’

Derek freezes.

“You should probably put down the knife, Derek.” Peter’s smile is sharp like the blade Derek is holding and Scott looks like he’s about to piss himself.

“What did you say?” Derek asks through clenched teeth.

“She just moved here! I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even cook!”

“You can’t date an Argent, Scott!” Derek seethes, knuckles whitening around the handle of the knife he’s still holding.

“You can’t tell me who I can or can’t date!”

“Now children. It’s almost time for dinner. Let’s not slit any throats until after the rush, alright?”

Derek lets the knife clatter to the counter. “They tried to burn down the restaurant, Scott!”

“Not Allison! She wasn’t even here then!”

“You were, Scott.”

“Look, Derek, I –“

“No. No, Scott. You brought her to my truck!” Derek goes cold with sudden realization. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“She’s different!”

“You’re an idiot,” Derek says, furrowing his eyebrows and emphasizing his point with a finger in Scott’s face. He storms off then, because it turns out he is not above theatrics after all.

 

 

Derek doesn’t actually leave, because he is an adult and he has to work, but he is a little bit more aggressive with his dicing than usual. Peter tells him at the end of the night that he made the food taste angry and Derek throws a hamburger patty at his head.

The truck comes back while Derek ‘s still finishing up his side work and the beta trio come tumbling in through the back, all happy laughter and blissfully ignorant of the atmosphere in the restaurant.

“Scott!” Isaac shouts and leaps onto Scott’s back as he’s coming out of the freezer. Derek bristles when Scott starts to smile. He doesn’t deserve any happiness right now.

“Isaac,” Derek snaps. Isaac looks sheepish as he slides off Scott, he doesn’t have far to drop considering he’s at least half a foot taller. Boyd tosses Derek the money bag from the truck without even looking, eyes on the front door, Erica’s hand clasped in his.

She hangs back just long enough to catcall Derek and grin. “Hey Derek, someone came by the truck looking for you tonight.”

Derek keeps silent by sheer force of will. Erica was not around for Derek’s relationship with Kate Argent. She doesn’t know everything that happened or why it would send red flags shooting up for her to say some random person was hanging around the truck looking for him, especially with Scott’s betrayal so fresh.

“Hey Scott, how come you didn’t tell us Stiles got so hot at school? I mean, he’s always been a cutie but damn. Batman grew up.”

“What?” Even Scott looks confused.

Erica just smirks and swipes her thumb against the corner of her mouth. “Inside joke.”

“Wait, it was Stiles?”

“Yea, he bought an original corn dog and truffle fries,” Boyd adds.

“And he asked about you,” Erica adds smugly. “He looked like a sad little puppy dog when Boyd told him he was at the wrong truck.”

“And then Boyd charged him for the information,” Isaac throws in.

“I’m keeping it as tip,” Boyd says without looking back. He pushes through the front door of the restaurant, dragging Erica behind him as she blows kisses at Derek and laughs.

“Stiles is pretty cool, though,” Isaac says quietly, watching Derek with a small smile.

“Wait, you like Stiles?” Scott pipes up, looking adorably confused. Derek might actually growl a little bit, he isn’t totally sure.

“Go home, Scott. You’re still in trouble.”

“You’re not my dad, Derek!”

“That’s not what your mom said last night,” Peter says nonchalantly, wiping his hands with a dish towel as he enters the kitchen. “Oh, I’m sorry. Was I supposed to let that perfect set up pass me by?”

“Whatever,” Scott grumbles, grabbing his backpack and storming out.

“Relationships are for the weak, Scott!” Derek shouts after him, already feeling like an idiot before the words have even left his mouth. It doesn’t make them any less true in his mind though. His ex-girlfriend tries to kill him, it makes a guy bitter. He’s within his rights to remain single forever.

 

 

Stiles is literally the first person to show up at the truck the next Friday. They haven’t even pulled away from the restaurant yet, are still loading supplies into the back. Derek’s not wearing a shirt, it’s tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, and Stiles is grinning at him like the cat that caught the canary.

“What the hell do you want?” Derek might come off a little gruffer than totally necessary, especially judging by the frown on Laura’s face. Laura ran away from Stiles the last time she saw him, she has no room to judge.

Stiles’ smile flickers for an instant, but he’s back to looking unfairly earnest before it can completely register. “Maybe I just wanted to see your bright and sunshiney face.”

Laura snorts and Derek glowers. His week has been bad enough what with Scott’s moping and Peter’s constant crowing and the shadow of Kate looming over him. Add to that the fact that Stiles is the reason Derek spends every Friday in a random dark alley supplying the Sheriff with French fries, things aren’t off to a good start. Stiles cannot be around asking questions when Derek leaves to make the drop.

“Don’t worry, Derek. I’m just here for my buddy Scott. We’re going to a party to get his mind off Mr. Argent banning Allison from seeing him. Man, you guys do take your feuds seriously, don’t you?”

Derek tries not to bristle visibly, hoping if he stays quiet Stiles will take that as a cue to wait for Scott inside, but Laura, as usual, can’t let anything lie.

“What kind of party are you going to?”

“Birthday party,” Stiles says, brightening under Laura’s attention. “A girl I know from nursery school.”

“Oooh. Is she pretty?”

“Laura,” Derek warns, but as always is ignored.

“I guess,” Stiles shrugs. “I mean objectively she’s gorgeous, but I’ve known her for forever. We used to take baths together.”

Derek recognizes the look in Laura’s eyes, she’s thinking and that’s never good for him.

“Scott,” he hollers, “your friend’s here!” He shoves the last of the supplies into the back and slams the door without waiting to see if he was heard. He will leave without Laura if he has to. Stiles is going to a party where there will be girls and boys who are not Derek for him to annoy. He won’t be peppering Derek with questions and useless factoids about dogs all night and Derek will be able to maintain his relationship with the Sheriff unhindered. This is good. Things are the way they should be.
He absolutely doesn’t feel anything when he hears Laura call a muffled, “See you later, Stiles,” over the roar of the truck coming to life.

 

 

Derek meets the Sheriff at a park this time, hood pulled up as he tries to stay out of the light. There’s no one here but a couple of vagrants and Derek actually has some extra food tucked under his arm that he’d made when the Sheriff had let him know the location. One of the best parts of these meetings being so super-secret is there’s no one around to see Derek doing nice things. He’s worked very hard for many years to cultivate a specific persona and he’s well aware that even the smallest good deed could bring that all crashing down. People might actually start trying to talk to him. It would be terrible.

The Sheriff’s mouth ticks up in a small, knowing smile at the extra bag, but he doesn’t say anything. The Sheriff is a good guy in Derek’s book. He has no idea how such a stoic man could end up with a kid like Stiles.

“Double order of Duck Fat Fries and I threw in a bacon-wrapped sausage dog.” Derek feels a pang of guilt for giving the Sheriff something so certain to clog his arteries, which is weird. He’s never felt bad about the arrangement before, but then again he’d never been so close to Stiles before. Thoughts of Stiles bring with them an obvious flare of irritation and the guilt is gone when Derek hands over the bag, replaced with smug satisfaction The Sheriff is a grown man who should be able to eat what he wants unrestricted by nosy and obnoxious and infuriating , annoying little –

“Hale?”

Derek clears his throat and looks at his shoes, embarrassed at having gotten caught up in his thoughts in front of the Sheriff.

“You have a good night, Hale,” the Sheriff says, with an amused smirk. It’s like he knows Derek was thinking about someone, but obviously not who, otherwise Derek doubts he’d look so fond.

“You too, Sir,” Derek manages to mumble, desperately thankful for the dark as he feels his face flushing. He turns away quickly and steadfastly ignores the Sheriff watching him as he passes out the extra fries and corn dogs he brought.

 

 

“Derrrrek! Deeeerrrek! Hey Derekkkk!”

It’s twelve thirty and the truck has had a steady stream of customers since ten. Derek hasn’t moved away from the fryer for anything more than a drink of water in two and a half hours and he has been perfectly happy in his own little world that entire time. The way that little world shatters at the sound of Stiles slurring his name from the window is excruciating. If his heart skips a beat, it’s because he was in a groove and Stiles has efficiently ruined it with his mouth.

“Your boyfriend’s here, Der Bear,” Laura supplies helpfully and he turns just enough to glare at her and see that she’s not even acknowledging Stiles, actually has her back to him.

He knows Laura better than to rise to the bait and doesn’t waste time arguing with her, just raises an eyebrow and tilts his head at the window with intent.

Your boyfriend,” is all she says in return.

“Don’t we have other customers you could help then?” Derek asks, fighting to keep his patience. Laura looks over her shoulder and smiles.

“There seems to be a lull, how convenient. Hi, Stiles,” she drawls. “I thought you were going to a party.”

“We were. We came, we saw, we conquered, and now we’re here. Because food. Derek, I want curly fries! Derek, Derrrek, hey! Did you hear me?”

Derek grimaces and tries not to look, afraid he’s going to see Stiles trying to climb into the truck through the window. He’s not that far off. Stiles has his forearms resting on the counter, which means his feet are definitely not touching the ground. Looking is exactly the mistake Derek thought it would too, since as soon as Stiles realizes he’s got Derek’s attention, he lights up.

“Curly fries?” He asks with such blatant hope it’s ridiculous, and Derek could say no – it’s his truck and curly fries are not on the menu – but he can make them, it wouldn’t be that hard.. Stiles must see it in Derek’s face the second he caves, because he beams and makes to slap his open palms on the counter only to lose the leverage keeping him aloft. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”

Derek doesn’t shove Laura out of the way in order to get to the window, and he’s really quite proud of himself for that. He makes his way across the two feet width of the truck in a calm and dignified manner and rests his elbows on the counter right where Stiles’ had just been, and leans out to smirk at the splay of limbs on the asphalt. Stiles doesn’t look like he’s even trying to get up.

“Made you smile,” he mumbles, eyes only half open.

“I’m not smiling. Did you hit your head?”

“Nah, bruised tailbone and a damaged ego, nothing to worry about.” Stiles waves weakly, but the clacking of heels on the pavement distracts him. “Lydia, my lady love,” he murmurs, reaching for her and giving up halfway through even though she’s practically standing on top of him.

Derek freezes, face falling. The girl is mostly hair and high heels and she purses her lips disdainfully at Stiles before looking right at Derek.

“Churro, please,” she says with a tilt of her head and a tight, close-lipped smile. “Stiles is paying.” Then she steps over Stiles with way more grace than someone wearing heels that high should be able to manage and clacks away over to a blue car in which Derek can see two brown heads quickly ducking out of sight.

He feels a little bad that Scott seems to be afraid to come up to the truck, but Derek hasn’t taken back what he said about Allison and Scott hasn’t seemed interested in anything Derek’s had to say on the matter of Scott dating an Argent.

“My strawberry blonde goddess,” Stiles sighs from the ground, crossing his arms over his chest like he’s ready to die there. Derek ignores the confused, sympathetic look Laura shoots him and goes back to his potatoes. He’d change his mind about the curly fries but he’s already started.

Stiles eventually gets up and rattles off an entire list of items from Derek’s menu, not all of which can possibly be for him. He tries a few times to initiate conversation, but Derek resolutely ignores him and Laura’s pretending to be completely engaged in a game of Candy Crush on her phone, even though there’s no way she hasn’t run out of lives by the time the curly fries are done. The silence is awkwardly heavy so Derek just grunts when he slides the fries across the counter.

Stiles’ crestfallen look perks up a little at the food. “Hey, awesome, do I pay for these now or can I wait until the rest of the food is up?”

“These are on the house,” Derek mumbles.

“Seriously?” Stiles smiles, and his eyes seem to get bigger and his cheeks fucking dimple. “Do I get sauce? Can I have your creamy white sauce? It’s supposed to be the best.” Stiles asks, completely earnestly.

“Oh my god,” Laura gasps, giving up on the pretense of playing a game, and Derek chokes a little on his own spit when he tries to swallow.

“Only if you go away while I make the rest of your order,” he manages in between Laura unhelpfully thumping him on the back. Stiles’ smile doesn’t dim even a bit.

“Sure,” he says, sweeping his fries into the crook of his arm and balancing the containers of garlic parmesan mayo on top when Derek practically shoves them at him. “Thanks,
Derek.”

Stiles doesn’t even wait until he can put the fries down on a flat surface before he’s digging in, smothering the fries in sauce and then shoving so many in his mouth at once that the sauce drips down his chin in white rivulets.

“Holy shit,” Laura wheezes. “Is he doing it on purpose?”

When Stiles tries to use the heel of his hand to wipe the sauce away, only to end up with it smeared down his forearm, Derek finds himself gripping the steel counter so hard he actually thinks he hears it creak. When Stiles decides to use the flat of his tongue to clean his skin, licking up his arm in long, even strokes, Laura buries her face in her hands to muffle her cackles.

“No sauce for Stiles… ever again,” Derek grunts, then proceeds to bury his head in the freezer for a minute or five.

 

 

Derek’s working the brunch rush the next morning with a couple other line cooks, elbow deep in eggs and flour and cinnamon, when the kitchen door swings open. He assumes it’s Peter at first, but Peter doesn’t wear heels… at least not in public. It’s the redhead –Lydia - from the night before, hands on her hips and judgment plain on her face. Derek feels awkwardly naked as she eyes him up and down.

“What are you doing in here?”

“Giving my compliments to the chef,” she says lightly, hair bouncing as she tilts her head.

“Kay, get out.”

She looks less than impressed with him.

“You’re still here.”

“Mhmm.”

Why are you still here?” Derek is not easily intimidated, clearly Lydia isn’t either.

“I’m just making sure you’re up to par.”

“Up to par?” Derek drawls, one eyebrow raised. He was already irritated when he woke up this morning and this girl is making it ten times worse.

“Stiles was all about me for a very long time. Forgive me for wanting the new object of his affections to measure up. You pass… barely.”

To say Derek is confused would be oversimplifying things. From the way Stiles acted around this girl last night, Derek had assumed there was a relationship there, that all of Stiles’ flirting had just been the teasing of a hyperactive kid.

“Oh stop looking like I kicked your dog. My boyfriend is outside on the patio distracted with a stack of French toast. I have him well trained. Stiles falls hard but he’s over me,” she quips, tossing a curl over her shoulder like she can’t be bothered. “He’s been talking about you since Scott started working here.”

Derek’s gut twists. He is not relieved to know Stiles and Lydia are not together because he doesn’t care. Not even a little bit. Derek does not have time for kids with big mouths and moles and long fingers and… Lydia is smirking at him.

“Look, I’m sure Stiles is a sweet kid and all –“

Lydia twitches a finely plucked brow. “There is a long list of adjectives I would use to describe Stiles Stilinski but sweet is not one of them.” Derek’s silence doesn’t seem to impress her. “Scott and I kissed once in high school and Stiles handcuffed him to a radiator.”

Derek is impressed despite himself. That’s a pretty cold reaction even considering the circumstances. The cringe inducing clamor of several metal bowls hitting the floor interrupts them and Derek turns around to find Scott standing stiff and mortified at the door.

“Scott,” Lydia says shortly before turning her sharp gaze back on Derek. “Stiles is more than capable of handling you, Derek Hale,” she says, turning on a toe and flouncing back out to the restaurant.

“A radiator?” Derek shoots a look of disbelief at Scott, who flushes and bends quickly to pick up the bowls he dropped. “How long did he leave you there?”

“Few hours,” Scott mumbles at his knees. “He left me water in a dog bowl with my name on it.” Scott sounds miserable. It makes Derek’s heart feel light.

“That’s clever.”

“He’s my best friend, Derek. You can be mad at me all you want, but don’t fuck with him, okay? Lydia wasn’t lying when she said he falls hard.”

Derek honestly doesn’t know what to say to that. Stiles is infuriating and obnoxious and clever and loyal and Derek has plans to retire to a cave in the woods when he’s forty and never shave again.

“So, Chris banned you from seeing your girlfriend?”

Scott glowers and Derek cringes. That hadn’t come out exactly as he’d wanted.

“Don’t rub it in, Derek. I know you’re happy about it.”

“I- that’s not – I’m not happy…”

“Whatever, Derek,” Scott says glumly, stomping out of the kitchen and leaving the bowls behind.

Peter comes in a little later, humming to himself while he peels an apple with a small knife. It’s an unsettling image.

“I think you should make Scott sous chef,” Derek says.

“No,” Peter says without hesitating, pursing his lips around the vowel and drawing it out without even glancing at Derek.

“He can handle it, Peter.”

Peter looks at him then, eyes sharp. “He’s dating an Argent, Derek. I’m surprised he hasn’t burned the place down already on accident, he doesn’t need the added expertise.”

Derek growls low in his throat. It’s more of a frustrated gurgle than anything and Derek’s cheeks heat up at the smirk on Peter’s face. “The restaurant is a third mine. And I’m pretty sure Laura will side with me.”

“Fiiiine.” Peter rolls his eyes far more dramatically than necessary, to the point that his whole head moves with them. “You’re really going above and beyond just to get into the
best friend’s pants, nephew.”

“This isn’t about Stiles!” Derek hisses. Good thing he was already blushing.

“Of course it isn’t,” Peter drawls, turning away and tossing the apple peel over his shoulder, hitting the trash easily. “When this establishment goes belly up because that kid accidentally poisoned someone it will be on your shoulders. My conscience will be clean.”

“I’ll take that responsibility,” Derek says gravely. He knows Peter is rolling his eyes again by the full rotation of his head. The loud scoff really brings it home.

“Always the martyr, Derek. I would say it wouldn’t kill you to let yourself have something nice every once in a while, but in your case I’m not entirely sure that’s true since your last girlfriend tried to burn down the restaurant with you inside it. And this one is a cop’s son so he probably knows all the best ways to cover his tracks,” Peter says from the doorway with a put upon sigh, turning to look Derek up and down with faux sympathy. “Perhaps you should just trade those trucks of yours in for a few dozen cats and call it a day.”

Derek doesn’t have a comeback. Peter doesn’t even know how much money Derek already spends on cat food to feed neighborhood cats that aren’t even his. He settles for glaring at the back of Peter’s head as the man walks away, breathing angrily to the beat of Peter’s laughter echoing off the walls.

 

 

“That was nice, what you did for Scott,” Isaac says shyly as they’re mixing sauces in their kitchen. The words are quiet, like he knows Derek won’t react well to them. He’s let Isaac get too close. There’s a little smile ticking up the corner of Isaac’s mouth when Derek looks, even though Isaac is concentrating unnecessarily hard on stirring the ranch in his vat.

“I didn’t do anything for Scott.”

“No?”

No.”

“So Peter just promoted Scott on his own? That’s weird.”

“That’s what happened,” Derek says firmly.

“Okay,” Isaac says and his smirk gets a little bigger.

 

 

“Curly fries?” The Sheriff says when opens the bag, brows raised.

“Trying something new,” Derek grumbles, already walking off, leaving the Sheriff staring bemusedly after him. It’s only half a lie.

 

 

“Derrrrrek.”

“Are you stalking me,” Derek says deadpan, already grabbing a handful of the potatoes he had cut earlier, specifically to make the curly fries, and dropping them into the fryer.

“You wish.”

“I wish you’d leave me alone.”

Stiles sniffs the air exaggeratedly, tipping his head back to turn his already upturned nose up further. He looks like a fucking puppy and Derek has a sudden, stupid desire to kiss him. He shoves that desire down, very deep, where no one will find it. Stiles is the kind of kid who gets his cheeks pinched by old ladies. He’s adorable. Derek Hale doesn’t do adorable.

“I smell something burning,” he says seriously and Derek panics, whirling around to check that his truck isn’t on fire. “Oh my god! No! Holy shit, I meant your pants! Like your pants are on fire because you’re a liar because, oh my god, I’m just gonna stop myself before I make this any worse.”

“Should I take a picture to mark the occasion?” Derek’s heart is still hammering away at his ribcage but it’s slowing, enough that he even manages to smirk at the baffled look on Stiles’ face.

“Wha… What occasion- oh my god, you asshole! Hardy har, Stiles has no verbal filter, hilarious.” Stiles’ eyes are sparkling with humor though, so Derek isn’t worried that his feelings are hurt. The way his eyes light up when Derek pushes a basket of perfectly seasoned curly fries across the counter at him is even better though.

“So, it was cool of you to have Scott’s back like that,” Stiles says around a mouthful of potato, clearly taking advantage of the fact that Derek hasn’t told him to go away yet by eating right at the counter.

Laura picks that exact moment to come back from her break because Derek has none of the luck.

“What did you do for Scott, Derek?” She looks genuinely puzzled, like Derek’s never done a nice thing for anyone in his life.

“I didn’t do anything for Scott.”

“He got him made sous chef!” Stiles supplies helpfully. “He’s been on cloud fucking nine for the last week.”

Laura’s face crumples into the expression she gets when she watches The Notebook and Youtube videos of baby animals. “You convinced Peter?”

“No.”

“Your pants are burning again, Derek,” Stiles sing songs and Laura laughs and look like she’s thinking about hugging him. This is the point when Derek realizes he’s lost control of his life.

“I did not do anything for Scott,” he insists, enunciating each word.

“Course you didn’t, Big Guy,” Stiles says in his ear, nodding his head sympathetically at Derek’s denial. And before Derek can ask Stiles why he’s in the truck again, they’re both hugging him, boxing him in and squeezing.

“I know you feed the stray cats outside your apartment,” Laura whispers, voice dripping with fond emotion. “Isaac took pictures.”

Derek hangs his head as Stiles cackles.

 

 

“Dude, so I think Scott becoming sous chef has actually started to win Allison’s dad over,” Stiles says, kicking his feet against the cupboards beneath the counter he’s currently sitting on in Derek’s truck.

Derek hums noncommittally because he doesn’t care, and takes a swig of his beer while he works on getting the truck packed up so he can take it back to the restaurant. It’s getting on three in the morning and there’s nobody left around. Laura went home hours ago because as much as she’s gracious about helping Derek out, the truck is not her first priority. But Stiles hung around, just like he has the last three weeks and on more than just Fridays. It’s become so much of a habit by now that Derek doesn’t even grumble about it anymore, just pops open two beers and lets Stiles talk at him while he works. It’s oddly enjoyable.

“Yeah, it’s like he sees some sort of drive in Scott now that apparently he thought wasn’t there before. Which is stupid, because Scott may be lovably goofy, but he’s like super determined.”

“He’s still working at The Bite,” Derek says, just to throw a wrench into Stiles’ theory. That feud isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

“I think it might actually be more about the job than the location. Like, Argent just wants to make sure Scott has ambition or something. I guess he thinks now that Scott is sous chef, he might actually become head chef at some point. It’s not like you want to be head chef or anything. So there’s no reason why he couldn’t.”

Derek bristles for no reason. He has drive and ambition too. “I could be head chef tomorrow.”

Stiles just looks at him , eyebrows up and his mouth twisted into a lopsided smile. “Yeah, but you don’t want to,” he says like he gets it, like he understands that being head chef of your family’s restaurant isn’t the be all and end all for everyone. Something warm flutters up from Derek’s stomach and starts batting against his heart and he has to turn away and all but chug his beer to hide the blush he can feel spreading over his cheeks.

“Besides,” Stiles continues, “You couldn’t be head chef and still run the truck and then the entire town would lose. No more Duck Fat Fridays. I think Beacon Hills would revolt.
And my dad, Derek! Do you know how cranky he would be without his weekly allotment of cardiac arrest inducing goodness? Your fries are the only unhealthy food he’s allowed, Derek.”

Derek drops the bottle, just lets it hit the floor and shatter and he doesn’t even react. His mouth is wide open and his heart is pounding.

“You know?!” Derek thinks back to all the secret rendezvous he’s had with the Sheriff, tries to remember any mistakes he might have made, any slip ups that would tip Stiles off. But he can’t, he thought he’d been so sly.

Stiles is watching him with a fond smile, eyes crinkled at the corners and dimples peeking out and Derek is torn between hiding his own face forever and kissing Stiles’ all over.

“Derek, I was raised by basically the whole Sheriff’s department and I got my degree in Criminal Justice. I intend to be the best detective ever. Also, I do the laundry. I recognized the grease stains on my dad’s uniform like the day after I got home. The stains only appear after Friday and your trucks are almost always parked illegally and not a single ticket. I only had to follow you once. Everybody associates me with my Jeep, nobody ever suspects the kid on the bike. Oh my god, and don’t think I didn’t see you taking extra food for the homeless the last few times, Derek. You put up a good front, but I could tell you were just a big secret softie.”

Stiles kicks out a foot to nudge Derek in the ribs, but Derek catches it and wraps his fingers around Stiles’ ankle. Stiles’ mouth opens in a soft ‘O’ and Derek uses the moment of surprise to crowd in between Stiles’ thighs, using his grip on Stiles’ ankle to wrap that one leg around his own waist. A soft gust of breath hits Derek in the face when Stiles gasps and Derek pushes forward, catching Stiles’ lips in a kiss. He runs his free hand up under Stiles’ shirt, callused fingers catching on his skin and making him shiver as Derek runs his fingers all the way up to his shoulder blades.

“Holy shit,” Stiles pulls away to gasp, staring at Derek in awe. “That’s all it took? Me knowing about your illicit French fry affair with my father? Oh my god, if I’d known that I would have called you out forever ago! Like literally right when I figured it out.” Stiles flails, emphasizing his point with both arms, and beer sloshes out of his bottle. Derek takes the bottle from him and sets it somewhere on the counter before he reels him back in.

Stiles is still a little surprised, Derek can feel it in the way his lips stutter, but his fingers are twisted in Derek’s shirt, keeping him rooted in place. There are breathy little sounds escaping every time Derek lets him lean back for air even a little bit. Kissing Stiles is new, obviously he’s never done it before, but it feels right, like he should have been doing this a long time ago. And maybe that’s true. Stiles has been hanging around the truck for two months now, digging at Derek and getting under his skin. If they haven’t been dating this whole time, they’re definitely friends and Derek hasn’t been able to say that about a lot of people in his life.

Derek takes the hand that’s gripping Stiles’ calf, keeping that leg wrapped around Derek’s waist, and slides it up slowly over Stiles’ knee and the outside of this thigh. Stiles shivers and tries to tighten the vice grip his legs have on Derek’s hips, but Derek palms the inside of Stiles’ thigh just below his groin and forces Stiles to spread his legs, giving Derek an opening. He sinks to his knees and looks up and Stiles is staring down at him, flushing, lips parted and chest heaving and Derek honestly can’t say in this moment why he didn’t do this the first second he saw Stiles sauntering up to his truck.

“Are we gonna have sex now? Because I would be so, unbelievably, on board with that,” Stiles breathes, flushing deeper when Derek smirks. Stiles’ mouth is a double edged sword – sinfully soft but Derek never knows what’s going to come out of it.

Derek doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t use words as a defense like Stiles does. He’s more a man of action and unzipping Stile’s fly with his teeth seems to answer Stiles’ question pretty well.

“Oh my god. Hooooohhh my god.” Derek lets Stiles’ fingers find purchase in his hair. It feels good to have Stiles losing control like this before Derek’s even gotten him out of his pants. There’s a sense of satisfaction in Derek’s gut when Stiles’ eyes practically roll back in his head at the sight of Derek’s smile. “Not fair,” Stiles whispers. “You don’t know what it does to me when you smile.”

“I have an idea,” Derek mumbles. It can’t be any worse than the butterflies in his stomach every time he sees Stiles light up over something Derek’s said or done, like Derek’s something special, like they’re anywhere on the same level.

He didn’t mean for Stiles to hear it but just in case he did, Derek dives down before he can respond, wrapping his lips around the head of Stiles’ cock.

“Ohh shit. Oh what. Holy shit, Derek, oh my god.”

Derek wraps his fingers around the base of Stiles’ dick and squeezes, not tight enough to be painful but enough to have Stiles writhing and babbling on the countertop. Derek can only make out every other word, which seems to be some variation of his name. He squeezes Stiles’ cock again and runs his tongue under the head before dipping into the slit. He’s expecting the musky sweat taste of skin but not the surprisingly sweet taste of Stiles’ pre-come. Derek pops off in surprise and raises an eyebrow at Stiles, who looks confused at first and then adorably bashful as he slowly comes back to Earth and figures out why Derek’s stopped.

“Pineapple, Stiles?” Derek ventures and he almost melts at the way Stiles bites his bottom lip and looks at Derek with his eyes half lidded, lashes long and dark against his pale skin.

“Pineapples are good for you,” Stiles chirps, but the effect is ruined by the blush creeping steadily up from beneath his collar. Derek suddenly wants to see where it’s coming from, wants to see it covering Stiles’ entire chest, so he takes the hand still splayed against Stiles’ thigh and lays it flat against his belly, under his shirt, and shoves the cotton up so he can see that rosy flush spreading out in splotches over Stiles’ skin. It’s prettier than Derek even expected.

He brushes a fingertip over one nipple and Stiles all out shivers, a violent movement that has Derek grinning sharply before taking Stiles into his mouth again. He pinches that same nipple, fully prepared for the reactive buck of Stiles’ hips, driving his cock deeper into Derek’s mouth. Derek’s lips meet his fist where his fingers are still wrapped around Stiles. It’s not enough to make him gag, but it gets him salivating more so that spit dribbles over his fingers before he can slurp it up.

Derek feels his way across Stiles’ chest, closing his fingers around the other nipple and rolling the bud between them while he sucks enthusiastically, until Stiles becomes a wriggling incoherent mess of limbs. When Derek figures that taking his hands off Stiles will result in the boy sliding off the counter and onto the floor of the truck with a distinct lack of grace, he takes his mouth off again, ignores the pathetic whimpers of ‘Derek, what, why’ and stands, crowding Stiles back against the counter and kissing him again. Stiles doesn’t seem to mind the taste of himself on Derek’s tongue, judging by his eagerness to kiss back even if his coordination is still lacking.

Derek realizes with slight disappointment a few more minutes into their make out session that he only has two hands and if he wants to get his own pants undone he’s going to have to let go of Stiles somewhere. Taking his hand off Stiles’ cock doesn’t sound good at all, so he breaks the kiss and takes the handful of Stiles’ shirt he can get and pulls the hem up over his head, leaving all that creamy expanse of flushed skin still bared and Derek’s hand officially free. Stiles lets his head fall back and Derek happily latches onto the unmarked part of his neck between right above his collar bone.

It’s only a minor struggle to get himself free one-handed and when his pants are sagging around his thighs, Derek wastes no time manhandling Stiles down from the counter so that their cocks are aligned and Derek can wrap one hand around the both of them at the same time. Stiles is still spit-slick and Derek is already thrusting up into his hand with little unconscious movements of his hips. Stiles groans loudly then buries his face in Derek’s shoulder. His arms are wrapped tightly around Derek’s neck, holding on for dear life as Derek keeps pumping them. Stiles should be closer to coming, but Derek hasn’t been this turned on in years. He has no shame when he shoots first, come landing in white streaks across Stiles’ stomach and chest. Stiles follows right after with a muffled shout when Derek’s hand spasms with his orgasm and tightens around them.

“Oh my god, I think you killed me. I’m dead now. You’re gonna have to carry me out of here because I’m never moving again.”

Derek comes back to himself slowly, grinning against Stiles’ skin. He dimly remembers that there’s broken glass that will need cleaning up on the other side of the floor, but that unfortunate knowledge is entirely overshadowed by the afterglow of his orgasm and Stiles’ heart beating rabbit fast against his chest. He just had sex. With Stiles. In his truck. And it was the best decision he’s ever made.

“This is going to bring my health code rating down,” he laments, but it doesn’t bother him too much when Stiles starts shaking with laughter in his arms.

 

 

“So, it seems my son has taken a liking to you,” the Sheriff says conversationally as he roots through the bag Derek just handed him – Duck Fat Fries (curly again), zucchini because Stiles insisted his dad still eat one sort of almost healthy thing, a chipotle cheese corndog, and two churros.
Derek freezes, mouth half open, words caught in his throat. “Yes, sir,” he finally grunts after the Sheriff starts to give him the side eye.

The Sheriff pats his sidearm deliberately enough that Derek definitely sees it and swallows pretty audibly.

“Don’t worry, Hale, I’m not going to try to warn you off of him. We Stilinskis are stubborn by nature. When we fall in love it takes Heaven and Earth to make us fall out and sometimes even that isn’t enough,” the Sheriff’s face goes fond and a little sad. “You’re good people, Hale,” he says, snapping out of it. “Stiles could do a lot worse as far as I’m concerned. That being said, you tell him about our little arrangement here and, well…” He strokes his thumb along the holster at his hip and Derek gets the picture.

“You have a good night now, Hale. Oh, and you should stop by for dinner sometime this week. Stiles will probably make us eat fish,” the Sheriff says with a smile.

“Fish is good, I like fish,” Derek says as he gives the Sheriff an aborted attempt at a wave and doesn’t hesitate hightailing it back to his car. He hopes to hell the Sheriff can’t see Stiles’ head peeking up over the black metal of the door.

“Get down,” he hisses as he pulls the door open. “Your dad’s going to shoot me!”

“Nah,” Stiles says, though he does obey, resting his head on Derek’s thigh once he’s seated. “He’s all bark and shotgun weddings went out of fashion years ago. And he likes you. He said you’re good for me. Like, you’re calming, which whatever. I can be calm.”

“He’s not going to shoot me for dating you. He didn’t even care about that. He’s going to shoot me if he finds out you know about the French fries!”

“What? Daddy.” Stiles pouts and starts to sit up. “He didn’t say anything about my virtue?”

“Not a thing. Stay down!”

Fine. Then I guess there’s no point in trying to preserve what’s left of it, is there,” Stiles mutters to himself as Derek pulls away from the curb, undoing Derek’s fly with nimble fingers.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Derek grumbles through clenched teeth, but he makes no move to stop Stiles from pulling him out and sucking him in.

“Not for a long time,” Stiles says, pulling off but not going far, so that every word blows a gust of breath over Derek’s cock head. “I’m looking forward to free French fries for life.”

“Who says you get free fries for life?” Derek’s grip on the steering wheel gets tighter and tighter as Stiles just licks at him lazily.

“Boyfriend discount,” Stiles quips, and Derek can’t help but pull over so he can look down to see Stiles smirking up at him from beneath dark lashes and, well, he can’t argue with that.