#alphavenger

Scott pats his shoulder placatingly, and Stiles swats his hand away, mock-hurt. Some jock guy and his brainless lackeys pass them, laughing loudly and making stupid, inappropriate jokes. Stiles rolls his eyes so hard he can feel it in his toes, thrusts his basket at King Moron and says, “Take as many as you want.”

King Moron and his brainless friends caterwaul like they’ve just won a prize.

“Guys like you can never have enough condoms,” Stiles adds. King Moron looks way too proud of himself, not altogether a surprise that the meaning behind Stiles’ words completely blew past him, so Stiles opens his mouth to add a clarification when Scott shoves his elbow into his side again, hard.

When Stiles turns, yelping, Scott is glaring at him, shaking his head minutely. “Stop provoking,” he mouths while Stiles rubs the spot over his ribs.

He huffs, pulls the basket back from the guys’ greedy hands, and glares at everyone passing him out of spite while Scott continues cheerily handing out the rubbers. It’s kind of ridiculous too, considering the amount of girls and boys who stare and smile dreamily at his best friend, who turn bright red when Scott addresses them—and Stiles should not be getting jealous over not getting any attention from high school students.

“Stop flirting with minors,” Stiles snaps, having watched Scott talking to a girl for five minutes. She flushes to the hairline, almost the same, bright hue Stiles turns when he’s embarrassed, and Scott looks frantic and scared suddenly.

“I’m not—I wasn’t—Stiles!” He casts a furtive glance over his shoulder.

Stiles follows Scott’s eyes and gets stuck on the hottest piece of manflesh he has ever laid his eyes upon. Tall, dark and handsome doesn’t even begin to cover it, this guy is like a Greek god and a GQ model all at once. Stiles isn’t sure someone looking like that wasn’t cultivated in some lab. Greek God GQ Model has a jawline to end all jawlines, a meticulously trimmed beard, a set of strong-gamed eyebrows, and—Lord save him—is dressed in a police uniform, and god, Stiles wants to get all up in that in all the ways possible.

He’s standing close enough that Stiles can hear him talk; he’s speaking to a teacher, and his voice is calm and softer than Stiles would’ve guessed. When GGGM looks up, his eyes meet Stiles’ for a moment, and this, Stiles is sure, is it: from this point onward, nothing in life will ever be as bright, because nothing is as beautifully radiant as GGGM. Or something like that.

Stiles grabs Scott’s arm and holds onto it like it’s a lifebelt, eyes fixed on the cop. “Scott,” Stiles whispers, awed. “I have seen the face of God.”

Scott grabs his chin, turns his head so Stiles faces him, and says, “No,” very stern, in the same tone he tells his very own puppy to drop Scott’s shoe.

“Yes,” Stiles breathes, tries to twist his head to look at GGGM again, unable to help himself.

Scott tweaks his nipple, in the painful way, not the sexy way, and Stiles yelps again, covers his chest; suddenly back on earth. “You’re such a creep sometimes,” Scott tells him. “Stop being a creep.”

Stiles huffs again, manages to tear his eyes away from GGGM, and continues handing out condoms. Condoms he could hoard for himself for all the crazy hot sex he could be having with GGGM. It’s a waste, really.

He picks out a foil, considers it for a moment, before he pockets it, for later.

They’re done half an hour later, Scott collecting their stuff and getting it back into the car, when Stiles pulls out the rubber, scribbles his number with black sharpie over the foil. He’s done just as GGGM is done talking with the teacher, and walks towards the gate, where Stiles is trying to linger inconspicuously. Scott is already rolling his eyes, because he’s full of shit begrudges Stiles having a sex life, apparently.

“Please tell me you’re not gonna proposition a cop,” he says while Stiles dreamily stares at GGGM. “Stiles. If your dad knew about this—”

“Suck it up Scott.”

“I’m not staying for this,” Scott threatens. “If you get your ass thrown into jail for this, I’m not going to come to bail you out.”

“M-hm.”

It’s hard to focus on Scott’s kitten-anger when GGGM is walking towards Stiles, looking at him, and—those eyes should come with a warning.

“I’m leaving,” Scott says.

“Yeah, buddy, see you later.”

From the corner of his eye, Stiles sees his best friend roll his entire body before he gets into the car and drives off. Stiles doesn’t find it in him to be offended, or angry, or anything but being mildly aroused already.

“Your friend just drove off,” GGGM tells him, stepping up next to Stiles. From up close, GGGM’s glory is almost unbearable.

“Yeah,” Stiles says faintly, mesmerized by the specks of gold in the guy’s eyes.

“You need a ride?” GGGM asks, softly, with the barest hint of a smile. Stiles trips, standing, over absolutely nothing. But that, and the ambivalent meaning of GGGM’s words, make him snap back into himself.

Stiles smirks. “Sure,” he says, holds out the condom to GGGM. “It’s all about protect and serve, right?”

GGGM stares at him blankly, eyes flitting down to the condom, and up again. There’s a look on his face like he isn’t sure if he should arrest Stiles on the spot, or—

~

Stiles tilts his phone away from the early morning sunlight that’s filtering into the room, soft noises of traffic drifting in through the open window.

Do I have to come to get you out of jail? Scott’s text reads.

Nope, Stiles answers, grinning, as Derek shuffles, sits up behind him. Stiles leans back against his bare chest, sheets bunching around their hips, and Derek places a kiss on his shoulder. Do you have some condoms left from yesterday?

Derek huffs a laugh against his shoulder, having read along as Stiles typed in the text. “How about we go get some breakfast first?” he asks.

"You’re a pain in my ass."

"For my sake, please stop moping," she says with a roll of her eyes, drops down next to him onto the couch. "Just call him, ask him about college, how he’s been, be casual and pay attention, and then ask him out."

Derek shoots her a look. “This—I’m not moping,” he answers; frowns, when Laura slumps against the backrest and runs both hands down her face. “It was a one-time thing. He’s in college, probably humping everything with a pulse.”

Laura groans faintly from where she’s sprawled out, like she’s in pain, and Derek whacks her thigh.

"There’s nothing one-time about you and Stiles," she argues as she turns her head to look at him, eyebrows in judgy creases. "You’ve been eye-fucking each other for months before he left."

"We di—"

"You were both just too chicken or too obtuse to do anything about it," she continues, undeterred. "It’s like, the only people who didn’t know you were in love, were you and Stiles. It caused me actual, physical pain. Still does, to be honest."

Derek glares at her, but she only flicks his nose. “You freaked after it happened, and Stiles left for college, and I bet he’s been angsting over it, because you never texted him again, and you’ve been moping, because he didn’t text you, because both of you are giant morons who can’t get your heads out of your asses. You could be living your Happy Ever After right now if you stopped being such a weenie.”

"Well, if he wants m—this," Derek starts, fiddles with his own fingers just to avoid looking at Laura. "Then why did he just disappear after we had—after I—after? And never bothered to contact me again?"

When he looks up at her again, she’s staring at him like he’s the single most idiotic person in the entire galaxy.

"He freaked, too, obviously. Look, Derek, I don’t know what exactly is going on in both your pea-sized brains, or what reasoning both of you came up with as not to talk to each other; it’s this whole male phenomenon that I don’t understand, seeing as every guy always makes things more complicated than they are when it’s actually easy. What I do know is that Stiles was, and probably still is, just as crazy about you as you are about him. Knowing him, that picture was his weird attempt at starting up communication again, so now it’s your turn. Make it count."

She pats him on the knee before getting up and returning to whatever she was doing before. Derek scowls after her and spends the next hour debating with himself if he should answer or not. It’s been a couple of days since he got Stiles’ message, so Stiles has probably given up on waiting for a response. Strangely, it’s that thought, the mere possibility that this lack of answer might get Stiles to move on—if he didn’t already—that makes Derek reply.

You sent me a picture of curly fries with no explanation attached. This is the first time you’ve texted me in two months. Care to elaborate?

He panics right after he sends it, thinks it might sound rude or annoyed, so he writes, Please.

It doesn’t satisfy his building hysteria, though, Stiles will probably read this wrong; come to the conclusion Derek doesn’t care either way.

I mean, I’m glad you texted me, I’m just confused. I don’t know what it means. What does it mean?

Stiles, what does it mean?

He wait, and waits, and waits, but the answer never comes.

Five days later, Derek checks his phone to find a message from Stiles. His pulse sky-rockets, heart stumbling, and he’s almost too afraid to open it. 

I chickened out, it reads. I wanted to ask you if you wanted to have curly fries with me, but then I chickened out, but I’d already sent you the picture, and then you didn’t reply which made me think you thought I was a weirdo not worth your time after—what happened, and I had to lie down when you answered.

Derek can feel his grin almost split his face in half, straining his facial muscles so hard it hurts. His heart definitely skips a beat this time. Stiles asking to get curly fries together is basically a love declaration.

Ask me again.

Do you want to go get some curly fries with me?