#badinthelatin

He touches Derek on purpose. 

And, Derek was not born yesterday. He knows Stiles is trying to include him in the pack. He understands. But, it makes his skin tingle, and even when he knows Stiles is right behind him at the counter, he still jumps when Stiles places a hand on his back, or hip checks him when he’s joining in the cooking. 

Derek tries to gently let Stiles know that he already feels welcome, and comfortable in the pack. He tries sitting on the armchair instead of the couch— to discourage touching during movies— and yet, barely halfway through the movie he starts missing Stiles’ heat, Stiles’ constant leg jitters, Stiles whispering to him and elbowing him, paying attention to him. 

So, he can’t cut down on contact. He’s not a saint. He likes Stiles. For all that they went through in the beginning, for everything he said and all the threats, the empty words, he’s more than grateful Stiles stuck with him. He’s glad Scott’s an alpha, and that once again Derek has a pack he feels he belongs with. He’s allowed to relish it; he went through a lot. 

But, the god damn winking. 

Maybe he could encourage Stiles to cut that out. 

"You got a twitch?" he asks drily when Stiles winks at him from across the diner table they’re sitting at, not ten seconds after Derek’s had this little revelation. 

"Huh?" Stiles rubs his eyes, scowls, "No, I was— never mind," he sighs loudly and waves his free hand at the waitress. "Is it my turn?"

Derek shakes his head, pulling out his wallet, “No, you got the ice creams, last time.”

"It was worth every dime," Stiles declares, resting his chin in his hands and gazing at Derek with a dumb, dreamy look on his face. "I have never seen anyone enjoy vanilla ice cream so much, before.”

Derek yanks out a twenty and drops it on the table, “Shut up. That’s the flavor I like, and I will not be mocked for it.”

"Yeah, baby," Stiles cheers, pumps a fist in the air, "You celebrate your vanilla attitude. Although, you know,if you ever wanna go nuts and like… try chocolate, or mint, or hey," he snaps his fingers, "Lemon meringue! I’m in. You call me. Lemme shake some of that vanilla out of you."

And, then he winks at Derek again!

"We’re not coming here next time," Derek manages to say brusquely as he stands. "I’m cooking, and nobody will be having ice cream."

"Oh my god, you could not have made that sound less thrilling," Stiles teases, bounding out of the door and holding it open for Derek with a flourish. 

Derek tries not to trip when Stiles leans in too close as he follows him out into the parking lot.

He casually leaves him out an eye patch when Stiles arrives for dinner the next night. Instead of getting the message, however, Stiles wears it gleefully, makes Pirates of the Caribbean references all night. 

"What would you want with you if you got stuck on a desert island, though?" Stiles sits back on his chair when they’re finished eating and gives Derek a searching look— even through just the one damn eye. 

He’s got such nice eyes, too. Assessing, smart, sharp, but beautiful and warm, as well. Derek’s gotten lost in them, once in a while. It’s irritating as hell, and it’s dangerous when he’s driving, but sometimes the way Stiles looks at him…

Except for now, when he’s verging on tipsy from wine, and asking Derek ridiculous questions. 

Derek shrugs, clears his throat, “Tarp, matches, water, flares, hammer—”

"What?! Boring. You can’t pick sensible stuff!"

"No? Those are the things I’d need to survive—"

"You need me, then," Stiles interrupts with a smirk, wiggles his eyebrows at Derek. 

"I, what."

"Me," Stiles splays his hands out wide, "You’d need me, to survive, duh."

Derek begins to quietly panic. Does he know—

"I’m a little offended you didn’t pick me off the bat, to be honest," Stiles continues blithely. "I’d pick you."

"To take to a desert island," Derek confirms flatly. "Me."

"Yep," Stiles beams at him, "You could keep me warm a night, keep me active during the day. But, not too active, it being a desert and all. We’d have to keep it vanilla some days. But, that’d make you happy. ‘S’a’win win."

And, then he winks. Again. 

Derek feels his whole face heat up at the implication. They’d have sex all day on a desert island. Foolish, and they’d die of dehydration in no time, but whole days of sex with Stiles…

He shakes himself, frowns across at Stiles. 

"Are you— what are you—"

"I’m flirting with you, man," Stiles interrupts, sits forward on his chair and is suddenly very much closer to Derek. He smells like grass from the park, gun metal, cotton, red wine, and everything Derek’s been following around for years, wanted, craved, yearned for. 

"Me," he says stupidly. "You’re flirting with me."

"I thought this was—" Stiles gestures between them, at the nicely set table and then at Derek, in one of his nicer shirts. He only wears them when he’s with Stiles. Stiles has seen him covered in blood, and goo, mud and at one point, custard. But, Derek still feels the urge to dress up a little around him. He wants to look nice, wants Stiles to look at him… exactly the same way he’s always looked at him. 

"Oh."

"Dude," Stiles grimaces, begins to tug off the eye patch, "I thought you were on the same page, what with the jokes and the dinners and the paying like we’re on dates, oh my god. I thought you just needed time! I thoguht you were flirting back! This is what we’ve done. For years! I’m gonna—”

"Don’t!" Derek grabs his wrist, tugs until Stiles has no choice but to scrape his chair closer to Derek’s. 

"I like you," Derek breathes out, juts his chin at the eye patch. "Even when you’ve got that on. Even when you’re being a bossy little shit."

“‘M’not little,” Stiles mumbles. 

"But, you are bossy," Derek grins, leans in towards him, "And, I like you any way."

"Well, you’re vanilla," Stiles tries to argue.