Chapter Text
It wasn’t that bad, alright. Stiles knows it wasn’t. He can tolerate being a trophy boyfriend every once in a while in front of some pestering strangers. If only that was the only problem.
He lets Mr. Hale know the next day that he’s in. Their work proceeds as usual without any further appearances from Ms. Wilfred. And Stiles figures, hell, that might just have been the last of it. No more run-ins meant Ms. Wilfred finally gave up, and this whole thing might actually be foolproof. Not too bad of a start, Stiles would think. Obviously, the next encounter would have him more experienced with the whole thing. Right?
Their court appearance happens to be a 3 hour dispute resolution between two clients. Stiles appears alongside Mr. Hale with all the files, documents, numbers, and the like necessary to proceed seamlessly.
They’re in the elevator when Stiles’ nerves reach the surface. The typical tremor in his hands, jittery fingers scratching at his neck and chest, fidgeting with his tie, all keep his hands busy. It’d be subtle to everyone around him, probably, but not Mr. Hale.
Beside him, the older man, as composed as ever, suggests, “You can wait outside if it comforts you.”
“N—no,” Stiles responds with a quiet resolve, “I want to be there. I want to see.” Even if it kills him. He likes this field, that’s why he went to school for 7 years for it. His fear is a part of the learning process. He just has to ride it out.
Mr. Hale eyes him, likely trying to assess if the fidgeting younger male is in fact okay. He might see through Stiles’ barely standing resolve, but he doesn’t judge or criticize. He speaks again when they enter the long hallways lined by doors and cushioned seats outside of every room.
“Your work is good, Stiles.” He looks ahead, “You should be very proud.”
Stiles lets those words reside in the quiet for a couple moments. It’s high praise from Mr. Hale, considering his most overt indications of approval are a nod, or a simple, ‘good.’
“Thanks, sir.” He clears his throat. “You’re—you know—also not too bad yourself.”
Mr. Hale raises an eyebrow. He’s way too expressive for someone with the most stoic, uncompromising resting face, and no, Stiles isn’t used to it yet.
“C’mon, you know I’m teasing.” He says while the elevator doors open.
The taller man lets him walk out first. He hums, “You could use a little discipline.”
Stiles closes his eyes trying to suppress the images that pop up in his head about all the different ways that could play out. Definitely not what Derek was implying with that quip.
He grumbles, “And you could use a little humour, Mr. Hale.”
They pass through the long corridor in search of their designated courtroom. Derek is an unrelenting presence beside him.
“Is that so?” His voice is lowered, but the amusement is still noticeable.
“Yeah, and if you’re taking further suggestions—”
“Derek Hale,” A silver-haired older man stops in front of them just before the two men reach their door where their client is presumably entering soon. He extends a hand to Mr. Hale cheerily, like they’re old friends, and Stiles is immediately skeptical. Derek Hale doesn’t have close friends, let alone amicable relations with acquaintances.
Nonetheless, he shakes the man’s hand with half the eagerness of the elder before them. Stiles’ eyes follow the movement, the shiny black watch on Derek’s wrist is only just visible under his suit sleeves. It’s thick, flashy, dark just like the man donning it. The stranger’s hand doesn’t look nearly as confident, well, neither does the rest of him really.
Stiles is nudged slightly by Mr. Hale, and it takes a second to reintegrate into the conversation he’d forgotten to listen in on.
“Huh?” He blurts. Both of the dudes are watching him.
“I asked, and you are?”
“Oh! Hi, Stiles. I’m Stiles Stilinski.” He gives his hand out, briefly eyeing Derek to gauge how he’s doing so far. No life-ending mistakes so far. “I work with De—Mr. Hale.”
And apparently, that’s enough to get them moving onto the next topic. At least, for a couple seconds before the silver-haired man—Neil Solbach— is inviting Derek over for dinner this week. Which would be harmless in any other circumstance if it wasn’t Derek Hale. But, by the looks of it, the guy would rather attend a funeral than accompany Neil and his wife for… just about anything. Weird, Stiles thinks. He doesn’t seem that bad, although Stiles can’t say he’s been paying much attention.
There’s a lot of back and forth between the two lawyers. Derek insists he’s busy, Neil insists he’s not, Derek brings up the cases he’s working on, Neil swivels back to the invitation. Exhausting and tedious it is, until all of a sudden Stiles is dragged into it.
“The truth is,” Mr. Hale sighs. “I’ve promised my partner the weekend to celebrate our… anniversary.”
A hesitant arm is slowly making its way around Stiles. He assumes his position as said ‘partner’ after picking his jaw up off the floor.
“Ye—yes, right.” Stiles gulps, holding on to the hand around his side. “You did promise… that. My… Shnookums.”
Derek’s eyebrows do a thing in response. His grip tightens, and Stiles is close enough to smell the faint cologne on his collar. It seems like they still haven’t quite got the hang of acting authentically in love. Fuck, where’s his arm supposed to go again?
Neil hides the emerging disgust from his face, and remembers who he’s speaking to. His smile is twitchy and anything but genuine. “Oh, I see. So you two are…”
He doesn’t finish, but when his eyes land on Stiles again, he’s assessing every inch of him. “Well, good for you.” He’s not speaking to Stiles though, not at all. “He’s certainly a looker.” And it’s probably at that moment, or a second later when Neil winks, that Stiles decides this guy’s entirely a creep.
Derek’s hand moves lower on Stiles’ back, loosened grip replaced by something more rigid. He’s gritting his teeth beneath that clenched jaw. Some serious signs of displeasure towards some seemingly harmless, if annoying old man.
“I’d be cautious moving forward, Mr. Solbach.” Mr. Hale doesn’t pull any punches. He’s definitely expressing some kind of displeasure, which Neil instantly recognizes as a warning.
He clears his throat, and avoids further eye contact with Hale. He mumbles an apology before parting ways. Although Stiles can still feel his gaze on them even as he walks down the corridor.
“Dude, what gives?” Stiles tries to keep his voice down, unsure if Neil Solbach is still in earshot or not. “I mean, the guy’s a creep but… he wasn’t like a raging asshole or anything.”
Derek is still glancing at something behind Stiles, Neil’s retreating form likely, and his eyebrows look suddenly far more bushy and intense. “Kiss me.”
“What?” Stiles guffaws. “Wh—”
But apparently Derek’s serious as always. “He’s watching.”
“Fuck.” Stiles whispers. Solbach apparently wasn’t convinced of the legitimacy of their relationship. He can already imagine the guy sprinting back down the hall to get Derek alone, kickstarting the pestering all over again.
In a split decision he grabs Derek’s collar and pulls the brute down within reach. Immediately that faint cologne fills his head again, and Stiles is kissing Derek Hale on the lips.
Derek lets out a shocked, short hum, but nonetheless goes along with it. He pulls the shorter male into him, and ducks down lower for better access to Stiles’ lips. They shouldn’t slot together so well, considering this is both for show, and the first time they’ve come close to such physical contact. Nonetheless, Stiles’ parted mouth is complimented far too well by Derek’s lips and the surrounding stubble. It makes the hair on his arms stand up. It would only take a deeper exploration of the man’s mouth to feel the heat and tongue hidden beneath.
He backs away slowly, breathing in heavily even when the kiss only lasted a couple seconds. It’s difficult making eye contact with Mr. Hale, but when he does, the man is looking at Stiles’ lips.
“What?” Stiles blurts. He definitely hasn’t processed in whole what he’s just done.
Derek, on the other hand, flicks back up to Stiles’ eyes with a barely open mouth. The edge of it is upturned, despite the rest of his face indicating an almost confused, yet enamoured look.
“What?” Stiles asks again, slowly getting his breath back to even. “Did he not see it?”
That taller man straightens up, suddenly remembering why the whole thing had even happened. He looks back down the corridor with a satisfied expression. Perhaps Solbach finally got the message to fuck off. “He saw.”
That’s a relief. “Okay—great—good. W—what’s the problem?” His face feels aflame.
Derek hides the grain of amusement beneath the surface. He surveys Stiles’ lips once again, and says, “I’d meant on the cheek.”
After that point, Stiles wandered into the room with the client barely conscious of any following conversations that had proceeded. There were more pressing matters to think over, and dwell on, and evaluate over and over again while descending into a mindless spiral of insanity. Like the way Stiles was tripping over his feet to make it to the room where the client was, or perhaps the seconds before that when his face went hot pink from embarrassment because he’d kissed his boss on the lips instead of on the cheek.
Yeah, that sounds about right. Kill him now.