Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stiles wrapped his arms around his chest tighter, trying to keep what little warmth his thin winter jacket allowed. It had grown colder in the city recently, the weather aligning with the more insane occurrences as of late. He desperately needed to invest in a warmer jacket if the weather was going to continue growing colder.

Stiles turned to look into the restaurant, seeing Mr. Hale sitting at one of the exclusive tables in the restaurant. He released an annoyed huff when he noticed that the maître d’ was making sure that someone kept an eye on him. He saw how annoyed the maître d’ looked when Stiles asked to get into the restaurant to speak with Mr. Hale.

It didn’t matter that Stiles had his company’s identification on him. Nobody looking like Stiles was going to be allowed into a restaurant as private as Les Nomades to see someone like Mr. Hale.

Stiles’ phone buzzed again with a final text from Lydia, informing him that they were all heading home. He wanted to cry, but knew that it wouldn’t help his situation in the slightest. He bit back his tears, typing a quick text in response, apologizing for everything.

It’s not like Stiles had planned on standing out in the cold because Harris forgot to give an important file to Derek Hale. It’s not like Stiles planned to spend his birthday outside in the cold.

Another half hour passed before Mr. Hale finally stood from the table, offering out the young woman’s coat for her to put on. Even from afar, Derek appeared to be a gentleman.

Warmth flashed briefly in Stiles’ stomach, recalling just how disarming that man’s smile could be, even without such a powerful name attached.

Stiles met Mr. Hale earlier this month, the office being a hectic place. He ran around, trying to get the paperwork filed, snatching up Harris’ mail and grabbing coffee for him. Everything shattered when Stiles turned around and was slammed into by someone not paying attention to where they were going.

“No!” Stiles uttered in annoyance, ignoring the burn of the coffee that was now staining his shirt as he desperately tried to stop the mail from being stained. “Doesn’t anyone in this office watch where they are going?” He angrily stated. He supposed he was grateful that the coffee was no longer scorching.

“I wouldn’t know,” a masculine voice answered. A hand came into Stiles’ view, offering a stain free letter to Stiles.

Stiles looked up through his glasses, ready to tell the person off when he saw it was someone he hadn’t met before. Someone who was too gorgeous for his own good, and was covered in just as much coffee as Stiles was.

“Sorry,” Stiles apologized, taking the offered letter to place with the ones that were still dry. He wiped the coffee away with his hand on one of the letter, releasing a sigh. “I’m going to get fired.” He tried to sound more dejected than angry–it wasn’t like this perfect stranger knew what he was doing when Stiles walked into him.

“Seems a bit drastic to fire someone over spilt coffee,” the man replied. “Coffee that you didn’t even spill technically.”

“I was holding it,” Stiles replied with a frown.

“I walked into you,” the man corrected. “I’m not one to admit first off that I have no idea where I am or what I’m doing, but I’ll swallow my pride to admit it right now.”

“You’re the first person I’ve met in this office who is willing to do that,” Stiles answered.

The man smiled a bit, looking amused at Stiles’ straight forward nature. “Is there a reason for the chaos?” He asked as he helped Stiles to stand with the rest of the mail, ruined coffee cups cast into the community waste bin.

“Derek Hale,” Stiles informed him, using what was left of his napkins to dab away the wetness of his shirt.

“Oh,” the stranger commented, a tinge of sadness in his tone.

“I’ve personally never met the guy,” Stiles added. “I grew up here, but I sometimes forget about all the worshiping done over the Hales.”

“Worship?” The man curiously asked, arching an eyebrow.

Stiles wanted to try poking his eyebrow, curious if it was indeed as real as the judgmental nature it projected when furrowed into an arch like that. And then he remembered himself. “Hale Enterprises,” he explained. “It’s the biggest company imaginable. Derek owns a majority of the stocks, making him more than just the CEO after his parents died.”

The stranger evaluated Stiles, a curiousness pulling at his expression. “You know a lot about him?”

“That’s kind of my job to collect the gossip,” Stiles offered. “My boss is trying to broker a deal with him today. Which, in my opinion, if Derek is as smart as he pretends he’s not, he’ll renegotiate.” He busied himself with drying his shirt. “The man has an Ivy League education, and people still think that he isn’t as smart as his mother was.”

The man’s gaze evaluated Stiles for a prolonged moment. “You seem to be the only one who has that opinion about him,” the man offered, watching Stiles’ motions. “Most think that he’s just a bachelor who lucked out.”

“Oh, I’ve heard he’s a pretty face,” Stiles commented as he nodded his head. “But I know that a pretty face and a bright brain aren’t exclusive traits—my friend Lydia is a testament to that.”

“A pretty face?” The man asked, sounding amused more than anything.

“Well, apparently he’s pretty scary,” Stiles mended his previous comment. “People are all in a tizzy because they want to appease him. But money and terror only get you so far, right? Which means that he has to have some form of good looks.”

“You haven’t seen a picture of him, have you?” The man amusingly asked.

Stiles looked at the stranger. “No,” he slowly stated, feeling slightly uneasy all of the sudden. He hadn’t had the time to do the amount of research he would have liked to on the Hales. He was too busy trying to fix all the mistakes in the pitch before Harris realized he would look like a moron going to Mr. Hale with such a preposterous proposal. “Despite being the Prince of Beacon, he is pretty exclusive when it comes to photos being taken of him. Though I’m sure there is more than one paparazzi storm I could probably find.”

The man nodded. “He’s not that good looking.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Stiles added, collecting what was left of the mail. His stomach was uneasy as he observed the man’s equally stained suit. “Look, I feel terrible about all this,” he gestured towards the coffee stains on both their clothes. “Maybe send me the bill or something? It would be the least I could do.”

A faint amusement pulled at the man’s features. “It’s not even that nice of a suit.”

“You sure?” Stiles hesitantly asked. He might not be an expert when it comes to fashion, but he was positive the suit cost more than his monthly paycheck. Stiles would kill to have a suit that looked that good—and he just ruined this guy’s.

“I’m not very fond of it,” the man partially shrugged.

“Like I said,” Stiles pressed. “I feel bad. There’s got to be something I can do.”

The man paused, turning to look at the clock. “Have time for a coffee?”

And that was how Stiles lost track of time, for once ignoring the clock as he found himself enjoying the stranger's company as they spoke over coffee. It wasn’t until his phone was buzzing with a call from Harris that he realized he was late to the meeting with Mr. Hale.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles apologized, trying to keep his ears from ringing with shame as Harris yelled at him. “There was an accident and I—” He bit his tongue. “No, sir. No, I’m not in the Emergency Room.” He turned away from the stranger out of embarrassment.

Yes, he had to grovel. And yes, it was pathetic.

Stiles avoided eye contact as he allowed Harris to continue yelling at him. He silently hung up the phone, quickly putting it away in his messenger bag. He forced himself to look up at the man. “I’m sorry, but I need to go. My boss—he’s kind of on edge. Big meeting with the Prince of Beacon.”

The man looked displeased as he stood, following Stiles’ movements. “Doesn’t mean he should treat you like that.”

“He treats me like this all the time, actually,” Stiles admitted offhand, grabbing his coat and preparing to run for the door. They were just across the street, which meant it wouldn’t be that long of a dash. He could make the meeting before too long passed.

“Let me explain what happened,” the man started, moving to follow after Stiles.

“No, really,” Stiles pressed, stumbling to his feet. He knew that it would just be seen as him making excuses for his failures. He didn’t need that thrown in his face. He hurriedly collected his things, needlessly lingering as he thought about giving the guy his number—he just wasn’t sure if the guy thought this to be an impromptu date, like he had. He didn’t want to get his hopes up again.

“I’m sorry. Thank you for the coffee though. This was … nice,” Stiles allowed his smile to linger on his way to the door. “I wish it could have been longer.”

Stiles rushed across the street, not even flinching when a car angrily beeped at him for getting in their way. If he didn’t hurry and get to the top floor soon, he was going to be dead anyways. He stumbled into the elevator, releasing a heavy breath when he realized he made it. He ruffled through his bag, searching for his folder for the Hale meeting. His stomach unraveled when he discovered that the folder was missing from his bag. He looked up, ready to run out of the elevator when he saw the folder being presented into his vision. He stared up, coming face to face with his mystery savior for the day.

“I figured you’d need these,” the man answered, a soft smile on his lips as he allowed the elevator doors to close behind him.

“You keep being in the right place at the right time,” Stiles commented as he accepted the folder with a matching smile.

“The least I could do for spilling coffee on you,” the man stated.

“Look,” Stiles sighed, his eyes tracking the numbers lighting up as the elevator ascended more floors. “I appreciate this, but in all sincerity, if my boss sees you and hears some story about why I’m late because of spilled coffee, then I’m going to get fired really fast.”

The man slowly furrowed his eyebrows. “He’d fire you for that?”

“He tolerates me because I’m the hardest worker he has,” Stiles offered.

“I have a feeling he’ll tolerate me as well,” the man offered, a secretly amused smile pulling across his features.

Stiles opened his mouth to protest, silenced by the ding of the elevator opening.

“Stiles,” one of his coworkers quickly addressed him. The coworker stuttered to a stop, staring at the man next to Stiles. “Um, Harris wants to see you in his office, but that was before—”

“Stilinski!” Harris’ voice snapped from inside the board meeting room. “Get in here.”

Stiles partially winced, rushing out of the elevator and heading for the meeting room. “Sir, I’m sorry—”

“The hell do you think you were doing?” Harris demanded, slamming some of the files down on the table. “This is the biggest meeting concerning this company’s future, and you choose today of all days to be yourself.”

“I’m sorry, but—”

“I’ve had enough of your excuses, Stilinski,” Harris harshly snapped. “Do you honestly think that— Mr. Hale.” His features paled as he stared at the man next to Stiles.

Stiles turned around, ready to see Mr. Hale lingering behind him, no doubt annoyed and unimpressed by the display before him. But the only person Stiles saw was his stranger–his knight in expensively tailored clothes. He stared at the stranger, unable to break their shared gaze.

“Mr. Hale, we didn’t know you’d be here so soon,” Harris started, his tone much more welcoming than when addressing Stiles.

“Mr. Stilinski kept me company,” the stranger stated, his eyes finally shifting to land on Harris, an unpleasant expression taking over his previously warm smile. “You’re lucky to have an employee like him.”

Realization fell over Stiles like a bucket of cold water. He had not only dumped coffee on Derek Hale, owner of Hale Enterprises and the wealthiest man in this hemisphere, but he also managed to talk poorly about his public image and Harris all in one foul swoop of eliminating his career path.

Stiles had never been the praying type, but he seriously started to consider it.

“Would you like a coffee?” Harris stumbled.

Derek allowed his gaze to slide to Stiles, a warmth in his eyes as he answered, “I’m good.”

Stiles wanted the building to swallow him whole, burying him in the ground floor where he desperately wanted to remain.

Instead, Stiles elected to sit in the corner of the meeting room, staring down at his notepad. He annotated what he could, trying to keep from staring at Derek, and hoping his cheeks would cease being scarlet.

“I would like to speak with Mr. Stilinski alone,” Mr. Hale informed Harris as he remained seated, not bothering to follow the others in standing now that the meeting had adjourned.

Stiles looked up from his notepad, looking at those present who were allotted seats at the table. He didn’t realize they had basically reached the end of the pitch, and now people were staring at him. He awkwardly shifted, knowing that he was more than likely going to be fired by Mr. Hale.

“Of course, Mr. Hale,” Harris answered, gesturing for Stiles to stay in the room.

Stiles slowly moved to sit at the now vacant table, placing his notepad beside him, frowning some as he waited for the others to leave. He looked from Mr. Hale to the door, uncertain what to do. “I just ask that if you have me fired, Mr. Hale, you wait until I get another job lined up.”

“You don’t have to worry, Stiles,” Mr. Hale reassuringly stated. “And it’s Derek, if you don’t mind.”

“If I don’t have to worry, then why did you want to speak with me?” Stiles questioned, arching his eyebrow at Derek.

“I wanted to apologize,” Derek started to explain. “I never meant to keep my identity from you. But it was refreshing to hear the truth for once. Most people … they aren’t honest with me.” He carefully observed Stiles before adding, “It was …”

“Amusing?” Stiles offered with a faint touch of annoyance in his tone.

“I was going to say nice,” Derek countered.

Stiles faintly nodded at that. “I guess I can appreciate that.”

Derek continued to stare at Stiles, as if completely mesmerized by him. “Were you telling the truth about Harris?”

Stiles released a half sigh. “Yes,” he reluctantly answered, knowing that his future career was likely being destroyed.

Derek nodded, moving to stand up. He buttoned his jacket, releasing a heavy sigh. “I appreciate the honesty, Stiles. There aren’t many people I can trust, and I value honesty.”

“And now you’re going to have me fired,” Stiles dejectedly uttered under his breath..

Derek looked at Stiles. “On the contrary,” he answered, correctly Stiles’ assumption. “I want you to be present at all meetings as I deal with Harris.”

Stiles stared at Derek. “You can’t be serious,” he almost mumbled.

Derek arched his eyebrow at Stiles. “I’m not known for my stellar sense of humor, Stiles.”

Stiles looked at Derek. “Is this pity?”

“It’s good business,” Derek replied.

Stiles faintly nodded, thankful that he at least had his job for another day now. “To be fair, Harris thinks all I do is make coffee.”

Derek faintly smiled. “Is it any good?”

Stiles snorted, “I get it from the coffee shop.”

Derek laughed, pleasantly amused by Stiles’ resourcefulness.

"Stiles?" Derek's voice curiously called Stiles' name, pulling the man out of his own thoughts.

Stiles looked up at Derek, surprised to see that the man was leaving the restaurant. He tried not to look at the woman beside him.

Derek was in the process of shuffling his winter jacket onto his shoulders. He looked bewildered at seeing Stiles.

Stiles startled into action, stumbling some as he tried to get the USB drive out of his pocket. He tried to force down the shiver of his hands as he approached Derek. "I didn't mean to bother you, Mr. Hale," he started, part of him annoyed that he was apologizing for something that wasn't his fault. "Harris forgot to give you this file." He offered up the USB drive.

"How long have you been out here?" Derek asked, his tone a little on edge.

Stiles flinched some. "I wasn't following you or something," he sharply answered, his anger at the night finally tipping. “Your office told me where you were.” He knew it wasn't Derek's fault if he thought Stiles as another crazy obsessive groupie.

"Derek, can we go?" The woman asked as she hovered close to the open car door.

"In a second, Cora," Derek stated in an annoyed tone.

"Talk to your booty call some other time," Cora answered in equal sass. "Or get a restraining order to keep him from following you."

Stiles turned a glare at the woman. "It wasn’t my plan to spend my birthday out in the freezing cold, waiting for the billionaire playboy to finish his overpriced dinner, just so I can run a stupid errand my boss sent me on," Stiles shoved the USB into Derek's hand, storming his way back to the train as he pretended he wasn't wiping angry tears from his eyes.

~*~

Stiles lingered at the station, watching the clock tick down to when the transit was expected. He pretended to not notice the goons down the station, knowing that they were vandalizing the rest of the area.

You turned your head in Beacon when things like that happened, unknowing of what gang leader you might offend—the Joker was the worst, but Two-Face and Penguin gave the most mundane criminal a run for their money.

Stiles pulled his coat tighter, resolved to head home and spend the rest of his birthday in bed, snuggling his cat.

"Stiles," a voice called his name.

Stiles startled, unsure why someone would be after him. He was confused when he saw Derek approaching him from the steps leading up to the station. He turned towards Derek, concerned when he started to realize that Derek stood out like a Christmas tree light in July on the rundown platform. "What are you doing here?" He hurriedly asked, wanting Derek to head back down the steps.

Derek was wearing his winter coat, gloved hands poised in front of him as he reached Stiles. "I didn’t want to part on that,” he started. “You were offended by what Cora said back there," he continued to explain. "And what I implied. I was just shocked that you waited outside for me—it’s freezing out."

"They wouldn't let me in to see you," Stiles answered, his eyes briefly flickering over to the strangers shouting noises from the other side of the station. "I'm guessing some paparazzi tried that in the past," he offered. “Still was kind of rude of them.”

"They should have told me," Derek plainly countered, his gaze never leaving Stiles. "That’s Cora’s favorite restaurant, but they can be pretentious.” He was fondly looking at Stiles, despite the other man’s gaze being preoccupied elsewhere. “I didn't mean to imply that you were stalking me."

"It's kind of understandable, though. Sounds crazy to hear someone was hanging around outside a restaurant, waiting to speak with you about a file," Stiles felt ridiculous just repeating it. He should have just told Harris he already gave the file to Derek and stopped by Hale Enterprises in the morning.

"I just wanted to know that you're well," Derek offered, taking a step closer to Stiles. "And that you're not mad at me."

Stiles shook his head. "I’m not mad … but you shouldn't be here," he stated, biting at his lower lip. "You're too rich to be out in Beacon alone, especially at night."

Derek was surprised by Stiles' concern. "I’m not alone. Batman is around," he nonchalantly offered.

Stiles scoffed, shaking his head. "I'm sure Batman is taking care of much more important things than protecting us from thugs."

"Even if he is too busy, if there is some threat lingering around, I'm not going to leave you alone," Derek reasoned.

Stiles’ features softened some, surprised by Derek’s concerns. "I’m a tough guy, didn’t you know?” He jested. “I’m a cop’s kid—I can take care of myself," he insisted.

Derek’s smile was soft, light with fondness.

“What do we have here?”

Stiles startled, turning to look at the man who spoke. He didn’t realize the men from down the platform had drawn closer to them. He could see the weapons they pretended to hide in their oversized coats. He reached a hand out to grab Derek’s arm, pulling him back towards the station’s steps.

“Looks like someone took the wrong step off of main street,” one of the men laughed.

Derek took a step in front of Stiles.

“Derek,” Stiles softly uttered his name in caution.

One of the goons circled them, whistling some to the amusement of the others. “Dressed to the nines, nowhere to go.”

Derek’s arm reached behind him to protectively curl around Stiles. He was surprised when Stiles grabbed a hold on his arm in response.

~*~

“What you did was dangerous, Mr. Hale,” the attending doctor stated as he inspected the gash along Derek’s forearm.

“But less dangerous than not defending us,” Derek countered.

Stiles was standing in the corner of the small emergency room alcove, hovering by the curtain the doctor had walked through. He watched as Derek appeared unaffected by the doctor stitching up his skin.

“You shouldn’t have been at the station at this time of night,” the doctor pressed.

Derek scoffed. “Is there anything else you’d like to blame me for?”

Stiles was surprised by Derek’s answer, a faint smile on his lips at the quick witted banter Derek was capable of. His gaze dropped back to the scars peeking out from beneath Derek’s sleeveless undershirt.

Stiles never thought he’d see such trauma scarring someone like Derek Hale’s skin. He also never thought he would see Derek Hale headbutt some criminal at a train station late at night. The smallest part of Stiles was certain Derek wouldn’t have come to the hospital if he hadn’t insisted on it.

“Are these scars old?”

“Mostly,” Derek clinically answered, as if he had answered the question many times before. He looked down at his arm, watching the last stitch go in.

"You're lucky your companion had mace on him," the police officer stated, announcing his presence as he walked through the curtain.

Stiles wasn't surprised BCPD sent someone almost immediately once the Hale name was dropped.

Derek, though, appeared unconcerned with the turn of events.

“So what was the prince of Beacon doing walking around one of the most dangerous train stations in the city?” The police officer questioned.

Derek looked up at the man, patiently waiting for the doctor to wrap bandages around his forearm as a look of annoyance slipped over his features. “I didn’t realize I wasn’t allowed to take public transit.”

Stiles admired Derek for his sass, seeing for the first time what it must have been like to grow up with such expectations centered on him. “He was walking me to the station,” he offered to break the silence filling the room. He offered a small shrug of his shoulders when the police officer looked at him. “He offered to give me a ride home instead, and that’s when we were attacked.”

Derek watched Stiles in wonder.

“And you have mace why?”

Stiles crossed his arms over his chest, holding his coat close. “I carry mace on me as a precaution since Beacon isn’t the safest place to be at night. I have a license to carry it too if you have to see that.” He arched his eyebrows at the cop when he didn’t say anything in response. “So if you don’t have more to blame us for, I should get Derek home to rest.”

Derek fondly smiled at Stiles, reaching a hand out to take his jacket from the nurse. “You have my contact information for any further questions,” he added, holding the curtain back for Stiles to walk out first.

“And your name?” The officer asked Stiles.

Stiles paused by Derek, turning to look at the rookie cop. “Stilinski.” He waited for the realization to sink in. “I go by Stiles, but if you have questions, I’m sure my father can give you my contact information.”

Stiles gladly ducked through the curtain, bringing the interaction to an end.

Derek walked beside Stiles, glad when the other man offered to help him put his jacket on. He pulled his arms through the sleeves, walking along with Stiles as he helped him.

Stiles walked through the rotating doors first, keeping an eye on Derek before he tried to wave down a cab.

“Mr. Hale.”

Stiles turned to look at the man who spoke, surprised to see that it was one of Derek’s chauffeurs. He put his hand down, turning back to Derek.

“Thank you, Isaac,” Derek answered, walking towards the car.

Stiles paused when he saw that it was a Rolls-Royce.

Derek paused by the open door, turning to look at Stiles. “I think I’m done with public transport for a while.”

Stiles tried not to look dumbfounded, nodding in agreement. He walked towards the car, slipping into the backseat when Derek took a step back to allow him.

“I didn’t know your father was Commissioner Stilinski,” Derek thoughtfully commented.

“I didn’t know you could fight,” Stiles replied, looking at Derek.

Derek lightly chuckled. “I had to learn how to protect my virtue.”

Stiles softly laughed, shaking his head. “You don’t strike me as that innocent,” he countered.

Derek shrugged. “I suppose I feign innocents.”

A small silence grew between them as Stiles looked out the window, watching the city streets pass them by. He could see how the streets changed from ritzy to poverty in a matter of seconds.

“You didn’t have to come after me, you know?” Stiles softly uttered, turning his head to look at Derek. He was surprised to find Derek looking at him.

“I didn’t have to,” Derek agreed. “I wanted to.”

“To correct a misunderstanding,” Stiles elaborated.

“To ask you out, actually,” Derek corrected Stiles.

Stiles stared at Derek, unsure he heard him correctly. “You … want to ask me out. On like … a date?” He was thoroughly unexpecting these turn of events.

“If that’s okay with you,” Derek broached the subject with slight hesitation. “I’m hoping it doesn’t make you uncomfortable—”

“No,” Stiles shook his head. “I’m just … wow, I didn’t expect that.”

“A pleasant surprise?” Derek questioned.

Stiles released a soft laugh. “As far as birthday presents go, getting asked out by Beacon’s number one bachelor is pretty extraordinary.” He looked at Derek, a small smile on his lips as he added, “But yeah, it’s a pleasant surprise.”

“That’s a relief,” Derek stated.

Stiles shook his head. “You’re not … closeted, right?”

Derek actually laughed at that. “No, I’m not. I don’t have to be—the news just tends to focus on me being with women instead of being bisexual.”

Stiles nodded. “Yeah, I’m kind of used to the idea of you dating Russian ballerinas and activewear models.”

“It’s an image I prefer,” Derek offered. “With expectations set pretty low, people try to take advantage of my company, and find me unimposing.”

“And then you flip the tables on them,” Stiles stated.

“I have it on good authority that people see me as a pretty face,” Derek repeated Stiles’ words from the other day.

“Oh, come on, that’s not fair!” Stiles argued. “I didn’t know who you were, so therefore I wasn’t calling you pretty.”

Derek smiled at that.

Stiles recognized the street outside, realizing they had reached his apartment. He turned to climb out of the car, too nervous to even press the subject of a possible date. He ran around the back for the car, heading for his apartment’s building entrance.

“You didn’t give me your phone number,” Derek’s voice called out to Stiles.

Stiles turned to look at the car, noticing that Derek put the window down. “I agreed to the date, I didn’t say I’d give you my number,” he teased. “I barely know you, Derek Hale. You could be a stalker.”

Derek looked as if he was contemplating what Stiles meant. “Maybe I’m Batman,” he finally offered.

Stiles chuckled at that, smiling, “Alright, Batman, surprise me.”

It was funny to even think of Derek Hale being Batman. In what world would a billionaire playboy turn out to be a crime fighting vigilante?

~*~

Stiles stared at the large bouquet of white roses completely covering his desk. He didn’t know bouquets actually came in large vases that could take up a significant portion of a cubicle desk. He wouldn’t even begin to know how much money that would cost.

“You have a secret admirer,” Heather teased as she waved the card at Stiles.

Stiles snatched the small card from her hands. He opened it, slipping the paper from inside to read the message.

Surprised?

Stiles smiled down at the card, a fondness curling in his chest as he studied what he hoped to be Derek’s handwriting.

“I’m guessing you know who it is from,” Heather stated as she crossed her arms over her chest, expecting Stiles to tell her.

Stiles looked at Heather briefly before putting the card back. “An admirer,” he offered.

“Come on,” Heather whined, gently swiping at Stiles’ hands to get the card.

Stiles avoided her, turning to look at the flowers. “My secret to tell,” he replied to her. He waited for Heather to head to the break room before he picked up his desk phone. He dialed the number for Hale Enterprises.

“Good morning, thank you for calling Hale Enterprises,” a feminine voice greeted Stiles, her tone elegant but bored with what she was saying. “You’ve reached the office of Derek Hale. How may I assist you today?”

Stiles nibbled his lip, uncertain for a moment. “Um, I’m calling to speak with Mr. Hale,” he offered.

The sound of paper moving was the response. “Do you have a scheduled call with Mr. Hale?”

Stiles winced. He should have asked Derek for his phone number—he was regretting his playful banter now.

“If you don’t have an appointment, I cannot transfer you to Mr. Hale,” the woman curtly stated when Stiles didn’t answer her.

“I’m calling from Emerite,” Stiles stated. “Mr. Hale had questions about the project. I was going to fill him in.”

The woman was silent for a moment. “Your name?”

“Stiles,” he offered.

“I’ll give him your message,” the woman replied. “He’ll call you at his earliest convenience.”

Stiles flinched when the phone clicked. He looked at the receiver with a frown, leaning around his bouquet to set the phone back down. He sighed, sagging in his seat when his colleagues started walking by only to gawk at him. He knew they were looking at the flowers, curious who would send him such a beautiful and public display of affection.

Stiles startled when his phone rang, knowing it had to be Harris. No one ever called him except Harris—to yell at him, or order him into the office to yell at him. “Hello?” He softly answered the phone.

“Stiles,” Derek’s voice questioned.

Stiles blinked a few times. “Derek?”

“I wasn’t sure my secretary had the right phone number,” Derek answered, a pleasantry in his voice. “I noticed it was a company line—you’re not making it easy.”

Stiles faintly smiled into the phone receiver as he settled into his chair. “I thought you were Batman—the world’s greatest detective?” He looked at the flowers, touching one of the petals. “Shouldn’t you have a whole folder on me by now?”

“Call me old fashioned, but I’d prefer you to tell me about yourself,” Derek answered.

Stiles wondered what Derek’s office looked like, curious if he was lounging behind some ridiculous desk. If he still had his jacket on, or if the tie was loosened to expose the curve of his throat. “I’d be lying if I didn’t admit you certainly made an impression on me. I am now the envy of all my coworkers—the flowers are beautiful.”

“Do you like them?” Derek asked.

“White roses are elegant,” Stiles replied.

“What’s your favorite?”

“Are you making a mental note?”

“I want to get your favorites next time.”

Next time .

“Sunflowers,” Stiles softly answered.

“Noted,” Derek replied, a fondness in his voice.

“Are you going to make a habit out of this?” Stiles asked.

“Maybe,” Derek uttered. “Unless you don’t like it.”

Stiles made a soft noise of consideration. “Depends on the person sending them, but I think I can make an exception for you.” He smiled when Derek laughed.

“Are you free tonight?”

Stiles nibbled his bottom lip a bit. “I want to say yes,” he honestly answered. “But I have to work late.”

“Regrettable,” Derek remarked, though he sounded understanding. “Another day?”

“I’d love to,” Stiles answered.

“Does this mean you’ll give me your number?”

Stiles smiled into the phone receiver. He hated how cliche he was being when he realized he was twisting the phone cord around his finger. There was something about Derek Hale that positively domesticated him.

“Or should I give you mine and pray to hear from you?”

“I think I could be persuaded to give you mine,” Stiles answered Derek. He caught sight of Heather waving at him to get his attention. His smile fell when he saw Harris coming out of his office. He quickly rattled off his number to Derek followed by a reluctant, “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

The soft chuckle of Derek’s voice was a balm. “I look forward to our next conversation.”

Stiles just managed to hang up the phone as Harris approached his desk. “Mr. Harris—”

“What the hell are these doing here?” Harris demanded, his nose scrunching up at the sight of the flowers taking over Stiles’ desk.

Stiles tried not to squirm in his seat as others looked on.

“They arrived this morning,” Heather chimed in, trying to take attention away. “They’re anonymous, but I think as a thanks for Stiles’ help.”

“I don’t need your input Ms. Peters,” Harris’ voice was gentler but no less annoyed with Stiles. “Or do you always do Mr. Stilinski’s work for him?”

“They were a gift from an admirer, I didn’t know they would be here,” Stiles stated, an edge to his tone as he looked up at Harris.

“Well, throw them out then,” Harris snapped. “Some people have allergies, but I’m not surprised you didn’t think of that.”

Heather pursed her lips as she watched Harris leave. She rolled her eyes, rolling her chair closer to Stiles’ desk. “He’s just jealous because nobody but his mother would ever think to give him flowers.”

Heather stood, picking up the vase of flowers. “I’m going to hide these in the break room, so you can take them home after work.”

Stiles smiled at her. “Thank you.”

Heather winked, “I want the details later.”

Stiles tried to laugh in kind, hoping that he didn’t screw anything up and would have any details to share.

~*~

Stiles hip-checked his apartment door open, stumbling some as he tried to not flail with the vase of flowers. He clutched it dearly to his chest in hopes he wouldn’t drop it. He set the vase down on the small table stand by the door, pulling his coat off before closing the door. He slid the necessary locks into place before hanging up his jacket.

“Honey, I’m home,” Stiles called out.

A soft meow answered from the bedroom before the telltale noise of paws rushing to him.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Miss Kitty. I thought you were Honey,” Stiles replied as he pet the stray rubbing up against his ankle.

Stiles looked over at the kitchen window, seeing Muse perched on the windowsill over the sink.

It was dangerous, Stiles knew that, to leave the window open. He was certain his father would freak if he knew.

The kitchen window only offered access to the small felines clambering up the ventilation system, so he felt marginally safer than if it led to the fire escape. All the stray cats in Beacon seemed to understand that Stiles’ apartment offered a much needed refuge from the murky streets below.

“How was your day?” Stiles asked the cats as he walked over to the fridge. “Mine was hell.” He paused, his eye catching the flowers again. “Well, almost.”

A feline chirp answered him.

He turned to look at Muse. “I think I met someone nice.”

Muse meowed, walking over the windowsill and down into the kitchen sink. She meowed at Stiles indignantly.

Stiles reached his hand out, scratching Muse’s ear. “He’s sweet. But we’ll see how the date goes.” He blinked a few times, his hand fell away from Muse. “Date. Oh God, I have a date.” He quickly dispensed food into the dish for the cats, rushing towards his bedroom to inspect the closet.

To say he panicked would be a rude, if not accurate, observation.

Stiles was shoving clothes aside, inspecting the various items as he tried to think of an outfit that would impress Derek.

Derek Hale.

The Derek Hale.

He had a date with the Derek fucking Hale of Beacon City.

Stiles collapsed on the bed as he stared at the bare bones of his closet. What was he thinking when he agreed to go on a date with Derek Hale? It would take all of a couple of minutes before Derek realized what a mistake it was to invite someone like Stiles into his life.

His eyes caught sight of the black material that was meant to be hidden at the back of the closet. He had said one more time was enough–and then it always turned into a vow to stop after the next heist.

But he hadn’t even kept any of the money from the last few jobs. And he was now starting to wonder if he should have. Guilt cut through his stomach at the thought.

Derek Hale was part of the society he had stolen from time and again.

It wasn’t anything personal–well, for the most part. Stiles just liked the finer things sometimes. And he rationalized it with each zero he added to the donations the charities would find the mail in the coming weeks.

He stood, shoving the leather catsuit even further into his closet. He had a date and nothing to wear, he didn’t need to be focused on the Cat Thief.

Stiles drew in a breath and dialed Lydia’s phone number.

~*~

“No fucking way,” Lydia stated into the phone as she paced outside the Intensive Treatment building.

“I thought the same,” Stiles echoed as he pushed hanger after hanger of shirts through his closet. “I really wish you were here to talk some fashion sense into me. I spent all of last night panicking about my wardrobe.”

Lydia scoffed out a laugh. “Whatever you’re doing, Stiles, seems to be working, considering you got Beacon’s number one bachelor to ask you out on a date.”

“I’m still scared it’s a mistake,” Stiles admitted as he sat down on the hope chest by the foot of his bed. His eyes glanced through his bedroom doorway to see the flowers on his table—he’d have to put them in the bathroom when he left, determined to keep the cats safe from their own insistent curiosity. He nibbled his lip as he tried to run through it in his head once more.

“You think he’s not serious?” Lydia questioned, her eyes looking over at the guards exiting the building.

“He said he’s not closeted,” Stiles started, looking down at his feet as he tried to visualize what shoe he should wear. “But I can’t find anything about him being with a guy.”

“The tabloids didn’t know he was dating that socialite Blake or whatever her name was, either,” Lydia offered. She turned her attention towards the sound of a loud engine drawing closer, knowing it was the sound they had been waiting hours to hear since the Joker escaped—Batman.

The BatMobile suddenly burst onto the scene, stopping quickly in front of Intensive Treatment.

“Stiles, I’m sorry, but I have to go,” Lydia quickly stated as she hurried to be the first one to speak with Batman—before the Warden stuck his nose in it.

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles answered dejectedly.

“I’m sorry, but Batman just brought the Joker back,” Lydia replied with a sigh. “I have to speak with him.”

“Say hi to Batman for me,” Stiles replied with a laugh.

“Sure thing,” Lydia smiled. “Let me know how it all goes tonight.”

“Definitely,” Stiles answered before hanging up.

Lydia reached Batman before any of the guards even made it halfway down the steps. She watched as the armor clad vigilante bodily yanked a person from inside the BatMobile. She could tell who it was from their laughter—the Joker.

The Joker had a name. Once. And it was one he refused to share with anyone. His fingerprints were burned off at some point, his dental records nonexistent. He was a ghost who showed up out of nowhere after the murders of Talia and Martin Hale—he claimed it was his call to action when the guardians of Beacon had died. That was if it wasn’t another lie to trick doctors into misdiagnosing him.

He had made his debut at the charity event held in the Hales’ name, releasing a toxin on the wealthy patrons. His moniker grew with each horrific act, only to be stopped when Batman arrived.

The Joker wasn’t horrifically scarred or disfigured as Lydia had been lead to believe. He wore clown makeup, dyed his hair a horrible green. But when the makeup was wiped off, and the dye stripped from his hair, he looked like a normal man. He was attractive, charming even. He had scars that covered his body—all explained with a new and fake story each time he escaped and was brought back by Batman.

Lydia was the doctor who had lasted the longest with him. She wasn’t sure why he hadn’t threatened to have her killed yet, hearing the horror stories some had about their experiences with the Joker.

Lydia’s worst experience was how often the Joker asked for a smile from her.

What can I do to earn it?

“Easy with the goods,” the Joker laughed, swaying where Batman pulled him, unable to do much else with his hands bound in intricate cuffs. The Joker’s eye lit up when he saw Lydia. “Doctor Martin,” he spoke her name with delight before a frown overtook his features. “I’m so sorry I missed our appointment. I thought I was feeling much better, so I checked myself out.”

Lydia’s brow furrowed. “You held the Mayor for ransom,” she countered with displeasure in her tone.

“Uh oh,” the Joker muttered, leaning back into Batman. “I made her mad.” He smiled at Batman when he didn’t react. “I love her when she’s mad.”

“That’s enough, freak,” one of the guards addressed Joker, coming forward to grab him from Batman.

“Hey, Franky!” The Joker greeted him with ease, a smile still on his face. “How’s the joint since I left?”

“We lost five people when you broke out,” Frank angrily stated.

“Only five? I’ll have to try to impress you better next time,” the Joker stated, winking at Lydia as he walked up the stairs. “I’m looking forward to our next appointment, Doc!”

Lydia watched as the Joker disappeared into the doors of the Intensive Treatment building, waiting until he disappeared before looking at Batman. “Did he hurt anyone else?”

Batman shook his head. “He surrendered without a big fight. He said he was ready to go home.”

Lydia frowned, pressing a hand to her furrowed brow. “Thank you,” she softly spoke. “Commissioner Stilinski is inside if you need to debrief him.”

Batman pressed a hand to where Lydia assumed his ear was, realizing he must have been listening to someone. He looked at her as he dropped his hand. “Sorry, but I’m needed elsewhere. I’ll speak with the Commissioner later.”

Lydia nodded her head, watching Batman get back into the BatMobile. She hoped Stiles would have a better night than her, knowing she would have hours of paperwork to fill out now that the Joker was back in custody.

~*~

“Sorry I’m late,” Derek apologized as he hurried towards Stiles.

Stiles offered a small smile to him. “Not late enough for me to panic, at least,” he jested, despite the fact that he had started to panic regardless of Derek’s text telling him he was on his way.

“Things ran late in the board meeting,” Derek apologetically explained.

“You have board meetings this late?” Stiles asked out of curiosity.

Derek grimaced, “Unfortunately. They can be intolerable when they have something they think I have to be present for.”

“They need you to make the tough choices,” Stiles replied, faintly smiling when Derek held the restaurant door open for him. He paused as he started to remove his jacket, seeing the decor as the testament to the expense that it was. He followed the maître d' who immediately ushered them in the moment he saw Derek. He sat down in the chair Derek pulled out for him, offering a small smile as he distracted himself by looking at the table. He pulled the napkin apart, wincing slightly when the silverware clinked against the stem of the wine glass. He cautiously looked around them as he placed the napkin in his lap, self conscious when a few people looked at him.

“I took a guess,” Derek suddenly stated as he pulled his own napkin into his lap. He looked at Stiles. “I’m sorry if you don’t like Italian.”

Stiles blinked a few times before taking hold of the menu the waiter shoved into his view. He stared at the calligraphy sprawled across the menu’s paper.

“I’m a fan,” Stiles answered Derek, looking above the menu at him. He was relieved that Derek asked to know the wine selection. He smiled at Derek looking back at him.

“White or red? Or something else?” Derek asked when Stiles didn’t comment.

Stiles looked from the waiter to Derek. “Um, white is fine,” he softly stated. He felt enamored when Derek ordered the wine by name, nothing flashy in the request of the best or most expensive bottle available. His stomach dropped when he looked at the menu, realizing that it was in Italian. He tried to use what little he could remember about high school Latin to figure out at least a part of what he could possibly be ordering.

He remembered his mother speaking Italian on the phone some times. Though, from her tone, he was certain she was swearing at whoever was on the other end.

They were both silent for a beat, taking moments to look at the menu. Derek set the menu down, a sigh leaving him. “Can I be honest with you?”

Stiles looked up at Derek, slowly lowering the menu. He happily closed it, knowing he’d never figure out which meal was the chicken. “Of course.” He was hopeful Derek wasn’t about to say the night was a mistake.

“This isn’t the place I imagined taking you,” Derek admitted.

Stiles hesitated to answer when the waiter brought them their bottle of wine. He was grateful that Derek dismissed the man before there was an insistence in tasting the wine first. He looked back at Derek as he spoke, “I’m not really used to restaurants like this.”

Derek let out a relieved laugh, shrugging his shoulders as if to say he was just as guilty. “This isn’t my type of restaurant. I have to say, I don’t date often,” he explained. “I made the mistake of asking my sister about a place that would impress,” he added as afterthought, his hand reached out to mindlessly spin the bottle of wine in the ice bucket.

Stiles’ stomach flipped. “I appreciate that you want to impress me.”

Derek looked at Stiles. “I would think that obvious.”

Stiles sighed, hunching some as he twisted the napkin in his hands. “It took a lot for me to say yes to you,” he finally confessed. “And I’m guessing you wouldn’t be able to guess why.”

Derek quietly waited for Stiles to continue.

“I meant most of what I said when we met,” Stiles elaborated as he set the napkin on the table next to his plate. “You’re intimidating to me, not only because you’re smart, and ridiculously charming … ” He softly chuckled as he shook his head, looking down at his empty plate. “There’s no world in which I’d be an acceptable match for you,” he weakly admitted.

Derek was quiet for a moment before rebuffing Stiles’ words. “I find that unbelievable.” He was watching Stiles’ features to gauge his reaction—to make sure he understood Derek’s sentiment. “If you’re referring to my money … it’s not something I can change. All of Beacon thinks that’s who I am, and after a while, it became easier just to let them. But I’m not my family’s fortune, and for the first time in a long time, I want to be with someone who sees me when they look at me.”

Stiles drew in a steady breath before replying, “You’re nothing like your public image.”

“It’s why I hide behind it,” Derek simply admitted, as if it was the easiest thing to say. “Keeps me safe.”

“That’s the Derek Hale I’d like to know,” Stiles explained. “I think that’s the one I had the coffee date with.”

“So that was a date?” Derek asked, a small smile on his lips when Stiles laughed. He reached his hand out, taking Stiles’ hand in his own. “That’s who I am,” he earnestly stated. “And that’s who I want you to get to know.”

Stiles looked at Derek. “Okay,” he hopefully whispered. “I know a really good place we can go then.”

“You lead, I’ll follow.”

Chapter Text

Dating Derek Hale was different than anything Stiles even imagined possible.

He had been scared, at first, to think about what it would be like to have the arm of the most eligible bachelor in their generation, let alone in Beacon and the world. And that was when the panic set in—the terror of being inadequate, the concern of non-privacy, the fear of people treating him differently.

But then Stiles thought about how Derek appeared to be more down to earth than anyone Stiles had known, despite having grown up in a world of such glitz and glamor.

Derek was enamored with the small restaurant Stiles had brought them to. They spoke throughout the night, sharing more than one bottle of wine. And when Derek escorted Stiles home, he didn’t press to be invited in. He placed a chaste kiss to Stiles’ cheek, giving Stiles the initiative to share anything more. He accepted Stiles pulling his head down into a deeper kiss.

It was intoxicating.

Derek wasn’t fake in his affections—honest though careful in what he revealed to Stiles.

Stiles didn’t try to push when Derek clammed up, knowing what it was like to be prodded at. They spent most nights in the secluded booths of private restaurants or at Stiles' apartment, sharing the evenings together. Stiles’ favorite times were when Derek had a weekend free, though those were far and inbetween.

They spent most of their nights at home. Stiles enjoyed Derek’s apartment for how spacious it was, and the phenomenal view of Beacon’s skyline. He was glad Derek didn’t mind his small cramped apartment in comparison.

Derek had pulled Stiles into a searing kiss the moment they first walked into Stiles’ apartment. And they didn’t stop kissing until two cat paws started to reach up Derek’s pant leg. Stiles couldn’t help faintly laughing when Derek winced at the presence of claws. He picked Muse up and rushed her towards her food dish in hopes it would appease her need for attention.

Stiles was happy the next morning to see Muse curled pleasantly in Derek’s lap while the man checked his email.

Muse had her eyes closed, her chin resting on Derek’s knee as he massaged her ear. She was purring loud enough for Stiles to hear.

Stiles was falling hard for Derek, and he hoped it was a mutual infatuation.

Derek mentioned that his sister was curious where he was spending his time, which sent a new wave of nerves tumbling through him at the thought of one day meeting the Hale women.

It would be an understatement to say Stiles was reluctant to the idea of meeting them. His one interaction with Cora was less than ideal. He was grateful to hear that Cora had gone back to college in New York, and Laura was working at the European branch of Hale Enterprises. He had some time before he had to meet and brave the Hale women.

But Stiles’ dad was a bit more impatient about meeting Derek.

"My dad has some time off coming up," Stiles explained to Derek. “And we’re going to have dinner.”

Derek mumbled something against Stiles' collarbone. He had long since abandoned his emails, gently placing Muse on the cushion before crawling back into bed with Stiles.

"You're giving me a beard burn," Stiles softly laughed.

Derek pulled his head back, looking up at Stiles with a lopsided smile. His hair was disheveled, eyes dark with intrigue, completing his sleep-addled look.

"When you look at me like that, I kind of don't mind it," Stiles replied as he kissed Derek.

Derek pressed into the kiss, slipping his tongue into Stiles’ mouth as he pulled himself further up the bed to bracket Stiles in.

Stiles softly moaned as his legs wrapped around Derek’s waist, his hands caressing Derek’s back with care. He wasn’t ignorant—he saw the bruises and scars that Derek seemed to shrug off as nothing but recreational sport injuries. He saw the way Derek played polo, and he knew he was too good of a player for it to be sport injuries. He didn’t push for a reason, knowing it was something Derek didn’t want to speak about.

It didn’t stop him worrying, though.

Most mornings, Stiles woke alone. Some of those mornings, he would pretend to be asleep, his eyes barely open as he watched Derek meditate before slipping into a morning warm up of Tai Chi. It all added another layer to Derek that Stiles counted himself lucky enough to see.

A loud ringtone chimed from the nightstand.

Derek turned his head to look at what made the noise, seeing it was Stiles’ phone. “Let it go to voicemail,” he urged as he kissed Stiles again.

Stiles hesitantly nodded as Derek kissed him.

The ringtone started again all too soon.

Stiles turned his head, seeing the phone light up. “It might be about my dad,” he softly uttered. “He was working third shift.”

Derek grabbed the phone and offered it to Stiles. “Go ahead,” he softly stated in an encouraging tone.

Stiles pressed a chaste kiss to Derek’s lips before answering the shrilling device. He winced when Harris’ yelling voice came through the receiver.

“Why the hell didn’t you answer the first time?”

“I’m sorry, sir, I—”

“Do you want to lose your job?”

“No, sir,” Stiles curtly replied.

“Get your ass down here, now,” Harris sharply ordered.

Stiles looked at the clock. It was 10:43pm on a Saturday. He nibbled his lip. “Sir, it’s Saturday night—”

“Don’t you think I fucking know that?! Get your ass down here or you’re fired.”

Stiles closed his eyes and sighed when Harris hung up. He dropped his phone to the bed, looking up at Derek.

Derek had a pensive look, one he used when trying to hide the fact that he was mad. “He’s an asshole,” he stated.

“Yeah,” Stiles mused as he moved his hands to touch Derek’s chest, his fingers tracing a path down to Derek’s abs, his fingernails grazing more than one scar. “But he’s the asshole that can fire me.”

“If I buy the company—”

“Derek,” Stiles warned with a stern look. “I don’t want nepotism,” he warned.

“It’s not nepotism when you can run that company, and that moron is abusing you to keep himself on top,” Derek calmly stated.

Stiles faintly smiled. “I appreciate the thoughtfulness of you buying a whole company for me,” he stated with fond laughter. “But I have to go in.”

Derek sighed, his head hanging some before he reluctantly nodded.

Stiles kissed Derek’s forehead. “You could stay—be here when I come home?”

There was nothing more that Stiles wanted—to come home and have Derek there. It was a warmth spreading through his gut.

Derek nodded. “I can drop you off,” he offered.

“You don’t have to,” Stiles began.

“I don’t want you at those train stations at night,” Derek reasoned.

Stiles arched his eyebrows. “Oh, a little damsel like me would never survive.”

Derek fondly rolled his eyes as he reluctantly pulled himself away, getting up and pushing the blankets off.

Stiles smiled as he watched Derek head to the bathroom. He fondly admired Derek's body from afar before he disappeared into the bathroom. He stretched some, his toes peeking out beneath the blanket, his body aching a bit.

Stiles had been frightened to have sex with Derek, unsure if he was going to be a victim once again of the long con. Too many times his dating life seemed to boil down to hook ups he didn’t realize were a one night commitment, or the repeat offenders who constantly tried to weasel their way back in afterwards. But Derek was different, and Stiles was smitten.

“So, you’ll be there?” Stiles called after Derek, finally following Derek’s suit in getting up. He didn’t want to go in tonight, and he’d take his time for once.

Derek poked his head around the corner of the doorframe, looking at Stiles as the faucet ran, a toothbrush dangling from his mouth. “Where?”

Stiles tried to pretend he didn’t smile every time he saw Derek’s toothbrush nestled next to his on the sink.

How long had it been since he trusted someone enough to give them that much?

Stiles sighed. “What I was trying to say earlier—my dad is going to be free for the first time in a while,” he offered. “And he wanted to have dinner. He knows I have a boyfriend and he wanted to meet you,” he concluded as he stared down at the clothes he started putting on. “He asked about you—well, the guy I’m dating. And I told him I really care about you, so he naturally wants to meet you.”

Derek turned Stiles to face him, a smile on his face as he pulled Stiles into a kiss.

Stiles kissed Derek, his heart fluttering despite the overwhelming taste of fresh mint.

“I’d love to meet your dad,” Derek answered.

A sharp meow came from behind the shut bedroom door.

Stiles leaned his head to look, seeing the shadow of four paws beneath the door before the faint scratching started.

“She hates me,” Derek muttered as he released his hold on Stiles.

“Miss Kitty hates no one,” Stiles replied.

Derek paused, thinking about the fact that he had yet to meet a cat called Miss Kitty. “Miss Kitty? How many cats do you have?”

Stiles blinked at Derek. “I have a weakness for strays.”

“What does that say about me?” Derek quipped.

“You’re my favorite wayward soul,” Stiles smiled, kissing Derek once more.

~*~

Stiles was lost in his thoughts as he stared outside the kitchen window.

“You worried about tonight?” John asked Stiles as he closed the fridge.

Stiles looked at his dad, a small smile on his lips. “No, of course not.”

“You’re not worried about introducing your mystery boyfriend to your father,” John skeptically stated as he crossed his arms over his chest, facing Stiles.

Stiles finished peeling the potato in his hands, dropping the vegetable into the pot on the stove. He placed the knife down on the edge of the sink. He looked at John, releasing a heavy sigh. “I really don’t want you to freak,” he started with an unsure look.

John narrowed his eyes at Stiles. “Is your boyfriend a criminal?”

“No,” Stiles softly stated.

“Then why would I freak?”

Stiles looked at his father. “Do you remember the last time I introduced you to someone I was dating?”

“I do,” John replied, even daring to not look guilty.

“You did a background check,” Stiles incredulously stated.

“After you showed up for brunch with bruises,” John countered.

Stiles opened his mouth to retort before slowly closing it. He frowned at his father. “I suppose that was acceptable.”

“He can’t be worse than Asher,” John noted.

“Don’t be mean,” Stiles softly uttered. His dad didn’t know that the bruises were from falling off the fire escape while leaving a job—Asher just happened to be a bad investment at the time, and nearly cost him his anonymity.

John faintly smiled. “I just want you to be happy, and being this secretive isn’t inspiring me to believe that,” he explained.

Stiles drew in a breath. “I’m secretive about it because … I feel like I’m not good enough for him.”

John made a sound at the back of his throat—the one he often made when he didn’t like the sound of something.

“It’s not him,” Stiles offered. “Others.”

“Others are idiots,” John replied just as the buzzer for the apartment rang.

Stiles wiped his hands on the dish towel as he headed towards the door, beating his father to the speaker. “Hey, I’ll be down in a second.” He smiled to his father just as he headed out the door. He took the stairs several at a time, excited for tonight to go well. He was smiling as he answered the door.

Derek turned to look at Stiles, a faint smile on his lips when he saw Stiles.

Stiles welcomed Derek with a kiss, hands ushering Derek to come inside. “You’re a bit early,” he commented.

“I finished things early,” Derek replied, hesitating a bit as he lingered by the door. “Is that alright?”

Stiles faintly laughed as he turned to look at Derek. “Of course, I just thought you might be a little late.”

Derek nodded, looking down at the bottle of wine he had. “I know you said your dad had heart problems, so I brought red wine,” he offered.

Stiles smiled as he took the wine bottle to inspect the label. He realized it was in French, his brow furrowing for a moment as he tried to place the name. “Thank you,” he uttered, looking up at Derek with a fondness, completely enamored by Derek’s attempt to please his father. He hesitated when he realized Derek wouldn’t look at him. “Are you … okay?”

Derek ran a hand through his hair. “Yes,” he lied.

Stiles turned his head to the side, his brow furrowed. “You look nervous,” he softly stated. “You look … really nervous.”

“Of course I’m nervous,” Derek suddenly uttered.

Stiles softly chuckled. “That’s sweet,” he replied as he leaned in to kiss Derek. “You’re one of the most successful men in the world, and you’re afraid of my father.”

Derek released a tense laugh. “I’m scared of making a bad impression.”

“He’ll love you,” Stiles stated with reassurance.

Derek smiled as he leaned forward and kissed Stiles. He wrapped his arms around Stiles and drew him in close as they continued to kiss.

“You boys coming up?” John’s voice questioned.

Stiles pulled back from Derek to look up at John. He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes at his father.

Derek drew in a breath as he looked up at John. He offered a small smile to Stiles’ father.

Stiles saw the moment his father recognized Derek.

“So, you’re dating Derek Hale,” John simply stated as he looked at Stiles.

Stiles held Derek’s hand tightly. “Surprise,” he offered with a wide smile.

John nodded. “Come on up,” he instructed them.

~*~

Things were nice, John making easy work of the simple talk. The tension seemed to just slip away without any trouble, laughs being shared here and there between them.

Derek’s gaze followed Stiles as he left the room. He fondly smiled to himself before looking down at his wine glass.

“You know I have to ask,” John started, eyes focused on Derek as he leaned back in his chair. He waited until Derek looked up at him before speaking, “Are you serious about my son.”

Asking implied that John offered Derek the option of answering, when in reality he was demanding the truth.

Derek was surprised by John’s question. “Of course,” he simply stated, unsure how else to answer.

John nodded. He waved a steady hand about, looking as if he regretted asking. “Stiles wouldn’t like me saying, but I just wanted to check. He’s … he’s sensitive about dating.”

Derek gently nodded, looking back down at his wine, feeling a bit inadequate under John’s gaze.

“I ask because those damn reporters write outlandish things,” John offered. “You’re Beacon’s most eligible bachelor, for quite some time.”

Derek sighed. “I hate those articles,” he mused. That was an understatement of the loathsome feelings he had for reporters at the Beacon Gazette.

He remembered what the reporters wrote after his parents died.

Large print titles splashed across the front page of almost every newspaper: HALES SLAIN! BEACON MOURNS.  A picture of the alley; one newspaper even having a picture of Derek sitting on the fire escape and candid shots of him in the police station. He had been terrified to move or speak—his throat hurt from screaming for help, his eyes stinging with tears long since shed, a headache pounding behind his eyes. He was squeezing his father’s coat against his chest, hanging on tightly as if it was a lifeline. He didn’t even realize people were taking his picture until he had seen the newspapers years later.

Derek had been escorted into the police chief’s office, left to sit alone as more reporters attempted to get a statement from the police. He remembered shaking his head when the officers asked him about someone to come get him. He heard the officers mention contacting Laura.

Laura was at a private school upstate, with a couple hours traveling before she could get home—a seventeen year old with the responsibility of caring for a nine and three year old now under the eye of a guardian.

“Hey, kiddo,” an officer addressed Derek as he moved to kneel in front of the young man.

Derek looked at the detective, tears blurring his vision.

The officer was young, the first person in the station to speak to Derek instead of about him. He wore a sad expression as he forced himself to smile at Derek. “Do you want anything?”

Derek shook his head, his whole body trembling still.

“Are you cold?” The officer asked when he noticed. “It’s pretty cold in this old building,” he commented. “How about we put this on?” The man reached for the coat Derek was clinging to.

Derek startled when the man touched the coat, everything suddenly igniting and shattering at once. He snatched at the coat, drawing it in closer to his chest.

The officer held out a placating hand, understanding suddenly crossing his face. “This is your father’s coat, right?”

Derek’s lip wobbled, his breath catching some.

“It’s okay. I’m not going to take it. Why don’t we put it over your shoulders?” The officer asked. “To keep you warm.”

Warm . Being warm sounded like the best thing to Derek.

Derek nodded, reluctantly easing his hold on the coat.

The officer made a point of not taking the coat too far from Derek’s reach. He easily placed the coat to cover Derek, hands gently touching the young boy’s shoulders as the coat settled. He offered a sad smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s okay,” he offered as he reached a hand up to cup Derek’s cheek, thumb brushing away a stray tear.

Derek remembered looking down at the man’s name tag, catching sight of J. STILINSKI engraved across the nametag.

“I didn’t mean to imply anything by it,” John’s voice pulled Derek back into the present.

Derek looked at John, realizing the older man must have taken his silence as a negative. “I know,” he honestly replied. “It’s not the best image painted of me.”

“But it’s not who you are,” John replied.

Derek nodded. He tightened his hold on his wine glass before spinning the stem between his fingers. “Your son is different,” he finally stated. He looked up at John as he spoke, “He treats me like I’m a normal person.”

John snorted out a small laugh. “Sounds about right.”

Derek paused, wondering if he should say something. “This is going to sound strange,” he started, realizing how insanely coincidental it all was. “You might not actually remember,” he added as an afterthought. “But you did something similar, a long time ago. And it’s something I’ll never forget.”

John nodded. “I’m sorry there wasn’t more I could have done,” he replied.

“You did more than most,” Derek replied. “I was happy when I heard you were appointed commissioner.”

John smiled at that. “I had help. If it wasn’t for Batman, I’d never get anything done on my end.”

Stiles popped back into the dining room. “You’re not talking about work, are you?”

John laughed as Derek shook his head. “I’m sure Derek’s work would make my brain hurt.”

“Makes my brain hurt sometimes,” Derek commented.

~*~

Stiles was having a panic attack. His hands were shaking, his heart beating out of his chest as he pushed himself back against Beacon Bank’s teller booth. He jumped when another shot rang out from the robbers. He noticed they were wearing Two-Face’s signature attire. He realized that the gang leader must have been after the mobs’ money, but it didn’t mean innocent lives weren’t about to be ruined either.

Stiles kept his head down as more people started screaming and crying, the robbers shouting at them to keep quiet. He laid down on the floor as they instructed, placing the deposit bag under his stomach to keep it hidden.

Stiles had been on the phone with Derek when it happened. He had quickly told Derek he thought a robbery was about to happen before the gunshots were heard. He looked to his side, seeing his phone kicked next to the others, wondering if Derek had heard him.

“Hey!”

Stiles startled when the goon spoke next to him. He looked up at the man, seeing that the masked guy was gesturing at him.

“You trying to hide something?” The goon demanded as he grabbed Stiles by the arm, yanking him up off the ground.

Stiles tried his best not to yank away, his instincts screaming at him to get as far away from the guy as possible.

“What’s this?” The goon questioned as he waved the deposit bag in front of Stiles.

“It’s a deposit bag,” Stiles simply answered, looking at the guy.

“So you were holding out?”

“Aren’t you after the mobs’ money?” Stiles countered. “Do I look like a mob enforcer?”

He realized his mistake when he thought about bringing attention to himself. Anyone familiar with the mob might know. Anyone looking for a weakness to get at Carmine Falcone. Anyone willing to dig into just who Stiles’ mother was could have taken one look at him and known.

Stiles Stilinski was the anomaly of what happened when the BCPD commissioner fell in love with the daughter of the city’s most fearsome mob boss. And it meant that Stiles typically walked through Beacon’s worst streets with a shroud of protection to those who knew.

But not from Two-Face.

Stiles stumbled when the guy pushed him back. He collided with someone else.

“I don’t know boys, he doesn’t look like the mob,” a sharp and cold voice noted before others started to laugh.

Stiles slowly turned to look at the man who spoke.

Two-Face.

Stiles met him a few times before—when the man was still the District Attorney of Beacon, Chris Argent. He remembered his father introducing them.

Something of recognition flickered across the eye that had been left undamaged by the acid Argent’s own father had thrown in his face. “Commissioner Stilinski’s son,” Two-Face suddenly stated.

Stiles’ lips fell into a grim line.

“What a proper find, boys,” Two-Face gruffly uttered.

“Why? My father has no money,” Stiles retorted. “He’s the one cop in Beacon who isn’t crooked.”

Two-Face laughed, his men following suit.

Stiles winced when Two-Face grabbed him by the chin, leaning into the man’s hold to lighten the harsh grip.

“I’m sure daddy would like to have you back in one piece,” Two-Face explained, pressing the barrel of his gun along Stiles’ forehead. “Without a hole between your pretty eyes.”

Stiles tried not to blink too many times, unsure which one could be his last.

“Or, what do you think Carmine would do?” Two-Face continued, a laugh in this throat. “What would that miser give away for you—his precious little reminder of what was left?”

Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat.

Of course Chris remembered that connection. Too often had John come under scrutiny for his wife’s connection to the notorious crime boss. Stiles had seen the way some of those in the DA’s office would look at John even after he became commissioner. Internal Affairs had a field day when they found out who Claudia was.

“Then again, a bit of target practice could serve us well,” Two-Face remarked. He flipped the coin in his hand, allowing it to decide Stiles’ fate.

It was a habit Chris picked up—an opposition to his fidgeting. He found that it surprisingly looked more professional to a jury than fumbling with papers. He had been a champion of justice—Beacon’s own lighthouse shining through the darkness to guide them back to harmony. Chris had taken on the biggest case imaginable for anyone, willingly prosecuting his own father for crimes against Beacon.

Beacon forgot that lighthouses were meant to steer you away from danger. And Chris learned the hard way.

Chris once had a code. He was fair but firm in his upholding of the law. It broke Chris when the judge ruled a mistrial.

From then forward, Two-Face became judge and executioner.

Stiles looked down at Two-Face’s hand, seeing the unmarred coin facing upright. He released a heavy breath he didn’t know he was holding, knowing that he had been spared by the coin—for now.

“You’re coming with us,” Two-Face stated, yanking Stiles by the arm to follow after him.

Stiles stumbled some, fear welling up in his chest as he tried to keep up with Two-Face.

Then the smoke erupted.

Stiles covered his mouth, coughing some as he accidentally inhaled the smoke. He fell to the side when Two-Face suddenly released him. He buried his face into the sleeve of his jacket, daring to peek at the fight breaking out, thankful the smoke wasn’t burning his eyes.

A dark figure moved quickly, dispatching each enemy with precision and force. The gunfire had stopped, and the smoke was disappearing. Soft tears and low groans of pain filled the silent space.

When the smoke completely cleared, Stiles stood up. He glared down at the unconscious men near him. He made a move to pick up his deposit bag, not so subtly kicking the guy who had taken it. “Jackass,” he huffed. “You have some serious problems,” he added as an afterthought.

“Are you hurt?” A voice questioned, a scrambler making the tone deeper and unrecognizable.

Stiles startled, turning to face the person. He sagged some when he saw that it was Batman. “I … uh,” he looked around. “Yeah—I mean, no. I’m fine.” He stared at Batman, unsure what to say. He hadn’t seen the vigilante up close, knowing that the only person to hold a typical conversation with the man was his father while on the roof of the police building. “Hi,” he offered with a small wave.

Batman’s cowl was surprisingly more intimidating up close in the sunlight. He looked out of place surrounded by the pristine white marble of the bank’s lobby. His armor was more than just a simple kevlar vest, Stiles could tell that much from what he had seen in the Beacon Police stores.

Batman’s outfit was more than some Halloween store purchase–more than hockey pads and camo gear. His entire body was covered in armor. The weave of Batman’s torso was metallic in nature, pleated to offer mobility and armor coverage. The Bat symbol on his chest was prominent, zeroing in attention on it. His gauntlets had sharp edges to them, like barbs that were meant to protect him as much as inflict damage on his enemy. His cape surrounded him, an inky blackness that tried to keep most of him hidden even in broad daylight. His very presence emitted danger, as if getting close to him would result in the worst case scenario.

And Batman’s gaze didn’t leave Stiles.

“Beacon City Police,” a voice called out from the bank’s entrance.

Batman watched the cops filtering into the bank.

“Stiles!” John excitedly uttered when he saw his son was okay.

Stiles startled, looking at his father. “Dad,” he quietly uttered.

“Batman,” John greeted him as he passed the man to see if Stiles was okay.

“I’m fine,” Stiles quickly stated as John tried to inspect him for injuries, not wanting his father fussing over him in front of the others—especially Batman.

“Commissioner,” Batman uttered as he turned to take his leave.

John looked after Batman. “Is this part of the—”

“I was around,” Batman curtly answered just as he exited the bank’s atrium.

Stiles caught a glimpse of Batman using his grappling hook before disappearing completely. He stared after the man, unsure what had just transpired. “I thought he prowled only at night.”

John snorted out a laugh. “Only you, kid, could be confronted with someone like Two-Face and be concerned about Batman’s habits.”

Stiles smiled at his dad before utter horror took over his features. “Derek! I was on the phone with Derek!” He rushed over to the pile of phones, quickly snatching up his own.

“He called,” John explained.

Stiles drew in a slow breath. “That’s how you knew,” he reasoned as he called Derek back.

“Stiles?” Derek’s voice asked in concern, sounding a little out of breath.

“Hey, I’m okay,” Stiles quickly stated. “I’m sorry—I’m so glad I was talking to you when it happened.”

“You’re not hurt?” Derek asked.

“No, I’m okay,” Stiles replied. “Thank you for calling the cops.”

“It was the most rational thing I could do.”

“Yeah,” Stiles sighed, his heart finally dropping back down to normal. “Babe, you’re not going to believe it … Batman showed up.”

~*~

Tabloids were splashed with pictures of Stiles and Derek walking down the sidewalk. Someone gave the Beacon Gazette an anonymous tip. All it took was Stiles’ name, less than 16 hours, and now all of Beacon knew Stiles Stilinski, a nobody, was dating Derek Hale.

Stiles felt like he couldn’t breathe as he stared down at the newspaper that Heather handed him.

“I can see why you didn’t want to say anything,” Heather commented as she leaned against his desk.

“I think I’m going to scream,” Stiles mumbled, running his hand over his throat as he tried to coax the anger out.

“I’ll tell Harris you had to go—I heard from Aidan that he’s ready to kiss your ass if it means Hale will sign with him,” Heather offered.

“I have to go see Derek,” Stiles stated, pushing back from his desk. “Can you?”

“Of course,” Heather stated. “But remember this when you’re brushing elbows with society’s most elite bachelors,” she jokingly winked at him.

Stiles softly laughed, knowing it didn’t sound as sincere as he hoped it did.

He managed to make it almost to Hale Tower without someone recognizing him. He was accosted by paparazzi hanging outside the main entrance, all of them asking him question after question without a second for him to say anything. He was grateful when Boyd suddenly appeared, escorting him into the building and forcing the photographers to remain outside.

“As Mr. Hale has told you many times, this is private property,” Boyd curtly informed the reporter who tried to get in the door.

“Hale Tower is a business—”

“And we request that you respect the privacy of our clients,” Boyd countered, as if he had to do this on a daily basis.

“Thank you,” Stiles softly uttered, still overwhelmed even as security ushered the reporters out of the lobby.

“Derek was in the middle of a meeting when the papers hit stands,” Boyd explained. “He asked me to check on you, to make sure you’re safe.”

Stiles nodded. “I wanted to talk to him—let him know I didn’t do it,” he explained.

Boyd looked amused. “I’m sure Derek knows that.” He gestured his head towards the security checkpoint.

“You’re President of Hale Enterprises,” Stiles mused as he walked with Boyd towards the elevators, not at all surprised the guards ushered them in through an express point. “But you came to save me?”

Boyd laughed. “I’m Derek’s friend first,” he explained. “I was also heading out for lunch.”

Stiles looked at his watch, wincing some. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Boyd replied as he used his biometric scan to access the top floor. “I can have lunch whenever.”

Stiles marveled at the sophistication of the building. He hadn’t been in the Hale Tower before, despite Derek’s invitation for him to join him. It had been his reluctance to see how far out of his league Derek truly was.

“Mr. Boyd,” the woman sitting at the desk greeted Boyd. “Mr. Hale is still in his meeting.”

“That’s alright,” Boyd answered as he gestured for Stiles to follow him. He held the door to Derek’s office open for Stiles.

Stiles wasn’t ignorant of the fake smile the secretary gave him, knowing she was likely the same person who rejected him from speaking with Derek. He was going to keep that mental note.

Stiles was startled when he saw that Derek wasn’t alone—he wasn’t sure why he thought Derek would have been on a phone call instead of an in person meeting. He turned to Boyd, about to say he’d wait outside when Derek reacted.

“Stiles,” Derek quickly uttered, moving out from behind his desk. He looked relieved to see him.

Stiles offered a small smile as he accepted Derek’s hug. “Sorry,” he muttered. “My office was kind of tense when the news broke, and I wanted to see you,” he explained, looking at Derek as they pulled apart.

“Ah, so this is your new partner,” the older man commented as he looked at Stiles.

Stiles didn’t like the way the man’s tone had implied Stiles was just the latest in a string of long expired partner models. Like a cell phone upgrade, it’s own expiration date pending.

“I’m sorry for the interruption, Deuc,” Derek began.

The man—Deuc—held up his hand to silence whatever apology Derek was about to offer. He stood up as he spoke, “Nothing to apologize for. Take your time—you have my information.”

Stiles watched the man leave, uneasiness settling in his gut. “I’ve seen him before,” he stated to Derek.

“Deucalion,” Derek offered his full name. “He owns the company that owns your company.”

Stiles suddenly remembered where he saw him last—yelling at Harris in his office on one of the late nights Stiles had been pulled in.

“He’s an old friend of the family,” Derek added as an afterthought.

“I don’t trust him,” Stiles remarked as he looked at Derek. “I saw him fighting with Harris a while ago,” he explained. “He probably is pissed he hasn’t secured a contract with you.”

Derek’s brow pinched, his lips twisting into a frown. “Sounds about right,” he sighed. He shook his head. “Forget about them, how are you?”

Stiles opened his mouth to answer, frowning when he couldn’t find the words. “A little mad that someone told the tabloids.”

“Unfortunately, this is when you start finding out who is a real friend,” Derek explained. “I’m sorry for this, Stiles.”

“It’s not your fault,” Stiles reassuringly stated.

“I wanted to get to you before the paparazzi overwhelmed you, but I found out about the papers from Deucalion.”

“They got me outside the entrance.”

Derek’s brow pinched. “I am sorry, Stiles. I wanted to try and prepare you for this, but … there really isn’t anything that can prepare you.” Derek offered a sad smile to him. “It comes with my life, unfortunately.”

Stiles frowned at that. “I’m sorry you had to face that alone,” he replied.

Derek genuinely smiled as he placed a kiss to Stiles’ lips. “You’re not repulsed now?”

“A few camera flashes aren’t going to drive me away,” Stiles affirmed with his own smile. “I just wanted you to know that I didn’t leak it—I didn’t want you to think the worst.”

“I’d never think the worst of you,” Derek replied.

Stiles felt weightless with Derek’s words, smiling at him before looking around the office.

Derek’s office was large, taking up nearly half the top floor, the rest of it belonging to the balcony and what must have been private access to the helicopter pad on top. He turned about to inspect their surroundings, admiring the private bar and lounge in one corner as he settled behind Derek’s desk.

He reached a hand out to one of the photographs on Derek’s desk, drawing it closer for inspection. It was a family picture of a young Derek with his parents and sisters. Cora was barely a toddler held on Mr. Hale’s hip while Laura was tucked against Mrs. Hale’s side. Derek stood in front of his parents, his mother’s elegant hand placed on Derek’s shoulder while his father was touching his arm, as if he had to turn the young smiling boy back towards the camera.

“That’s the only picture we have all together.”

Stiles looked at Derek, offering a sad smile. “I’m glad you have it,” he answered, thinking of his own photos that were stored safely away in their albums, some hidden in the closet by his father. They held a great sadness for both men, and he wondered how Derek could brave staring at that photo nearly every day.

Stiles was about to pick up the paperweight, seeing the initials weren’t Derek’s.

“Careful,” Derek uttered, his hand taking hold of Stiles’ wrist to guide him away from touching the paperweight. “That opens a shortcut to the Batcave.”

Stiles laughed, turning to look at Derek. “You keep the Batcave under Hale Tower? That’s not very smart,” he joked.

“It’s one of the Batcaves,” Derek easily answered, as if his jest was the truth. “Nobody would dare think I’d keep my alter ego so close.”

Stiles stepped closer to Derek with a smile before pressing a kiss to Derek’s lips. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Me?” Derek remarked with mock skepticism and an arch of his eyebrows.

“Well, you do have a pretty swanky office, Mr. Hale,” Stiles spoke in a teasing tone as he took a step away from Derek, taking a turn around the room as he inspected the rest of it.

“Don’t call me that,” Derek countered as he watched Stiles taking a stroll around the office.

Stiles looked over his shoulder at Derek when he reached the front of Derek’s impressively large and ostentatious desk. “You don’t like it when I call you Mr. Hale?”

Derek’s jaw clenched.

Stiles slyly smiled as he turned to sit on Derek’s desk, slowly crossing his legs as he leaned back. “I think you actually like it.”

Derek kept his hands in his trouser pockets, remaining still with his eyes on Stiles.

“Are there cameras in here?” Stiles gently asked as he looked around.

“My own personal cameras that others don’t have access to,” Derek reluctantly answered, seeing how Stiles suddenly felt more at ease with that.

“So only you can see what we do in here?”

“Stiles,” Derek gently warned.

Stiles mischievously smirked. “You don’t want to hear about the fantasy I have involving a desk?” He arched his eyebrows up, doing his best to look innocent. “And your impressive office in your huge tower?”

“You’re a minx,” Derek remarked as he marched forward, closing the gap between them.

Stiles yelped in surprise when Derek pushed papers and folders out of the way, leaving room enough for Derek to lay him out across the desk. A laugh bubbled up just as Derek kissed him.

~*~

Stiles smiled to himself as he ran his fingertips over his lips, remembering the way Derek gently nipped his bottom lip when parting. Things were good—he had been reluctant, but being with Derek was better than anything he could remember in his life. He found himself not caring about the stress or exhaustion of his job, wondering when he’d next be able to see Derek.

It was nice.

The thrill Derek gave him had even outweighed the itch of prowl. He hadn’t even considered a heist in the last few months.

Stiles waited in front of the elevator as he thought about seeing Derek tonight for dinner.

“You’re not the first one,” a female voice interrupted Stiles’ thoughts.

Stiles startled, turning to look at the woman who spoke. He realized she was Derek’s secretary. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not the first to think you bagged him, and you won’t be the last,” the woman stated.

Stiles’ eyebrows furrowed. He could see the annoyance and disgust in her tone when referring to him. “I didn’t ask your opinion,” he countered.

The woman rolled her eyes, turning back to her computer as an act of complete dismissal.

Stiles narrowed his eyes at the woman just as the elevator chimed with its arrival. He stepped into the elevator, harshly slamming his hand against the button for the ground floor, a raw anger twisting his insides.

There were many things Stiles was unsure of in this world, but he knew Derek cared for him. And that is what mattered, despite the opinion of others.

Chapter Text

Stiles pulled on his jacket one more time, feeling as if he was suffocating in his suit. He stared at himself in the mirror, his stomach riled up with nerves. He drew in a steady breath, trying to calm himself. He never knew how his father faced so many fundraiser galas when all this felt like being fed into a shark tank.

Stiles felt strange being all dressed up in Derek’s apartment, feeling as if he was living some socialite’s dream but was lost in the grandeur of it all. He knew his suit wasn’t as nice as it should be, despite Derek’s insistence it was and the ultimate offer to buy him whatever he wanted if it would put him at ease. It was different than the romance novels say—it’s a feeling of uncertainty that he could ever give Derek anything more than his love and affection. Maybe the cheesy stories get it right, and it would be enough. He hoped it was enough.

“You look gorgeous.”

Stiles smiled as he turned to look at Derek. “You have to say that,” he uttered.

Derek shook his head. “I don’t have to compliment you.”

“You’re my boyfriend, you’re supposed to,” Stiles countered as he took a step closer to Derek, accepting a kiss.

It didn’t feel real to be standing here with Derek Hale, billionaire philanthropist, a man who exuded nothing but poise and beauty and grace to anyone who looked at him.

And he chose Stiles.

“You’re nervous,” Derek mumbled as he moved to place a kiss just under Stiles’ jaw.

“I feel inadequate,” Stiles barely whispered, afraid to admit it to Derek.

Derek pulled back to look at Stiles, a hurtful frown on his lips.

“Before you launch into a guilt riddled speech about me being perfect,” Stiles softly uttered in a playful banter, placing his fingertips over Derek’s mouth to prompt him to listen. “It’s not your fault—you’re the complete opposite of these people, and they don’t like that you’ve let me into their world. And I can handle that,” he faintly smiled as he dropped his hand from Derek’s mouth. “As long as you have my back, I can handle that.”

Derek pulled Stiles into a kiss, his hands settling on the small of Stiles’ back. “Your back, your front,” he mused with a smile when Stiles chuckled. His smile softened some as he observed Stiles’ features. “I love you,” he stated, his stomach clenching and twisting with the vulnerability of the words.

Stiles’ mouth parted in a small oval shape of surprise.

They were rounding out their first year together, and it wasn’t something Stiles expected to hear Derek say any time soon. He had pulled back once or twice when the words almost left his lips, unsure if it would clam Derek up or make him uncomfortable.

He remembered reading a tabloid opinion piece about Hale Enterprises, and the reporter remarking that Derek was unsuccessful in a love life because of his dedication to the job. Some speculated that Derek grew tired of those who did fall in love with him, because they lost their shine.

There had been one woman who everyone suspected would have become the future Mrs. Hale. And Paige Pierce never let anyone forget it whenever she reported anything on Derek or Hale Enterprises. She always started her opinions with, “when I was with Derek—”, and Stiles almost broke the tv in the mall when it kept playing her newsreels.

He may have actually broken a display of her signature new perfume line when he was on the prowl last week, enough jewels tucked away in his possession to get the recreational center in the Heights built. He wasn’t strong enough to avoid all his jealousy—what reporter had their own perfume or cologne line?

Stiles had grown hopeful that Derek’s reluctance to say anything about feelings had nothing to do with those opinions. He thought, more often than not, that Derek did love him, but never crossed that line to confirm.

Until tonight.

“I love you, too,” Stiles stated with a bright smile as he pulled Derek into a kiss. He wrapped his arms around Derek’s waist, his tongue slipping between their lips as their kiss deepened. He faintly moaned when Derek’s hands traveled underneath his jacket, his back suddenly firmly pressed against the window pane. Thoughts of last night flooded his mind, the feel of his hands pressed against the cool glass, his eyes barely able to see the reflection of Derek behind him. It was a rush of adrenaline as they fucked against the window, the skyline below was just a small glimpse for Stiles to see just how above everything Derek truly was.

“We’re going to be late,” Stiles softly admitted when Derek’s lips traveled down his jaw before resting on his neck.

“Fashionably late,” Derek answered in agreement.

~*~

Stiles wondered if this is what a trophy felt like on a prominently displayed shelf. He had a few glasses of complimentary champagne, lingering by Derek’s side on and off as he spectated the conversations with different stuffy people in expensive suits and evening gowns he was certain he saw on the cover of a fashion magazine. He had registered more than one person casting a side-eyed glance his way, especially when Derek’s arm lingered around him or Derek leaned in to whisper something just for him to hear.

Standing by the bar made things easier once the board members started speaking with Derek.

“Are you enjoying tonight?”

Stiles turned to look at the person speaking to him, faintly smiling when he realized it was Boyd. “It’s interesting,” he replied. “I can’t say that I’m very good at these things.” He looked at Derek, watching him converse with another corporate mogul. “Derek takes to it like a duck on water.”

Boyd made a noise of agreement. “He’s a natural because he doesn’t care what they think.”

“He was born for this.”

Stiles looked to his side to see Deucalion joining him and Boyd.

“Deucalion,” Boyd greeted him with a firm handshake, a slightly forced smile that Stiles did not miss.

“Vernon,” Deucalion replied as he shook Boyd’s hand.

Stiles’ hid his smile in his champagne flute when he saw the annoyance in Boyd’s expression. He looked back over at Derek, lifting his hand to wave to him when he saw Derek was watching him. He faintly smiled when Derek rolled his eyes at the people talking to him.

“And you’re Stiles,” Deucalion’s voice pulled Stiles’ attention back to the conversation.

“Yes,” Stiles replied, shaking Deucalion’s offered hand. “We met briefly in Derek’s office.”

“I remember,” Deucalion evenly answered. “You’re Commissioner Stilinski’s son, correct?”

Stiles nodded. “Commissioner Stilinski is my father,” he confirmed with a forced smile, the one he always wore when someone mentioned his father.

“Remarkable,” Deucalion commented. “You take after your mother.”

Stiles’ brow pinched some. “Excuse me?”

“Claudia Falcone,” Deucalion’s smile was anything but harmless.

The muscle in Stiles’ jaw ticked, his stomach twisting when Boyd looked at him.

It had been all the rage across tabloid journalism when Detective John Stilinski married the daughter and only heir to the Falcone crime family. Internal Affairs had a field day interrogating John and questioning every case he ever handled that related to the Falcone crime family.

John had arrested and provided evidence for every case brought up against the Falcones, and Claudia never once appeared connected. It wasn’t until Chris Argent cleared him that people began to forget the headline.

But no one ever connected the dots to the unsolved grand larceny cases Beacon City Police Department had been unable to solve. The calling card of a cat left behind.

Claudia was good at being untouchable. She just happened to fall in love with the detective trying to catch her.

A true crime game of cat and mouse, her only calling card to him being a perfectly formed imprint of her lips in the reddest shade of lipstick on cocktail napkins.

“I have my grandmother’s eyes I’ve heard too,” Stiles decidedly stated. “My grandfather loves to tell me about her.”

It was a poorly veiled threat.

Florence Falcone had been Carmine’s weak spot even before he rose to power, and Beacon’s streets ran red when she had been murdered. Decades later, Carmine called himself cursed the moment Claudia had been diagnosed with an incurable disease–one that slowly ate away at her. It was said that it was the first and only time Carmine had entered a church with the intention of real prayer to absolve his sins.

The sins of the father punished the child, afterall.

And Stiles was now the only family the aging crime boss had left, which put him in an impossible crossroads of safety and danger.

And Stiles saw something of dark amusement cross Deucalion’s features, as if he was partaking in a joke no one else heard. It unsettled something in Stiles.

“Enjoying the evening?” Derek asked as he approached them. He slipped his arm around Stiles’ waist as he leaned in to kiss him.

Stiles smiled softly into their kiss.

“I was telling Stiles I knew his mother,” Deucalion offered.

Derek looked at Deucalion. “A pleasant discovery,” he noted.

“Very,” Deucalion mused.

Stiles heard the lingering threat despite the conversation shifting to a new topic.

~*~

Stiles smiled as he sat on the stool at the breakfast table, his hands cupping the warm mug of coffee. He admired Derek as he watched him making breakfast at the stove.

Derek’s muscles rippled across his back as he continued to work. The well fitting tank top clung to his body, leaving little to anyone’s imagination that Derek Hale’s muscles were much bigger than his pristine designer suits let on. There were also scars peeking out from beneath the soft cotton.

Those scars were the ones that always worried Stiles. He would touch them at night, when Derek was sleeping, his fingertips traced the still pink scars on Derek’s ribs and shoulder blades, wondering what happened. The bruises that arrived randomly some nights gave Stiles pause, a part of him not believing Derek’s excuses of contact training. He wanted to believe Derek’s nonchalance dismissal of concern over them.

But he couldn’t stop the doubt that Derek was hiding something from him.

Just as he was hiding from Derek.

“What’s your horrific secret?” Stiles suddenly asked.

Derek snorted, turning his head to look over his shoulder at Stiles. He arched his eyebrow at him. “I told you, I’m Batman.”

Stiles smiled, shaking his head. “You’re too perfect,” he confessed with a shrug of his shoulders.

“I could be better,” Derek replied.

“Sure, I don’t get to see you as often as I’d like, and you disappear some nights, but you’ve been a dream of a boyfriend,” Stiles countered, spinning his mug in his hands as he looked at Derek.

Derek turned off the stove, placing the frying pan onto one of the unlit burners. He turned to look at Stiles, his arms crossing over his chest. He frowned as he released a heavy breath. “Did I do something that is bothering you?”

Stiles shook his head. “No, no of course not,” he quickly stated in reassurance. He drew in a long breath, running a hand through his hair. “Last night, Deucalion brought up my mother,” he started, looking at Derek. “He was so smug, like he had something to use against me … against you. And it made me realize that we don’t talk about certain things, and I … ”

Derek’s brow pinched. “I don’t normally talk about myself because people usually already know,” he offered. “And I didn’t even think about it.” He moved around the breakfast bar, taking a seat beside Stiles. “What do you want to know?”

Stiles nibbled on his bottom lip. He looked at Derek with a sad smile. “It’s not about you, it’s me. It’s… it’s about my mom,” he explained. “Because I really don’t want it to be thrown in your face.  And I don’t want you to think I was hiding anything.”

“Stiles, I’d never be mad at you for having your secrets,” Derek offered.

Stiles nodded. “I know,” he replied, trying to convince himself that Derek would always mean that. “But this has to do with my family, and it could affect you.”

Derek calmly took Stiles’ hand in his, brushing his thumb over Stiles’ knuckles.

“My mother was Claudia Falcone,” Stiles confessed as he looked at Derek. “Carmine Falcone is my grandfather.”

Derek’s features softened some.

“My mother wasn’t involved with … the family,” Stiles explained, choosing his words carefully. “I only met my grandfather when my mother got sick.”

“Stiles,” Derek softly uttered his name.

Stiles shook his head. “Everyone always freaks when they find out I’m technically a Falcone—”

“Stiles,” Derek sternly stated, reaching a hand up to make Stiles look at him. His features were open and welcoming. “It’s okay.”

Stiles opened his mouth to argue before clamping it shut. Derek wasn’t freaking out—he wasn’t concerned about his image.

“Carmine Falcone is … it’s complicated, but he’s considered a family friend ,” Derek stated.

Stiles looked at Derek in confusion, his brow furrowing.

“It’s a long story, but my mother saved his life once,” Derek explained.

Stiles was quiet for a moment. “That is strangely a relief,” he softly spoke. He looked at Derek, a small smile taking over his lips. “I guess it won’t be too much of a shock then.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Derek answered. “Make sure they handle it nicely in the papers.”

Stiles faintly laughed. “That would be a miracle.”

~*~

Stiles hugged his leg against his chest, pressing his cheek against his knee as he watched the television. He nibbled his lip, watching Derek giving a speech in front of Eichen Asylum’s gates.

Derek was gorgeous, even on tv. He stood out among the others gathered behind him, his words poised with elegance and thoughtfulness. It was the only glimpse Derek gave the public to his true self—Stiles wondered how Derek kept fooling people into thinking he was a socialite airhead who did nothing but party.

“I know he’s your boyfriend, but I don’t like his politics,” Lydia grumbled as she took her time watering the plants in her windowsill. She pursed her lips when pulling one of the wilted petals from the flowers. She ultimately moved to the couch beside Stiles once she satisfied herself, crumpling down onto the plump cushion, holding her wine glass close to her chest. Her arm dropped down onto the back of the couch, propping her head against her hand.

“You know he’s not wrong, Lyds,” Stiles replied, his eyes tracking the banner at the bottom of the tv detailing that Hale Enterprises were dedicated funds to overhaul the failing healthcare system that had long been underfunded by the city.

Stiles had seen Derek’s notes on the speech that morning, elegantly stacked on top of a memo Derek had received that weekend. Derek was donating a separate amount than what Hale Enterprises was, to fund after school programs and free health clinics in the more poverty stricken sections of the city.

Stiles had seen Derek’s elegant handwriting next to part of the memo underlined— orphanage renovation, healthcare check-ups and funding for extracurricular educational programs, birthday and holiday funds .

“Yeah, but having a billionaire philanthropist putting his nose in where it doesn’t belong never ends well,” Lydia countered.

Stiles looked at Lydia briefly. “And you’re saying the guy who uses an asylum as his own personal playground isn’t the issue?” He gestured to where the Warden of Eichen was speaking to the press after Derek had finished his speech.

“Hale doesn’t believe in—”

“Derek believes in reform, Lydia,” Stiles curtly uttered, sitting up some as he released his hold on his leg. “For the guy whose parents were gunned down in front of him, he’s pretty lenient on the way criminals run rampant here.”

“He donated money to name a building after his parents,” Lydia remarked. “Instead of dedicating it to the patients, the doctors and staff are getting a new fun center.”

“That’s not Derek’s decision.”

“I can’t believe we’re fighting over your boytoy.”

Stiles’ brow furrowed in annoyance. “My boyfriend,” he snapped at her, standing up and away from the couch. “I know you’re under a lot of stress at work, but attacking me isn’t necessary.”

“You’re in a unique position to actually do something, and you’ve done nothing but stand beside him and smile pretty for the cameras.”

Stiles shook his head, marching over to the door of Lydia’s apartment. He angrily grabbed his coat, pulling his arms through his sleeves. “I’m sorry, Lydia, that I haven’t exchanged sexual favors for what you think is the betterment of the city.”

Stiles wasn’t subtle when he slammed the door behind him. He had his own issues with being seen as a trophy next to Derek, he didn’t need to hear about his inadequacy from Lydia.

~*~

Stiles was walking down main street when it caught his eye.

A large yellow diamond sat on display, twinkling in the settling light of the evening sun.

It had been years since he stopped targeting jewelers specifically, but the urge never left him.

He walked up to the window, looking down at the diamond.

Never cash a check you can’t back up , that’s what his mother always said.

All Stiles would have to do is tell Derek that it caught his eye—that he would like it. The diamond would be wrapped up, boxed, and handed to Derek in the matter of minutes, no questions asked.

Before Derek, Stiles would have never been welcomed in a store like this in that way. He could take the diamond in just as little time as it took Derek to buy it.

And that was the horrific truth that scared Stiles.

He never wanted Derek to see that difference.

But as he continued to walk down the sidewalk, he wasn’t confident in knowing if that was completely possible to hide, the diamond looming like a shadow in his mind.

~*~

Derek had been surprised at the warmth in greeting he received from Stiles’ friends. He had agreed to the night out, knowing that it hadn’t been fair that it was a long time since Stiles saw his friends. And this was the first time Derek was meeting them in a more relaxed scenario.

Being surprised by various friends upon leaving or arriving at Stiles’ apartment hadn’t counted.

Derek wondered if Stiles felt good about introducing him—if there was a fear of awkwardness or shame. He was wealthy, a bureaucrat's dream of a socialite who had too much money. And some of Stiles’ friends didn’t shy away from hiding their dislike for it.

For him.

Stiles gently caressed his hand up and down Derek’s thigh, fingertips trailing along the inside. He faintly smiled when he heard Derek’s low chuckle at something the others laughed at. He turned his head to look at Derek, catching the way Derek adjusted his sitting position. He arched his eyebrows, a silent way of asking how he was doing.

Derek leaned forward, ducking his head into Stiles’ neck. His lips brushed over the taunt skin behind Stiles’ ear. “Having fun?” He asked in a soft voice, pulling back to look at Stiles.

Stiles nodded. “You?”

Derek nodded in return.

“Derek, you up for a game?”

Derek didn’t look at the person, eyes still on Stiles. He lightly chuckled at the way Stiles wiggled his eyebrows. “Sure,” he answered, moving to stand up, unashamed that the motion made Stiles’ hand visibly fall away from him, obvious that Stiles had his hand on his thigh under the table. And Stiles didn’t seem to care either.

Stiles spun his glass in a circle, wiping the condensation away as his eyes tracked Derek walking over to the billiard table. It was always a treat to see Derek wearing jeans and a simple henley shirt, buttons casually undone to reveal part of his chest just beneath his clavicle. Derek was irresistibly handsome, but there was something rare and comforting in the simplicity of it all—the stripping away of his public persona.

Stiles couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at his lips when he realized that Derek was allowing the others to explain the game—as if Derek didn’t have his own billiards table, or that teenage Derek had almost been kicked out of his prestigious private school for hustling his fellow pupils out of their allowances. His thoughts drifted to the table that took up room in the spacious and typically minimalistic atmosphere of Derek’s apartment.

“You’re smiling,” Lydia’s voice commented.

“I’m happy,” Stiles answered as he pulled his gaze away from Derek to look at Lydia. He frowned some.

Lydia looked exhausted, darkened circles under her eyes, her cheeks sunken and hollow. She was worn down.

“Lyds, are you okay?” Stiles asked, trying not to draw attention to her. Sure, he had been mad at her when he left her apartment after their fight, but she was the one who offered the olive branch—inviting him and Derek to this friends’ night.

“Work,” Lydia answered with a shrug. “Sometimes it feels like I sleep there.”

“Maybe you should ask for a few days off,” Stiles tried to make it sound like a suggestion instead of him dictating her life.

“I’m in the middle of something really important,” Lydia reasoned, offering a smile that Stiles was sure didn’t truly reach her eyes.

“Can’t wait?”

“Patient might decide to stop talking,” Lydia replied. “This could define my career, Stiles. It could open up so much.”

Stiles wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard a soft sigh of infatuation in Lydia’s tone.

A series of shouts—some surprised, some outraged—turned Stiles’ head away before he could ask. He saw Derek standing, nonchalantly, with his hands settled on the cue with ease, a shrug in his shoulders. There were surprisingly fewer of the pool balls on the table.

“That had to be beginner’s luck.”

Stiles didn’t stop his loud snort, smiling when Derek glanced at him. He definitely now knew what he wanted to do with Derek and a certain table once they reached the apartment.

~*~

Stiles fidgeted some as they traveled up the long driveway to the Hale manor. He pulled at his shirt more than once, hoping it was to the liking of both Laura and Cora.

“You’re nervous,” Derek stated as he allowed his eyes to leave the road. He took one hand off the steering wheel to place on Stiles’ clasped hands as a reassurance. “I told them to play nice.”

Stiles scoffed out a laugh. “That does not make me feel better,” he replied, lacing his fingers together with Derek’s. “I want them to like me.”

“They will,” Derek replied.

“You don’t know that,” Stiles countered in a quiet voice. “So many socialites hate me now that I’m dating you, it would be nice if your family actually liked me.”

Derek finally stopped the car once they were close enough to the garage, pulling his hand away from Stiles to put the car into park. He turned to look at Stiles as he shut off the vehicle’s engine. “Do you think I’d let them treat you poorly?”

Stiles saw the uncertainty in Derek’s gaze, quickly shaking his head. “The opposite, actually,” he explained, looking down at his lap. “I think if they hate me, you’d defend my honor and put a rift between you and your family because of it.”

“Stiles,” Derek softly stated. “If my sisters are going to be mean to you, that’s their fault. I love you, and if they don’t like it, that’s their problem not ours.”

Stiles looked up at Derek.

“They should be telling you to run away from me,” Derek replied. “They know how boring I am.”

Stiles smiled at that. “I like your kind of boring,” he countered as he leaned forward and kissed Derek. He was content to spend hours making out with Derek in the car like a couple of teenagers. But he knew Derek’s sisters were already inside, waiting for them. When they finally exited the car, he was grateful for Derek’s hand holding his, leading them towards the manor’s entrance.

“Besides, you’re too lovable for anyone to hate you,” Derek added, offering a small smile to Stiles as they reached the main doors.

Stiles tried not to stare at everything, taking in the large and grand architecture of the manor. The staircase branched off from the foyer, leading up into a balcony that disappeared into the walls. He could hear a fire crackling from a room off to the side, assuming it was the living room. He wished he had come here when Derek asked if he was interested, knowing he would feel more comfortable knowing his surroundings now that he was facing the Hale women tonight.

He tried to imagine Derek growing up here as a child, realizing that Derek could have been a much different person—someone who looked down his nose at someone like Stiles.

Stiles shrugged out of his coat, handing it off to Derek. He tried not to fidget.

“Oh, you’re here,” a female voice uttered.

Stiles looked up, seeing a woman descending the grand staircase with a glass of wine in her hand. He wondered if she was nervous, or angry, about having to meet him.

She wore an elegant pantsuit of fine tailoring. Her hair was pulled back, done up in what Stiles assumed was a bun. Despite wearing high stiletto heels, she looked relaxed—more at home than Derek did.

“I texted you,” Derek simply stated as he finished hanging up their coats.

Stiles looked at Derek, hoping for some direction.

“Hello, you must be Stiles,” the woman greeted him as she reached the bottom step, offering out a beautifully manicured hand to shake Stiles’ as she approached him. “I’m Laura. It’s nice to finally meet you,” she stated as she shook Stiles’ hand, side-eyeing Derek.

“Uh, yeah, likewise,” Stiles replied as he allowed his hand to fall away from Laura’s hold. He was thankful for Derek placing his arm back around his waist.

“We never get to meet any of Derek’s dates,” Laura commented. “He’s very particular about who he brings back.”

“He’s my boyfriend, Laura,” Derek corrected her, annoyance flaring up in his tone. “I don’t bring dates home.”

“Yes, I think the last one was Paige, wasn’t it?”

If asked, Stiles would have argued that he had done his best not to flinch at the woman’s name, but he knew Derek felt it when Derek’s arm tightened around him.

And the races were off already. Stiles managed to shake Derek’s sister’s hand and now the barbs started.

“Well, I think Paige is doing a piece on Eichen tonight, so she couldn’t make it,” Stiles dryly stated. “I guess you’ll have to settle for me.”

If this was how introductions were slated to go, he dreaded meeting Cora.

~*~

Dinner was eerily quiet.

Stiles tried to mimic Derek, hoping he was following the silverware etiquette correctly. His anxiety settled some when Derek’s hand gently rested on his thigh, reciprocating the comforting gesture by entwining his fingers with Derek’s. It wasn’t as bad as it could be.

Cora thankfully had just looked at Stiles, greeted him, and then ignored him for the rest of the pleasantries being exchanged earlier. Laura, on the other hand, seemed keen in knowing all she could about Stiles.

“Stiles,” Laura started as she took her wine glass in hand. “You’re going to have to settle something for us,” she started.

Stiles wanted to groan. “I’ll see if I can,” he responded in as polite a tone as he could muster.

“Derek doesn’t like to tell us anything personal,” Laura started.

It wasn’t hard to understand why.

“But there are too many rumors about how you both met,” Laura explained. She took a drink of her wine before asking, “So, do you work for Derek?”

Stiles knew this was coming. He was surprised he hadn’t had this conversation with anyone before, knowing people were going to accuse him of climbing the corporate ladder by fucking the boss. “Actually, I work at the company that was trying to make a merger with Derek for the past year.”

Laura made a slight noise of understanding. “So you met in a boardroom?”

“Laura,” Derek started, having long ago dropped his fork in the interest of glaring a large hole into Laura’s skull.

“Actually, I spilled coffee on him,” Stiles replied before anything else could be said.

Cora coughed as she choked on her wine. “That was you?” She asked, amusement in her voice. “Oh my God, the car smelled like coffee for a month,” she laughed. “Derek had to go to a board meeting with a coffee colored shirt that afternoon.”

“It made me realize I should keep a spare shirt in the office, just in case someone decides to spill hot coffee on me,” Derek replied, offering a playful side glance to Stiles.

Stiles faintly smiled. “He ran into me.”

“You weren’t looking where you were going,” Derek countered with a full smile on his lips.

“Neither were you,” Stiles replied.

Their shared looks, though small, were easy enough for Laura to catch.

~*~

“You seem to really like him,” Laura stated once Stiles left the drawing room to go to the bathroom.

“Do we have to have this conversation?” Derek asked, annoyed that Laura was even broaching the subject after the way she acted.

“I’m just saying, you seem happy,” Laura replied, her gaze less critical than before. “You can’t blame me for worrying.”

“You’re being cruel,” Derek corrected her with a glare. “He was scared enough as it was, thinking you’d both hate him because he’s not ‘one of us’.” He was angry at even having to repeat it.

“Are you going to tell him?” Cora asked, breaking the dreadful silence that was permeating between her siblings.

Derek looked at Cora.

Cora arched her eyebrows at him. “Derek, if you’re serious about him, which I’m taking it you are from what you’ve told us,” she started to speak in a hushed tone. “You can’t really keep it from him that you dress up as a bat at night to go out and fight crime. He’s not an airhead socialite—he will figure it out.”

Derek clenched his jaw.

“I’m not saying you have to invite him to be a vigilante with us, but he needs to know that you go out and beat the shit out of criminals as a hobby,” Cora sighed.

“Cora has a point,” Laura added, looking at Derek with sympathy.

“I’m going to tell him,” Derek replied.

Laura looked surprised. “You need to prepare him a bit better than just springing it on him. It’s not a marriage proposal.”

Derek was silent, looking away from his sister.

Cora looked between Laura and Derek. “You’re going to ask him to marry you,” she suddenly stated in shock.

Derek dropped his drink onto the old coffee table, undisturbed if the crystal broke from the carelessness. “It’s been nice,” he commented as he stood, buttoning his suit jacket.

“Derek—” Laura started as she stood, a million reasons running through her mind, screaming at her to tell him not to go through with it.

“I’m not speaking about this with you,” Derek stated as he looked at his sisters. “Because whatever you’re about to say is the exact reason I never mentioned this. I love him, and I will marry him if he’ll have me.” He exited the drawing room, prepared to wait for Stiles in the foyer. He was thankful it took less than a minute for Stiles to rejoin him.

Stiles took the steps two at a time, nearly skipping down them when he saw that Derek was waiting for him. “Everything okay?” He asked as he approached Derek.

Derek pulled Stiles into a kiss, his hand brushing Stiles’ cheek. “It is now,” he stated as he pressed a lingering kiss to Stiles’ lips. “Ready to go home?”

Stiles hesitated, his heart skipping a beat before he happily nodded. “Sure,” he uttered, turning to look at the drawing room entrance. “Shouldn’t we say goodbye?”

“I already did,” Derek replied, taking Stiles’ hand in his own as he walked them out of the manor.

~*~

“Don’t be late,” Stiles smiled as he released Derek’s hand once they parted outside their apartment building.

Stiles had kept his apartment, but he had moved in with Derek—spending almost every night there, wrapped in expensive sheets Stiles had no idea could feel so good against his skin. He was becoming a cliche of the person he had always viewed as a target.

And part of him was enjoying the luxury. It was hypocritical, to say the least, but he loved Derek–and even his lacking moral compass told him how wrong it was to keep secrets from him.

Derek tightened his hold on Stiles’ hand, refusing to let go as he pulled Stiles back in.

Stiles faintly laughed as he wrapped his free arm around Derek’s shoulders. He pressed a kiss to Derek’s lips, “You’re going to get me fired,” he playfully uttered. He didn’t care if paparazzi took more photos again—they seemed to be everywhere these days, but suddenly appeared a bit less interested in snapping candids as much. He wondered if Derek had something to do with it.

Regardless, Stiles was in love. Let the whole city see Derek Hale kissing him in broad daylight, in the middle of a busy street.

“Then I’ll have you all to myself,” Derek mused, kissing Stiles once more.

Stiles was smiling when he pulled out of Derek’s hold, his hand lingering on Derek’s chest. “I’ll see you tonight.”

It had been a few weeks since their dinner at the Manor, and Stiles wasn’t sure Derek was happy with what happened. He was comforted when Cora reached out to set up a lunch outing, but still hesitated to believe he’d be accepted by the Hale women. But nothing in Derek’s actions suggested he was pulling away from Stiles either.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Derek answered as his hand caressed Stiles'.

Derek should have begged Stiles to take the day off, knowing in his gut that it was what they both wanted. He admired Stiles for his work ethic, proud to know someone as dedicated and honest as Stiles—to know that he could earn the love of someone so right.

It was their anniversary. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for someone to take the day off from work, but Stiles insisted that he had to finish up something. He said he wanted to surprise Derek later.

Derek had his own surprise.

The ring was still sitting in Derek’s pocket when he entered the waiting area of the hospital’s emergency room. It wasn’t the morgue, Derek told himself in a moment of weakness, the need to be reassured that he hadn’t lost Stiles.

He felt just as useless and lost as he had that day with his parents. He was quiet as John spoke with the doctor.

“How long was he there?” John questioned, the hard edge gone from his voice.

“It’s hard to say,” the doctor explained with a sad expression. “I won’t lie to you—your son is in critical condition. He lost a lot of blood, and had several broken bones. We still don’t know the extent of the injuries to his internal organs.”

Derek pressed his face into his hands, fingernails digging into his skull.

He had sat in the restaurant, anxiously waiting as he rearranged the tableware more than once. He had checked his phone—called Stiles a few times. He never thought, in those moments, that Stiles would be laying in an alley dying.

Just like his parents.

“What happened?” Derek asked, cutting off his own thoughts and the doctor’s next words.

The doctor looked from Derek to John, attempting to silently ask if Derek was allowed to be present.

John looked expectantly at the doctor, waiting for Derek’s question to be answered.

“They’re not certain, but the anonymous call said they saw someone jump,” the doctor finally uttered.

Derek’s stomach twisted with anger. “That’s a lie,” he vehemently stated, looking up at the doctor.

“I’m only telling you what was reported,” the doctor clarified, noticing Derek’s anger was being directed at her. “We’ll know more once Stiles is out of surgery. You’re both welcome to wait here.”

Derek pressed his face back into his hands, unsure what to do with himself.

John’s body sank into the seat beside Derek, drawing in a heavy and wavering breath. “It doesn’t make sense,” he softly spoke. “Did you know he was at work?”

Derek pressed his hand to his mouth as he recalled their conversation this morning. “He said he had a few projects to finish—that he’d meet me at the restaurant for 8.”

John looked at Derek as he listened to the younger man speak.

“He always texts me when he’s on his way,” Derek confessed. “I called him around 7:40, and he didn’t answer. I should have … ” He clenched his jaw tightly, guilt boiling up in his gut. “I should have checked on him—”

“Derek, people run late,” John offered, placing a comforting hand on Derek’s shoulder. “This wasn’t your fault, son.”

“We don’t know that,” Derek weakly stated.

John’s expression looked perplexed.

“Someone could have … this wasn’t an accident, John,” Derek explained as he looked at the Commissioner. “Someone could have pushed him because of me.”

“Someone could have pushed him because of me,” John reiterated before Derek could continue. “I’ve lived with that type of guilt for a long time, Derek,” he explained. “But the truth is, whoever did this to Stiles is the one responsible. And I’m going to find them and prosecute them—to the full extent of the law.”

Something unsettled in Derek’s stomach, unsure if he truly had faith that Beacon would give Stiles the justice he deserved.

“What about Carmine?”

John looked surprised by Derek’s question. “I’m guessing Stiles told you then.”

Derek nodded his head.

John sighed, placing his elbows against his knees, allowing his arms to hang limply. “I’m terrified to know what that man will do once he hears about this.”

Derek’s brow twitched slightly as he thought about it.

Carmine Falcone had been a strange pillar in the crime community. He brought more stability and organization to an otherwise chaotic underbelly. He had turned crime into a business with a steady income that involved paying his taxes.

Derek stood. “I need to make a few phone calls,” he informed John. “But I’ll be back before the night ends.”

John looked at Derek. “Alright,” he finally stated, his tone almost uncertain. “You be careful, son.”

Derek nodded as he turned to exit.

~*~

Derek looked between the two monitors, tracing the various individuals who had walked by the alley around the reported time Stiles had fallen.

He knew, deep in his gut, that he was avoiding trying to track down the surveillance footage. He flinched when a sharp clicking noise hit the desk. He turned his head to see that it was Laura, her hand hovering over a cup of coffee she had set down next to him.

“You’ve been at this for fifteen hours,” Laura stated. She was changed out of her armor, hair still damp from her shower. She drank her tea as she watched Derek’s eyes return to the BatComputer.

“I’ve gotten details on almost everyone in the vicinity,” Derek explained. He barely turned his head to see Cora climbing up the platforming to the BatComputer, her armor still in place. She must have just gotten back from her patrol.

“You were right,” Cora uttered as she reached her siblings. “Carmine is amassing his forces.” She snuck a look at Laura.

Derek remained quiet as he quickly scanned the footage from Cora’s helmet.

“I think Carmine had no idea it even happened until one of his underlings had to inform him,” Cora explained, gently tapping her helmet against her thigh before running a hand over her braided hair. She looked uncomfortable before delivering her next piece of information, “He’s beyond pissed, Derek. He’s going to drown Beacon’s streets if …” She didn’t finish the thought that Stiles might die.

Derek leaned back in his chair. He watched as Carmine lashed out, beating the man who had informed him of Stiles’ hospitalization. Carmine yelled something at those remaining. The strong confident air left the man when the last person fled the room, a defeated slump in the older man’s shoulders as he crumpled against the bar. He couldn’t blame Carmine, not when he felt the rage starting to rise out of his grief and fear. He looked at his watch. “John will still be at the hospital for a few more hours.” He stood up, heading towards their armory,

Laura turned to look at her brother. “What are you doing?”

Derek ignored her as he started to strip out of his sweater and jeans.

“Derek,” Laura’s stern voice followed him. “You can’t do this.”

Derek pulled on the tight bodysuit as he ignored Laura’s warning.

“He has a right, Laura,” Cora softly countered their sister.

“What right?” Laura snapped at Cora as she turned away from Derek. “When we started this, we vowed to be a symbol for change—for good. We can’t be a symbol of vengeance for ourselves.”

A sharp, cruel laugh snapped through the armory, echoing into the rest of the cave.

Laura and Cora looked at Derek.

Derek had his suit on, the metal triweave of the armor nearly blending in with the rest of the darkened atmosphere. He was holding his helmet in his hands, staring down at it. “You have the nerve to say this isn’t revenge for what happened to mom and dad?”

Laura clenched her jaw.

Cora cast her gaze downward.

Derek turned to face his sisters. “All of this—no matter how we lie to ourselves or dress it up as being more than us… it’s all because some criminal who failed out of the system got away with killing our parents.”

Laura crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s vengeance for the city. It’s correcting the wrongs that made that man kill mom and dad.”

“You weren’t there,” Derek coldly uttered. He slowly closed the gap between them.

Derek remembered how he clung to his mother’s waist, staring in total shock and fear as the man's gun bypassed his mother before pointing directly at his forehead. He couldn’t move, fear taking over as he stared into the blackened barrel. He slowly became aware that it wasn't like the movies—his father wasn’t getting back up. He couldn’t move, even scream.

Talia’s grip on Derek’s shoulders suddenly had become like iron pistons digging into him.

Derek, for a long time after, didn’t know how Talia had gotten in front of him. He later read the newspaper article, how Talia Hale’s last moments were grabbing the gun and wrestling it away from the gunman. The only reason they found the culprit was because of the gouges running down his cheek–the traces of DNA embedded under Talia’s nails.

“Mom knew she was going to die,” Derek hollowly stated. “She knew there was no pleading with someone like that.”

“Stop trying to use them to justify this,” Laura nearly growled at Derek.

“Stop trying to ignore them to justify us,” Derek countered.

“Stop it!” Cora snapped at them. “What happened to mom and dad was wrong–and it happens to other people all the time,” she started, her hands tightening into fists as she fought against the lump growing in her throat. “Regardless of Stiles being who he is, this is a crime that has to be solved. Whoever attacked him did it for a reason, and whether it was because of his connection to the Falcones, Commissioner Stilinski, or us , we need to figure it out and solve this before a war breaks out and more people get hurt.”

Derek clenched his jaw before walking by Laura and heading towards the BatBike.

“Don’t use Batman for selfish revenge,” Laura suddenly called after Derek. “He still has to be an incorruptible beacon of hope.”

Derek paused for only a moment before mounting the bike.

~*~

Derek’s arms were dead weight. He had pulled his mask off, his hair wild in disarray as he leaned against Stiles’ bed. He unfastened the clasps of his gauntlet, pulling it off before taking hold of Stiles’ hand.

“I almost killed a man tonight,” he weakly admitted to the silent room, the beeping of Stiles’ machines answering him in a rhythmic melody. “I’ve put people in the hospital–I’ve maimed them beyond the point of full recovery. But I always held back in taking a life,” he confessed, turning Stiles’ hand to look at the IV that was taped there. He didn’t want to think how limp Stiles’ hand was–how lifeless his fingers were.

How long had he spent sitting in that alley, holding his mother’s hand, his other hand pressed against his father’s back? How cold had they been? He grew up, but in so many ways he was still stuck in that alley.

All the grief and rage hadn’t disappeared—it found another outlet. It remained hidden for years, lurking beneath the surface of the smiling billionaire playboy who pretended to have no cares.

“I can’t protect you,” Derek’s voice cracked as he pressed his forehead against Stiles’ hip. He couldn't see Stiles’ hand through the tears blurring his vision.

The informant was unconscious when Derek dropped him in the path of the ambulance bay. He knew he’d be found eventually. It didn’t erase the fear the man had when stumbling through that Harris was the one who ordered the surveillance wipe. But it was just the confirmation of the loose thread that Derek knew the whole time.

“I know who the next lead is,” Derek sniffled, softly shaking his head. “But if I… if I confront him–”

If he wanted answers, Adrian Harris was right where he could find him.

But he couldn’t. By every code and ethics he had, Derek knew he couldn’t confront the man.

“I’ll kill him, Stiles,” Derek weakly confessed, knowing full-well that he would.

Chapter Text

Stiles’ entire body was on fire, his skin feeling too tight for his body as he started to wake to the sound of voices. He could hear his father talking before Derek spoke.

“You said the surgeries went well,” Derek forcefully uttered.

“He is doing well, Mr. Hale,” a stranger spoke. “But he did jump out a thirteen story window.”

“He didn’t jump,” John sharply corrected the stranger.

Everyone was silent for a beat.

“He has multiple broken bones, contusions, and even though his internal bleeding has been stopped, there is no telling the full extent of the damage that was done—specifically to his brain,” the stranger blatantly explained. “I’m sorry, but there is no timeline for when, or if he’ll wake up.”

Stiles couldn’t talk—he would have said something witty if his brain wasn’t splitting in two, his voice blocked by the tubes down his throat. He couldn’t open his eyes, wondering if they had swollen shut. He felt like he was in hell, incapable of escaping the prison of his own body.

“I’ll stay the night,” Derek stated after the door had shut, likely signaling the departure of the annoying stranger.

“I can stay a while,” John countered.

“You came off a twelve hour shift, John,” Derek’s voice gently stated. “You were here straight through the night before.”

“Are you keeping tabs on me?” John inquired.

“No,” Derek honestly stated as he settled into the armchair next to Stiles’ bed. “I came to see him last night, but I didn’t want to wake you up.”

Stiles felt his father brush a hand through his hair, a gentle kiss pressed to his forehead.

“I won’t be gone long,” John softly promised Stiles.

Stiles couldn’t be certain if one of his tears rolled down his cheek or not, his mind fuzzy from the morphine and exhaustion as he slipped into nothingness.

~*~

“I’m sorry, John,” Batman uttered, the scrambler on his voice causing the words to warp and garble.

“You’re sorry,” John hollowly uttered, turning to look at Batman. He was standing by the Bat signal—the luminous light pouring from it was enough to light up the BCPD roof on its own. “I’ve been calling you for days,” he gestured towards the light.

“I’ve been busy,” Batman answered.

The anger in John’s face was a direct fragment of the grief he was suffering.

But Derek couldn’t tell him he shared that grief—he was still exhausted from the days spent holding Stiles’ hand. From sneaking into the hospital after hours, when nurses and doctors would have turned him away otherwise.

He knew the older man would have stayed here until Batman showed up. He knew, even despite his resistance to leaving Stiles’ side, that he had to come here. He had to give John something. He just didn’t know what.

Batman cast his eyes downwards out of guilt.

“I need to know—did someone target my son.”

It wasn’t a question or request. It was a command for Batman to tell him the truth.

“Your son indirectly worked for Deucalion Prince, one of the only main players left to take control over the Maroni crime family,” Batman started, turning to take a few steps across the rooftop. He couldn’t look John in the eye as he spoke the rest. “Stiles is the only grandson of Carmine Falcone.”

“You’re going to blame Carmine,” John angrily started. “That man, forgetting whatever crimes he has committed for just a moment… that man loves Stiles. He holds no fondness in his heart for me, even before Claudia died, but he loves Stiles. And he would tear apart this city—the city he spent his life wrestling to keep control of—if it meant keeping that boy safe.”

Batman remained silent as he looked out over the tops of the city’s buildings. His gaze eventually wandered over to Hale Tower. “I’m saying Deucalion wouldn’t take kindly to the grandson of his rival suddenly being privy to details that he could walk away with.”

John was silent for a beat. “You think Deucalion wants my son killed because he could bring information to Carmine.”

Batman looked at John. “The cameras from the alleyway were scrubbed clean,” he simply stated. “There are no witnesses besides an anonymous call that your son jumped.”

“He didn’t,” John snapped. “He wouldn’t do that to us.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Derek echoed. “But if his accident is ruled … a suicide, then no one will be blamed.”

John cursed under his breath turning his back on Batman. “I have no leads. I have no witnesses. I don’t even have the reassurance my son will live,” his voice cracked with the last words he spoke. He rubbed a hand over his mouth, brushing over the days’ old stubble across his cheeks. “I can’t bring my son justice. I’ve failed him—this city has failed him.”

He turned to look at Batman, ready to selfishly ask him for help. He couldn’t say he was surprised to find the masked vigilante gone.

~*~

“What brings Derek Hale, Prince of Beacon, to my doorstep?” Carmine questioned as he leaned back in the booth, observing the younger man.

Derek didn’t remember looking for Falcone’s contact information. He had been running on autopilot since the surgeon explained that Stiles would have to go through another round of surgeries once his condition stabilized. His charismatic mask cracked outside the hospital when the paparazzi swarmed him, asking questions about Stiles’ condition and if it was true that he had jumped. He tore the camera out of the paparazzi’s hands when it invaded his space, smashing it on the ground before shoving another person out of the way—he was relieved when Isaac opened the door for him to get in the vehicle.

Laura was kind when she spoke to Derek, her voice softer with the sadness of events. She must have seen the tabloid buzz that Derek had attacked a paparazzi.

Derek knew Laura still didn’t get it—Batman was always a tool for revenge. Justice cloaked in the night, isn’t that what he had agreed to be when their world grew dark? But right now, his entire world was shattered.

Here Derek was, in an emptied Iceberg Lounge during closed hours, sitting across from Beacon’s most powerful crime boss. And he was prepared to play his hand.

“I think you know why I’m here, Carmine,” Derek evenly stated.

Falcone’s lips quirked for a moment.

Carmine Falcone was an older gentleman who had reached his twilight years. He had become an old man, filled with regret for the life he hadn’t lived. His wife had been murdered in the bed beside him, a few of the bullets meant for him missed their mark. The man still walked with a limp in the aftermath, an ornately detailed cane a constant aid.

His hair had aged into an attractive white, swept back in a fashionable style while his face was clean shaven. His cold blue stare betrayed nothing, but the tick in his jaw was enough for Derek to know the man understood why their meeting was taking place.

Derek couldn’t see much of Carmine in Stiles.

What little Derek knew was that Stiles reminded Carmine of his daughter, and even his wife. It seemed that Carmine never prided himself in his family taking after him.

“You look a lot like your mother,” Carmine suddenly stated. “It’s funny, people often say how much boys look like their fathers when they are born. I think that’s an ego thing,” he snorted out a laugh as he accepted his drink from the waiter. “But you look a hell of a lot like Talia,” he stated as he looked Derek in the eyes. He took a moment to take a drawn out breath from his cigarette, pointing a finger at Derek’s eyes as he exhaled. “It’s that look.”

Derek remained silent.

“You and Stiles have that in common, you know,” Falcone continued, pausing to tap the cigarette ashes into the crystal tray resting to the side. “Stiles looks so much like Claudia—he has her eyes. Those amber eyes came from my wife,” his voice held a twinge of fondness as he spoke about his family. “I’ve seen that look on your face once before,” he uttered, looking up at Derek. “It was the night I told your mother I owed her a favor—anything she wanted, she was in my good graces for pulling those bullets out and stitching me up in her own foyer. I never did get to repay her.” He tapped his hand on the table. “You were just a kid when I offered it to you. I was starting to wonder if you even remembered.” An amused chuckle escaped him. “So, what’s the request?”

Derek reached his hand into the breast pocket of his suit’s jacket, looking annoyed when a few of Falcone’s men placed their hands on their guns.

“Calm down, boys,” Falcone waved his hand to dismiss their actions. “He’s dating my grandson—it would be rude to kill family.” His expression was one of ease, as if he would have been pleasantly surprised had Derek actually pulled a gun on him. He sipped his drink as he waited for Derek to proceed.

Derek showed the flash drive he had in his hand.

“I’m guessing that has something rather significant on it,” Falcone commented.

“It’s the CCTV footage from the building across the street from Stiles’ former employer,” Derek explained. “The footage was apparently erased before the police were allowed access to the system.”

Falcone took the flash drive from Derek, observing the small device. “And you came by this how?” He looked impressed with Derek.

“I have my means,” Derek answered. “I can’t bring it to the police, and I can’t walk into those offices demanding to know what happened without causing a scene.”

Falcone narrowed his gaze at Derek before setting the flash drive down on the table. He spun it around with his fingers, watching the plastic before looking back at Derek. “Indulge me.”

Derek hesitated, looking at those around them. He knew he was walking a thin line—the name his family made in Beacon could be undone in a second if anyone knew he was here.

But for the first time, he didn’t care—not if it meant justice for what happened to Stiles. Not if it meant his safety.

“Alright.”

“A rich man like you could buy the right people to help you,” Falcone started. “Hell, you’re in good enough shape, you could probably beat a confession out of the right man,” he pointed out as he gestured at Derek’s arms.

“You’re right,” Derek admitted. “I could easily do that.” He bit the inside of his lip, finally admitting out loud why he needed the mob boss’s help. “But I don’t trust myself not to kill the person who hurt Stiles.”

Falcone nodded. He lifted the flash drive from the table, reaching his hand out towards one of his men. “Find out what you can from that,” he instructed. He looked back at Derek as his man departed. “Are you serious about my grandson, or is this guilt because someone else you care about got hurt?”

Carmine Falcone was blunt in everything—he had the luxury of being so when he ruled Beacon’s underbelly.

“I was going to ask him to marry me that night,” Derek admitted.

Falcone’s hand stilled around his glass, staring at Derek as he observed him. “Do you love him?”

Derek stared back at Falcone. “Yes.”

Falcone faintly laughed, a small but fond smile as he lifted his glass at Derek. “To the happy couple,” he offered. He finished his drink, getting up from the booth. He slipped his cane under his palm, holding it close to his side—against the hip where the bullets passed through. “You’re a decent man, Derek Hale. Your parents would be proud. Keep my grandson happy, and you’ll have no complaints from me.” He offered out his hand to shake.

Laura was right—Batman was a symbol that couldn’t kill, no matter the cost.

But even before walking into the club, Derek knew he had crossed a line he couldn’t as a Hale. As Batman.

As a loving boyfriend though, it was a line all too easy to cross.

Derek reached his hand out, shaking Carmine Falcone’s hand with ease.

~*~

Stiles woke up to Derek holding his hand. He started to panic when he realized he couldn’t speak, tubes down his throat preventing the simplest of sounds. He squeezed his hand as hard as he could, attempting to get Derek’s attention.

“Stiles, hold on,” Derek’s frantic voice uttered as he leaned over Stiles to hit the call button. He looked down at Stiles, his hand still not letting go. “Just hang on, you’re safe—hang on.”

Derek looked as if he had been staying at Stiles’ bedside, darkened rings of exhaustion surrounding his eyes, his hair messed from running hands through it in a panicked motion.

He had lost weight.

Stiles blinked back the tears in his eyes, wishing he could have believed Derek’s words. He knew Harris had intended on killing him when he shoved him through the window, and there was nothing to stop Deucalion from seeing it done where Harris failed.

~*~

You can’t just make someone disappear.

No, but I can have them killed.

Deucalion’s smile that night was so dark, the twisted satisfaction caused the unraveling of Stiles’ gut when he realized what he meant.

Derek is waiting for me.

He didn’t remember why he said it—it was the first thought that slipped to his mouth. He knew Derek carried weight in this world—Derek was the shining example of what so many wanted to be. And he knew Deucalion wanted him in his pocket.

If the threat of Carmine’s wrath couldn’t sway someone, Derek’s always could.

If Stiles could leverage that, just until he was safe—

He’ll be waiting a long time .

Stiles didn’t remember falling. He remembered the impact though as the pain cut through him, each broken and shattered bone amplified into a million pains that sliced through him. And he laid there, in a darkened alley, praying someone would find him, that someone wouldn’t have to tell Derek that another part of his life would end in some dirty alley.

The last thing he remembered was the pressure of paws climbing up his leg, a warm weight moving to hunch over his stomach. Paws gently pressed into his sternum as the reflective glow of green cat eyes came into his sight.

~*~

Stiles kept his fingers entwined with Derek’s. He gently ran his thumb along  Derek’s knuckle and forefinger. He didn’t want to answer any more questions, or to relive the pain of what happened. He wanted to go home.

“You’ve made a remarkable recovery,” the doctor noted as she finished signing the appropriate paperwork for Stiles to be discharged. “A medical miracle, really. And you still don’t remember anything?”

Stiles looked up at the doctor, hesitating before shaking his head. “I remember … falling. And some of the moments before the ambulance. Nothing before. Nothing in the alley.”

John tightened his hold on the handles of the wheelchair, refraining from displaying his anger and guilt.

“Well, give it time,” the doctor offered before departing.

The chime of Derek’s phone cut through the silence of the room.

Stiles reluctantly let go of Derek’s hand to allow him to check his phone as his father started to push the wheelchair.

Derek’s voice grew agitated, a sharp annoyance in his tone as he spoke with the person.

Stiles turned his head to look at Derek when they stopped in front of the elevators.

“Shit,” Derek cursed as he hung up. His features softened some when he realized Stiles was watching him. “There are paparazzi outside.”

“Someone must have told them,” Stiles sighed, more resigned than angry.

“I’ll call an officer to come down—”

“They’ll say you’re abusing your power,” Stiles quickly countered his father’s idea.

“Isaac is outside with the vehicle,” Derek offered.

“I don’t want them taking pictures of me in the wheelchair,” Stiles vehemently stated, looking up at Derek.

“Stiles, your leg is still healing,” John started.

Stiles refused to drop Derek’s gaze.

Derek offered the duffle bag with Stiles’ clothes to John.

Stiles silently followed Derek’s gesture to stand. It was still difficult to stand for too long, the strength not fully back in his leg. He was startled with surprise when Derek picked him up, swept into a bridal carry. He wrapped his arm around Derek’s shoulders.

“We’ll take the stairs,” Derek explained to John as he gave a patient look to Stiles, waiting for his consent to leave.

Stiles nodded, leaning his head to press his face into Derek’s collarbone.

“I’ll tell Isaac to drive down to the back then,” John replied, his gaze lingering on Stiles and Derek as they started to depart.

“I know I usually rag on your apartment,” Stiles started once they were in the stairwell. “But can we stay there.” It wasn’t a question, but a hopeful admittance.

“Of course,” Derek answered as he took the steps with care not to jostle Stiles’ leg. “Isaac’s been seeing to your strays.”

Stiles smiled at that. “Cancel your meetings for the month,” he suddenly uttered. He didn’t want to be alone—with his thoughts, without Derek; he wasn’t sure which felt worse to consider, both were unbearable.

“I already have,” Derek replied, glancing briefly at Stiles. “We both know Boyd actually runs the company, I’m just a pretty face.”

“The prettiest,” Stiles commented.

Derek faintly smiled for the first time in the last few weeks, his heart aching each and every time Stiles belittled himself at any set back during his therapy. It pained to know he couldn’t even comfort Stiles with words of encouragement despite his attempts to. “I told them to cancel meetings and halt scheduling in the meantime,” he explained. “You have me at your disposal.”

“Oh, a true knight in shining armor,” Stiles softly uttered with a smile.

~*~

Even with Derek’s arms wrapped around him, the nightmares still played on repeat even with months gone by. His muscles would lock tightly, bracing for impact as a scream tore out of him.

Derek would wake Stiles with care, arms tightening and bracing Stiles from thrashing as he spoke calm words.

Stiles would cover his face, trying to hide the tears as he wiped them away. He still couldn’t tell Derek he remembered everything. Though, he started to suspect that Derek knew now that he asked less.

“Heather called again,” Derek explained as he poured their coffee. He looked over his shoulder at Stiles when he didn’t answer.

Stiles was staring down at the newspaper, leaning over the counter with his arms tightly crossed over his chest. “The company wants her to convince me to come back,” he finally stated, as if he could feel Derek’s questioning gaze on him. “Probably afraid I’ll press charges for being injured on the job.”

“You quit?” Derek asked as he set Stiles’ coffee down in front of him.

Stiles finally looked up at Derek. “When we left the hospital,” he explained. “I submitted my resignation while you and dad were checking out at the nurse’s station.”

Months of additional physical therapy had passed since then, Derek always believing Stiles would go back to the company. He felt relieved to know Stiles had finally parted with the job that caused him so much pain. He was a little unsteady with knowing that Stiles didn’t tell him, though.

“I want to start self defense classes,” Stiles suddenly announced, looking back down at the paper.

Derek circled his hands around his own coffee mug, observing Stiles. “I’ve told the security—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Stiles firmly uttered. He rose from his stool, reaching for his coffee. He looked down at the color, his lips pursing some. “I’d like to feel a bit more confident—especially when I’m out on my own.”

“Okay,” Derek easily agreed. “We could do it together.”

Stiles nodded as he walked around the breakfast table, reaching for the cream Derek had yet to put away. He poured a generous amount in, watching as it turned from the hazelnut brown to a lighter beige tone.

Derek arched his eyebrows at Stiles when he looked up at him.

“Trying something different,” Stiles uttered with a faint smile, leaning in to kiss Derek as he left the cream on the counter. He padded his way into the living room, a small hitch in his step still visible even though it had improved at a shocking rate. All of Stiles’ injuries were healing remarkably, and it took Derek threatening the hospital with legal action for the doctors to stop pestering Stiles to join studies.

Stiles’ mind was still healing—he didn’t need to be poked and prodded at.

Derek set his coffee down as he reached for the cream, putting it back in the fridge. He grabbed his coffee, hesitating when he saw the article Stiles had been reading. He reached his hand out, slowly spinning the newspaper around to face him.

The BCPD found a body on the old Founders Pier, identified as Adrian Harris.

Derek was surprised for a moment when he felt something in his chest suddenly loosen. He slowly folded the paper in half, covering the front page from view. He knew Carmine must have pieced it together and targeted Harris, possibly even without the flash drive. He was still uncomfortable not knowing why Harris had attacked Stiles. But as the days passed, he began to accept that they may never figure it out. He took solace in the fact that he knew Stiles was safer now.

~*~

Stiles drummed his gloved fingertips against the glass, tilting his head as he eavesdropped on Two Face’s goons. He waited, biding his time for the guards to leave on their break. It didn’t take long before Stiles could crack open the window and slip inside without a sound. He weaved himself from shadow to shadow before stopping at a painting of Victoria Argent. It wasn’t surprising to know that Chris would keep his safe behind a portrait of his deceased wife.

But it was the most human thing left about Chris now.

Stiles treated the painting with ease, refusing to damage it on behalf of the safe it hid.

He pressed his ear against the safe’s door, listening for the telltale clicks as he spun the dial. It didn’t take him that long, the tumblers clicking into place with ease. He was, however, surprised to find the safe empty.

“Haven’t seen you in a while.”

Stiles froze, closing his eyes for a brief moment.

Though he had healed, he really didn’t know if he could escape the Batman tonight. He had planned on taking it easy—the whole point to breaking into Two-Face’s vacant office.

“I had a meeting with the DA,” Stiles simply answered before turning to look at Batman. He pursed his lips, pouting some when he saw the hard drive in Batman’s hand. “See, that’s rude,” he started, taking a series of small strides to circle away from Batman. He wasn’t surprised when the caped crusader turned with him. “I need that.”

“I know.”

Stiles glowered at him. “Are we having a fight?”

“Depends on your next move,” Batman answered.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Can we reschedule this date? I have plans.”

“You’re not leaving until we talk.”

Stiles shifted his weight to rest on one leg as he lifted his hand to inspect the sharp claws on his gloves. He needed to put on a distracting show, and he was good at that. “Why talk when we could do much more interesting things?”

“Why are you looking into Chris Argent’s old cases?” Batman ignored Stiles’ flirtations.

“Why do you care? It’s about the mobs,” Stiles retorted. “Batman only cares about taking out low level crime, right?” He crossed his arms over his chest with a smirk when he saw the muscle in Batman’s jaw tick. “Putting the big names into Eichen so they can escape not that long after. Creating death and chaos in their wake.”

“Answer me,” Batman pressed.

“No,” Stiles smirked right before he made a dash for the window.

A grapple snatched around Stiles’ ankle, pulling him off balance. He fell down, hands dashing out to aid him in his fall. He flipped himself onto his back, glaring at Batman. He grabbed where the grapple had wrapped around his ankle, pulling hard on the reinforced line. He wasn’t surprised when Batman didn’t budge an inch.

“You know, it’s not like I expect you to be gentle,” Stiles remarked. “It’s not our first time, after all, but that was rude.”

“Why do you need this information on the mobs?” Batman questioned again.

“Why do you?”

“Didn’t say I did. But this information in the wrong hands could lead to chaos.”

Stiles scoffed out a laugh, his eyes dashing around the room for an escape. He didn’t allow his eyes to linger on the window he had left open. He was hopeful the deep tint of his goggles was enough to hide most of his face from Batman. He would feel bashful about the fact that he had even added cat ears to the helmet part—in the moment, he only cared that Batman remained ignorant to his real identity.

For John and Derek’s sakes.

“Why would you care if Deucalion Prince is killed for what he did to Florence Falcone?”

Batman looked startled at Stiles’ counter question.

It gave Stiles the opening he needed to make a very rash decision.

Unsure if he was making the best choice, Stiles hastily got to his feet and lunged at Batman.

Apparently, it was crazy enough that it caught Batman off guard.

Stiles was able to straddle Batman’s torso, claws digging into the tri-weave of Batman’s armored bracer, the other at the one vulnerable spot in the armor—the pleated weave at his ribs.

“You’re getting sloppy,” Stiles triumphantly uttered. “I remember your stamina being better than this. Getting tired?”

Stiles was startled when Batman lifted his hips and flipped them, pinning him to the floor beneath the behemoth of a vigilante. He angrily huffed as he tried to wiggle out of Batman’s hold, ignoring the way Batman’s cape  draped down over them.

“What do you want with the mobs?”

“Maybe you should take your head out of your ass long enough to see that the mobs are the problem, not the person looking to stop it all!” Stiles snapped as he glared up at Batman. He couldn’t see Batman’s eyes, the white ominous lenses stared down at Stiles.

The sharp angle of Batman’s strong jaw was the only prominent feature that had been detectable in the shadows he typically hid in. But now, Stiles could see Batman’s lips, the faint presence of stubble turning into a shadow among his cheeks. And something familiar in the dimpled corner of his lips.

“The mobs are changing—”

“Deucalion Prince is playing the system,” Stiles uttered. He laughed when Batman leaned back some, as if surprised by his words. “Don’t be ignorant, Carmine Falcone is keeping things the same, and Deucalion Prince can’t stand that—it’s why you can’t find any of Maroni’s money in the banks.”

“You stole Maroni’s money with your last bank heist,” Batman accused.

Stiles shook his head, laying limp against the floor as he felt Batman’s grip loosen. “As charming as it is to accuse me of bank theft,” he mused. “I didn’t steal any of Maroni’s money because it wasn’t there.” He waited a beat as he watched Batman consider it. “I stole Deucalion Prince’s money, because it’s the same.”

Batman leaned back more, his grip loosening.

“You should do your homework next time,” Stiles remarked, right before he curled his body to bring his leg up and connect the sole of his boot with Batman’s stomach.

Stiles had expected Batman to let go, or at the most violent extreme to punch him. He had not expected the grunt, followed by the intense strength of Batman’s arm folding Stiles’ leg nearly up to his shoulder.

Stiles released a laugh. “As fun as this is, I’m taken,” he huffed, twisting his arm free from Batman in order to catch him on his ribs. He used his strength to flip them again, easily shoving backwards with a flip. He landed on all fours, a good amount of room between them as he tightened his hold on the USB drive. “Sorry, Bats, but my dance card is full.”

He got through the window before Batman could stop him, fleeing the caped crusader being his primary concern.

Stiles didn’t stop running until he reached the top of his old apartment building. He crumbled into a heap on the fire escape, drawing in a deep breath despite the ache in his bones. He’d catch his breath and then slink inside the moment he was confident Batman hadn’t followed him.

Ms. Kitty meowed as she brushed against Stiles' leg.

“That was close,” Stiles mused as he unfastened his glove. He easily pet Ms. Kitty with his bare hand, smiling as she turned up against his palm. He snuck a look into his apartment window, seeing the analog clock reading that it was a little before three in the morning.

Stiles sighed, wondering if Derek was even home—there had been more late night meetings at the office these last weeks, a crunch since Derek’s prolonged absence. He looked down at the USB drive, wondering if he had time to check its contents.

And then a dark thought arose—would Derek even notice if he wasn’t home in the morning?

He thought about Batman, about the brief flicker of arousal that had hit him when Batman flipped them as if Stiles weighed nothing. Like Derek did sometimes.

Guilt struck him.

Their sex life had become nonexistent since the hospital, though Derek held Stiles whenever they shared a bed, unable to keep from simply touching him. There was a moment when Stiles had thought it was his own scars that kept Derek away. Yet, it wasn’t disgust in Derek’s eyes when he forced his gaze away, but guilt.

And Stiles wasn’t sure which was worse.

“I got more action tonight from Mr. Sourpuss than I do from my own boyfriend,” Stiles sighed aloud as he stood to stretch. He expertly traversed his way into the apartment just as he began to unzip his uniform. He pulled the mask off, dropping it on the countertop as he bent down to unbuckle his boots.

He walked over to his laptop, plugging the drive in to start his research.

So much for getting home before Derek.

~*~

Derek startled awake when someone shoved his feet off the table where they had been propped up on. He sagged with relief when he realized it was Boyd.

“With respect,” Boyd began, his voice suggesting nothing of the sort as he sat on the edge of the boardroom table where Derek’s feet had been. “If you need a place to sleep, I’m sure you could afford a better couch for your office.”

Derek closed his eyes, a faint laugh escaping. “I’m sorry,” he honestly apologized.

“I don’t have a problem with it, but the investors might find it strange to see you asleep during a meeting,” Boyd answered.

Derek nodded as he sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “I’m just tired.”

“Long night?”

“You could say that,” Derek answered. He wondered if he should take Boyd’s advice and start sleeping in his office. His nights were mostly sleepless now anyways, trying to find time to patrol the streets without Stiles noticing his absence. Other nights, Stiles’ night terrors would leave Derek awake, holding Stiles as he screamed through another one.

Derek had been so exhausted, he miscounted assailants last week and now sported bruised ribs.

And then there was the Cat Thief.

The resurgence of a string of high profile robberies was the last thing Batman needed on top of the increased mob activity.

The Cat Thief left a calling card with a cat motif where the object once was. It was a return to theatricality. But Derek was certain it couldn’t have been the original Cat Thief, too many people saying the thief from decades ago was a woman.

Extensive research misled Derek down a spiraling investigation into the unsolved cases in the last few years. Many of the robberies involved jewels belonging to private collections without reputable provenance, followed by a considerable sum of money being donated to charities throughout Beacon. If it wasn’t for the mystery of the Cat Thief, Derek believed he'd let him continue his work if no one was harmed in the process.

Last night had been the first time in a while that Derek felt the old rush of adrenaline he had when first patrolling the city. The Cat Thief had been enough of a challenge—cunning and versatile, quick witted.

The flirtation was new, Derek had to admit. And it soured him to think about Stiles, waiting at home alone for him.

Guilt gnawed at him.

That morning, when Derek got home, Stiles was passed out on the couch, a streaming service asking through frozen text on the television if the viewer was still watching. Derek turned the television off, leaning over the back of the couch to brush his fingers through Stiles’ hair.

Stiles stretched, his back arching as he pressed into Derek’s touch. His shirt rose up his abdomen to reveal a few bruises, ones he claimed were from his self-defense classes—Derek knew he would be a hypocrite to argue despite his suspicions. “Mornin’,” his sleepy voice greeted Derek as he peeked one eye open to look up at him with a smile faintly curving the corner of his mouth.

That moment of slipping onto the couch and draping himself over Stiles, resting in his welcoming arms, was enough to push Derek into seriously considering Laura’s offer of a vacation.

Stiles was warm, and soft, and his smile pushed the tiredness away.

The pain stopped.

“How is Stiles?” Boyd decided to ask.

Derek was quiet for a moment, wondering how he could answer that. “Recovering,” he chose.

“I’m sure he’s making progress,” Boyd replied.

“He’s started self defense classes,” Derek explained, looking at Boyd. “I think he knows who attacked him.”

Boyd silently nodded. “Don’t we all?”

Derek knew Boyd had been aware of the probability Harris was the one who shoved Stiles out the window. Even Laura called from the European branch to accuse Derek of murder—it had been a charged conversation, heated and accusatory before both siblings ultimately hung up.

“Things have just been different,” Derek offered.

Boyd hummed in agreement. “Well, Erica’s waiting for the announcement.”

“That won’t happen for a while,” Derek replied. “I want to make sure he knows it’s not a spur of the moment because of what happened.”

“You mean, so he knows what the paparazzi writes isn’t the truth.”

“Something like that,” Derek answered. He looked at his watch, deciding to call it an early evening and head out for his dinner with Stiles.

Boyd sighed, looking down at the ground. “And the dancing around the merger … is that a part of what happened with Stiles?”

Derek looked up at Boyd. “No, I’m humoring Deucalion.”

Boyd’s brow furrowed as he watched Derek stand from his chair. “Why go to the trouble?”

“By acting like a merger is possible, we get a look at his books,” Derek explained as he smoothed out the lines in his suit, carefully adjusting the length of his sleeves in order to fix his cufflinks.

“His books, which are too perfect,” Boyd concluded.

“If you say so,” Derek replied with a smile.

Boyd chuckled as he shook his head. “You could have told me.”

“I’m playing this one close to the heart,” Derek admitted.

“Understandably,” Boyd answered.

~*~

Lydia sat down abruptly, releasing a heavy sigh as she tossed her purse on the table. “I swear, this city is going downhill fast.”

“Are you okay?” Stiles asked with a furrowed brow.

“Fine,” Lydia replied, picking up her menu. “Just a bit tired.” She offered a small smile to Stiles before scanning the menu. “How are you?”

Stiles released a breath, his gaze lingering on the large glass windows offering a view of the street. He had been reluctant to accept Lydia’s offer of lunch when he realized paparazzi were still buzzing around his attack. “I feel like a fish in a giant bowl,” he finally answered.

“You’re engaged to Derek Hale, that was bound to happen,” Lydia nonchalantly stated, casting an annoyed glance at the windows the paparazzi were invading.

Stiles looked at Lydia. “We’re not engaged.”

“The tabloids are saying you’re expecting a spring wedding,” Lydia continued, finally discarding the menu onto the table with disinterest. She looked at Stiles. “Apparently your billionaire boyfriend carrying you out of the hospital in a bridal carry means an engagement.”

Stiles closed his eyes in a grimace. “I knew it.”

“Matt Gallager,” Lydia explained as she got her phone out, tapping a few words into a search engine before turning the screen to her friend. “He’s annoyingly good.”

Stiles took the phone from Lydia, his jaw tightening in anger.

The photograph showed Derek walking towards the waiting car, Stiles neatly cradled in Derek’s arms. There was a second photo showing Derek leaning into the car and kissing Stiles, Stiles’ hand holding onto the collar of Derek’s shirt.

It was a private moment, one not meant for anyone else to see.

“I’m surprised you didn’t know,” Lydia commented.

“Derek doesn’t pay attention to this stuff—he'd be scrolling for hours if he did, and my dad avoids telling me,” Stiles answered, handing Lydia’s phone back to her.

“Sorry to hear that,” Lydia replied. “So I can’t expect an invitation any time soon?”

Stiles avoided looking at Lydia.

“Don’t tell me there is trouble in paradise,” Lydia playfully uttered. “Everyone knows Derek was nearly destroyed while you were in the hospital.”

Stiles shook his head. “Nothing like that.”

Lydia was quiet for a moment.

Stiles sighed. “He won’t touch me,” he finally said, sneaking a glance at Lydia. “I think he’s scared to break me.”

Lydia deflated into her chair, carefully watching Stiles. “Better than him trying  to,” she softly spoke.

Stiles’ features fell some as he observed his friend.

“I think you have to give him some credit,” Lydia chose to steamroll over her earlier comment. “Think about the last time he lost someone he loved.”

Stiles thought about it often, even before he accompanied Derek on the anniversary of his parents’ death.

Cora refused to go, unable to bring herself to go to the place her parents died—Stiles didn’t blame her for it, knowing his uneasiness of hospitals haunted him from his mother’s final days. Laura was in France, Derek saying that busying herself with work was the only way for her to cope.

So Derek was left alone to carry the guilt, like he did every day, but that day was worse.

Stiles stared at the sign for the Monarch theater, the letters more imposing than anything. He couldn’t imagine what Derek felt, a child leaving the theater with his parents, unknowing it would be the last time he would be with them.

Derek wordlessly knelt, placing the white roses down on the asphalt. He lingered, his gaze looking down the alley. It looked different in the daylight, something Derek never thought of at first, so obsessed with wondering what he could have done differently.

Stiles moved closer to Derek, placing his hand on Derek’s shoulder in what he had hoped was a comforting manner.

“I can’t visit their graves,” Derek uttered. “All I can think about is the funeral—my sisters crying, Cora screaming even though she didn’t understand. My uncle—” he stopped himself, finally forcing himself to stand. “I can’t visit my parents’ graves, but I can stand in this alley where they were murdered. It’s pathetic.”

“No, it’s not,” Stiles firmly stated, taking a step in front of Derek—between him and the alley. He reached a hand up, forcing Derek to look at him. “It’s not.”

“You know I was in this alley for 27 minutes after it happened?” Derek suddenly stated, his eyes looking up at the apartment above the theater. “It felt like hours. Someone called after they heard the shots, but no one came to check.” Tears formed in Derek’s eyes as he looked away from the apartment’s windows. “I sat between my parents’ bodies. I don’t remember crying, but I do remember screaming for help.” He shook his head. “It wasn’t until your father tried to put my father’s coat on me—to keep me warm, that I broke completely.”

Stiles knew—his father told him after meeting Derek for the first time. John said he wanted Stiles to know, unsure if Derek would be able to tell him about it. Stiles loved his father even more for knowing he gave Derek a moment of stability in such shattered chaos.

“It’s not like in the movies,” Derek weakly uttered.

“It never is,” Stiles softly added. He brushed his thumb over Derek’s cheek, leaning forward to kiss the corner of his lips. “You don’t have to come here alone,” he stated. “Never again.”

Stiles had wondered what happened when Derek got the call about him. He didn’t ask Derek, unwilling to bring up the trauma he could have felt. He wanted nothing but to comfort Derek in those moments.

“Derek will come around when he finally realizes you’re safe,” Lydia’s voice broke through Stiles’ thoughts.

Stiles looked at her.

“He’s crazy about you, and if a chunk of paparazzi are reporting that you’ll be engaged soon, I’m sure someone out there knows something we don’t,” Lydia remarked.

Stiles knew—he found the ring box. Derek wasn’t the best at hiding things, being as cliche as to hide it in his sock drawer. He pretended he hadn’t accidentally grabbed the box, immediately dropping it and pushing it back into place. It was why he quit his job on their anniversary, hopeful that Derek would be the hopeless romantic Stiles knew him to be and propose during their dinner. He wanted nothing more than to spend his life with Derek, refusing to let Emerite push his boundaries in respect to Derek. He could work anywhere, knowing Derek wouldn’t care as long as he was happy.

Harris took Stiles’ sudden resignation as an admittance of knowing something. It had been unexpected—terrifying—when Harris suddenly turned menacing, an unknown strength shoving Stiles back through the window in his office. All under the watchful eye of Deucalion Prince.

Stiles abruptly stood from the table, startling Lydia. “Bathroom,” he curtly spoke, running for where he knew the restrooms were. He was going to throw up with the memories flooding back in, the panic churning bile into his throat.

A cold sweat overcame him as he sank to the bathroom floor, leaning his forehead against his drawn up knees as he tried to breathe. He pretended he wasn’t sitting on a filthy public restroom floor—even if it was the restroom of one of the most prestigious spots in Beacon’s wealth district.

Harris was the one who shoved him out the window, but Deucalion Prince wanted him dead. He wouldn’t feel safe until he dealt with that man. Stiles almost had everything he needed to connect Deucalion to all of it—the Maroni family crimes, embezzlement, extortion, and murder.

Stiles clenched his jaw at the reminder of the debrief Deucalion had given in the former DA’s files—a casual admittance to murder.

A confession to the murder of Florence Falcone.

Stiles didn’t have solid memories of his grandmother. He was only six when she died. But there were moments when he would have deja vu, or a flicker of familiarity, and he could recall the shape of a person—the bright aura, and the foggy recall of a smile and warm hugs. Even the faintest scent of jasmine perfume brought Stiles back to moments he couldn’t fully remember.

Florence Falcone loved the man Carmine Falcone was, not the mob boss he became, and she paid for it.

The pieces were there, but no one ever bothered to put it all together—why would anyone want to tell a mob boss that the love of his life was murdered by the man who was trying to replace him.

Stiles was going to get the evidence he needed to take the whole operation down, one way or another, and hand Deucalion over to Carmine in the end. He told himself it was necessary not just for his own safety—he was protecting Derek the way Carmine never could protect Florence.

He just couldn’t give the information to Carmine yet. He knew his grandfather would start a war in Beacon, and it wouldn’t solve anything without taking Deucalion’s public image apart.

It was all coming down, one way or another.

~*~

“Is Stiles alright?” Derek asked when he returned to his office to find Commissioner Stilinski waiting for him. A panic washed through him at the thought.

“Stiles is fine—Lydia took him to lunch, actually,” John answered with a softly fond smile. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Derek shuffled the folders in his hands, offering them to Boyd. “Can we—”

“Continue this conversation after lunch,” Boyd finished as he accepted the papers from Derek. He nodded his head to John. He placed a comforting hand on Derek’s shoulder before departing.

Derek undid the button on his jacket as he moved behind the small bar by the balcony. He had never understood why his mother had insisted on a bar being installed within her office—until days like this. He picked up one of the bottles of whiskey, twisting the cover off. He looked at John, vaguely gesturing to the bottle. “If you’re not on duty.”

John hesitated before nodding. “Was that a test to see if I was coming to you as a cop or the father of your boyfriend?” He asked as he closed the distance towards the bar.

Derek faintly smiled as he poured the glass. “I think I can ask you outright if you’d be here without Stiles knowing if it was business.”

John snorted, nodding his head in agreement. He sat on the stool, his eyes vigilantly watching Derek’s actions. He reached a hand out and took the glass that was slid across the refined bartop. His grip on the crystal was light, watching as Derek finished pouring himself a drink. He waited until they both drank some of the whiskey, finally saying, “You went to see Carmine Falcone when Stiles was in the hospital.”

Derek didn’t freeze like most people would have when the Police Commissioner implied knowledge of their meetings with a known head of a crime family. He nodded his head. “I did,” he honestly answered.

Derek surprised John.

John sighed. “I’m glad you were honest with me, son,” he admitted.

Derek leaned against the bartop. “What is this about, John?”

John tapped his thumb against the glass’s crystal rim. He noticed the small specks of gold in the near priceless item. He almost wondered if they were heirlooms, from some purchase made by the family that built Beacon before the city even was a sparkle of an idea. “You saved me a trip,” he admitted, looking up at Derek. “But we both know Harris wasn’t the only person responsible.”

Derek slowly nodded. “And Carmine likely knows that. He’s sending a message to the one responsible.” He lifted the glass to his lips, taking another drink of whiskey. He stared down at the glass when he spoke, “I gave him footage from the alley.”

John actually looked surprised now. “How did you get that?”

Derek looked away from John. “I have connections, and I leaned on them pretty hard.” He snuck a glance at John. “A certain masked vigilante assisted in getting it.”

John appeared unsure about that. “Why would he give it to you?”

“Because you can’t use it, John,” Derek answered. “It was obtained, well … rather illegally.”

John nodded after a beat.

“And I couldn’t use it,” Derek continued. “So I gave it to the one person I could think of who’d use it and who cared about Stiles enough to want him safe.”

“Why did Carmine even see you?” John pressed. He seemed uncertain of where the connection could have been.

“My mother saved Carmine Falcone’s life,” Derek explained. “I watched as she stitched him up. I saw him nearly bleed out in my childhood home, and my mother saved his life.” He offered a half-hearted shrug. “He told her he owed her. And after … after my parents were murdered, he extended the courtesy to me at their funeral.”

Derek remembered looking up at the older man who shook his hand. He hadn’t understood as a child what Carmine meant when he offered “anything” that was needed. As an adult, he never thought he would have used the favor.

John released a deep breath. “Well, that’s that.” He stood from the barstool, swiftly drinking the remains of his drink before pushing the glass back towards Derek. “That’s all I wanted to know.”

Derek nodded in acceptance.

John hesitated briefly. “You love my son,” he stated. “And I can’t say there are many people who would have done what you did.”

Derek swallowed the lump in his throat.

“But as a father … I’m glad you did.”

Chapter Text

Stiles glowered at the tablet in his hand, tossing it down onto the couch as he tried to ignore the headline. He had no idea the paparazzi would have followed him downtown, criticizing his shopping spree—or so they called it. He wanted new clothes, things he hadn’t worn to the office before—a different look for a new chapter. All the tabloids saw was Stiles spending Derek’s money, refusing to believe he had any savings of his own to spend.

“Ah, ha,” Lydia’s voice hummed through the phone.

“They put me shopping as a breaking news alert when the Joker literally broke out of Eichen again! I can’t win,” Stiles concluded as he stared up at the ceiling, sprawled out on the couch. He had caved and called Lydia for advice.

“You’re winning already.”

Stiles pursed his lips some. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

“You have Beacon’s most eligible bachelor wrapped around your finger,” Lydia stated matter of factly. “Derek told you to spend whatever you wanted.”

“I was spending my own money,” Stiles vehemently countered.

“Why do you care?” Lydia finally demanded.

Stiles felt taken aback by her tone. “Because, I’m not using him for his money.”

“He knows that,” Lydia uttered. The sound of papers flipping and filing cabinets open and closing were loud enough for Stiles to hear.

“Do you think someone like Derek Hale would allow anyone to take advantage of his name or fortune?”

Stiles sighed, closing his eyes. “No.”

“Use the money, don’t use the money,” Lydia concluded. “It’s nobody’s fucking business but yours or Derek’s.”

Stiles turned his head to look out the skyline.

“Besides,” Lydia added as an afterthought. “What is the harm if everyone already thinks you’re using it anyways.”

Stiles knew Lydia had a point. He thought about a few of the items he had seen in the shop windows on Beacon’s main street.

Derek could afford them without blinking.

Stiles could take them without blinking.

~*~

Derek barely acknowledged the conversation the group was having, looking over at Stiles instead. His forefinger brushed over Stiles’ knuckle as their entwined hands rested against Stiles’ thigh. His free arm relaxed against the back of Stiles’ chair, his hand lingering against Stiles’ shoulder. He was silently asking Stiles if he was ready to go.

Stiles gently squeezed Derek’s hand, keeping his gaze flickering between the people speaking. He had reluctantly agreed to the dinner tonight, willingly accompanying Derek in the hopes that it would make it more tolerable for him. He ignored the initial lingering stares as he slotted against Derek.

He wasn’t ignorant—he had seen the paparazzi taking pictures outside the hotel. He thought it ridiculous, a group of social elite eating at an overpriced restaurant at an overpriced hotel is what passed for newsworthy in Beacon. But now this was his life.

“It’s just ridiculous,” one of the men uttered.

“I think he’s making things better,” the woman across the table replied. “He’s doing what the cops and lawyers haven’t been able to do.”

Stiles shifted in his seat, aware of the gentle squeeze Derek offered when sensing his uneasiness.

“Regardless of what Batman does, he’s a vigilante.”

“Then why is there a light with his symbol on top of the BCPD?”

Derek leaned closer to Stiles. “Do you want to get out of here?”

Stiles looked at Derek. “Don’t I always,” he answered in a light voice. He gently turned his eyes away from Derek, pulling his phone from his pocket as discretely as possible when he felt it buzz. He saw that it was Lydia calling. He frowned, knowing she was working a late shift.

“Stiles,” one of the people addressed him.

Stiles reluctantly looked away from his phone, sending it to voicemail for now, before offering a fake smile to placate whatever was about to happen.

“Your father is Commissioner, what’s his take on the Batman.”

Stiles politely chuckled, shaking his head as he put his phone away. “You can hardly expect my father to discuss important case work with me over Sunday brunch.” He was accustomed to people questioning him about his father ever since John was made commissioner.

A few of the others laughed.

Derek’s hand caressed over Stiles’ shoulder blade.

“A pragmatic answer,” the woman answered.

Stiles shuffled uneasy.

“Commissioner Stilinski has done more for Beacon than his predecessors,” Derek suddenly stated, looking at the others. “I know he doesn’t play as much golf, but I tend to appreciate a commissioner doing his job.” He offered his typical publicity smile. “Besides, a man dressing up like a bat to run around at night beating up the mob,” he shook his head with a faint scoff, “sounds like someone who isn’t a main priority for cops.”

Stiles reached his hand up to hold Derek’s hand resting on his shoulder. He caressed his fingers over Derek’s knuckles, enjoying the gentle touch of Derek’s thumb brushing just under his jaw.

The night didn’t end as soon as Stiles had hoped it would. But he took it all in stride, glad that Derek spoke his mind even when among those in the social hierarchy breathing down his neck to share their elitist opinions.

No doubt they blamed poor trash like Stiles for corrupting the prince of Beacon.

Stiles didn’t even have a breath of relief in the elevator when the others joined him and Derek. He wanted to head home after such a repulsive night of pompous rich elitists prattling on about his father’s job as commissioner and their resentment that Derek gave his wealth away to charity. He knew they were implying that Stiles was one of those cases.

Stiles reached a hand down to twist at his cufflink. He knew Derek had noticed them before they left the apartment, but was surprised when he didn’t ask about them. Derek would see that there was no charge in his account—it would leave the purchase weighing on Stiles’ private account.

An account Derek never pressed to see. It made the lies easy—the assumption that Stiles’ savings could cover such an outlandish purchase as these diamond cufflinks.

The vault had been easy to pick, the adrenaline wearing thin once he was walking into the apartment with his score. He had slipped into bed beside Derek, naked, gently waking him from sleep. They ended up blowing each other, a gigantic step forward from Derek’s near celibate treatment of Stiles since the accident.

Stiles felt uneasy that morning when he saw the nail marks along Derek’s hips, one particularly sharp scrape along Derek’s shoulder blades where Stiles had dug in deep. He gently washed soap across them as they shared the shower, aware of the way Derek didn’t even react to the sting. Derek had enough scars, and Stiles felt sickened that he could possibly add to them one day.

Numerous people entered and exited the elevator from floor to floor, slowing their descent. More than one person did a quick double take when recognizing Derek’s figure perched in the corner behind Stiles.

Stiles was used to people recognizing Derek—to crowding Derek or attempting to flirt with him. He hated how jealous he felt, but ever since the accident he turned near possessive at moments. It concerned him that he’d cross a line one day, but each time Derek pulled him in closer it made him feel better.

Stiles swayed closer to Derek, his hand absently caressing Derek’s thigh as he watched the elevator’s numbers light up and count their way to the lobby. He knew Derek felt his touch, feeling Derek discretely adjust his stance.

Stiles briefly looked at the camera in the corner, turning his body to face Derek. He pressed the line of his body against Derek’s, their faces close as they spoke. “I had fun,” he gently stated.

Derek arched an eyebrow in disbelief as a faint smirk pulled at the corner of his lips. “No you didn’t,” he playfully corrected Stiles. He was aware that their elevator wasn’t empty, and more than one person would be chattering about them before the night was over. It was a tamed scandal as far as Derek was concerned.

Stiles’ fingers danced on the inside of Derek’s thigh as he pressed against Derek. It was the boldest he dared be in public with Derek, but it felt right.

The first time they had sex, Derek took his time. And Stiles loved him for that. But he was gentle, sensitive. Stiles didn’t want that right now. He wanted to feel Derek’s strength. He wanted Derek’s hands on his skin, grasping and grappling for dominance. The hungry plea they both knew was building between them and could only go unattended for so long.

And both their appetites were wet now.

Derek pulled Stiles in, abruptly and with a chase of urgency as he cupped the back of Stiles’ neck to anchor him.

Stiles knew he was cupping Derek’s cock through his trousers, unsure if it was obvious to anyone looking now that their bodies were pressed tightly together. Stiles ignored the first clearing of a throat, rolling his eyes in annoyance at the second, much louder noise. He pulled back from Derek, turning his head to look at the people. He hadn’t heard the elevator ding that allowed even more people into the box.

Derek’s hands were heavy weights, one resting on the small of Stiles’ back as the other brushed small circles into Stiles’ neck. They did nothing to dissuade Stiles.

“You don’t have to look,” Stiles answered the expectant glare the older couple were giving them.

To Stiles’ surprise, Derek faintly snorted in amusement.

Derek took Stiles’ hand when the elevator doors opened, waiting for the others to disperse before he walked out with him. He felt lighter, more than amused with how Stiles handled the annoyed stares and displeased coughs of those sharing the elevator with them. He stopped when he saw the reporters outside the hotel’s lobby, the flashing of lights illuminating the dark street outside.

“Fuck, don’t they take a night off?” Stiles sighed, aggravation ruining his mood.

Derek looked at Stiles, his eyes wandering over to the concierge desk. “Well, we’re in a hotel,” he mused. He gave Stiles a fleeting look before walking over to the desk.

Stiles faintly smiled in interest, following Derek over to the desk. He took pleasure in the ease of Derek’s stride, noticing the calm Derek had in walking right up to the desk, ignoring the velvet rope lining a clear waiting area.

“I’d like a room for the night,” Derek plainly told the concierge.

“The weekend,” Stiles chimed in, pressing his body up against Derek’s side, his arm wrapping around Derek’s waist.

Derek turned his head to look at Stiles, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. He nodded his head to the concierge. “A room for the weekend.”

Stiles noticed how balked the man behind the desk looked at Derek’s request, a small smugness settling in his chest when realization struck the man’s features when Derek handed him his credit card.

Before Derek, Stiles had never cared for such a show of elitism. He admired Derek for his lack of flaunt, becoming used to the way he’d play his hand when arrogance was present.

It was, for lack of a better word, sexy when Derek did things like this.

Derek never used his wealth to belittle someone less fortunate than him. It was second nature, though, to throw it in the face of another socialite.

In this case, an overpriced historical hotel centered at the heart of Beacon’s cult of socialites.

“Is the penthouse—”

“Acceptable,” Derek answered the near bumbling man as he looked back at Stiles.

“Why, Mr. Hale, are you trying to impress me?” Stiles jokingly questioned with fake awe in his voice.

Derek chuckled. “If it takes a penthouse to impress you, I’ll have to try raising your standards.”

Stiles pressed a lingering kiss to Derek’s neck, slipping his hands from Derek’s waist. He took a turn, looking around the lobby as he waited for Derek to finish with the concierge. It took barely a moment before he realized there was more than one person looking over at him.

He hadn’t bothered to read the gossip columns, but he had seen his picture on more than one of the tabloid journals. There were some stylized photoshop images of him and Derek, polarized sides to make it seem like something was happening. One of the photos had been when Stiles was out with Lydia, though she had been deliberately cut out to report that Derek hadn’t gone to lunch with Stiles.

Trouble in paradise—if only they knew Derek was procuring the penthouse suite for the weekend.

Stiles froze when he saw Deucalion coming out of the elevator he had just been in with Derek not even minutes ago. He felt as if his stomach dropped out, wishing he hadn’t wandered far from Derek. He turned his head away from Deucalion, hoping he’d continue speaking with those in his party and pass by unnoticed.

As if Stiles had such luck.

“Mr. Stilinski.”

Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat. He turned to look at Deucalion, forcing a smile that likely hid nothing.

“You look remarkable,” Deucalion commented, looking over Stiles as if it was a shock to see him standing, let alone dressed formally.

“Well, I have a lot of free time now,” Stiles replied.

“Free time and a larger wallet,” Deucalion added.

Stiles’ jaw ticked in annoyance. “I’m actually not married to Derek, so I have my own wallet.”

Deucalion laughed. “Once you get your fill of his world, the fun will pass.”

Stiles was angry. “Neither of us really care for his world,” he snapped. “And considering how remarkable Derek’s cock is, I don’t think I’ll be getting bored anytime soon.”

A throat cleared behind Stiles.

Stiles turned to look, seeing Derek standing next to him, a somewhat smug if not cautious look on his face.

“Deucalion,” Derek plainly said his name instead of addressing what Stiles just said.

Stiles leaned into Derek’s side when Derek placed his arm around his waist. He pointedly looked at the floor, ignoring Deucalion now that he felt like a deflated balloon.

“Derek,” Deucalion uttered his name back, though his voice suggested he might be imagining exactly what Stiles meant.

Derek was aware of the photos being taken outside the lobby, unsure if they would get a picture of the exchange.

“I was just curious what Stiles’ next step was now that he has left my employment,” Deucalion offered.

Stiles scoffed, shaking his head.

Derek tightened his fist against Stiles’ hip, pulling him a bit closer. “Whatever he wants.” He looked at Stiles. “Weren’t you looking at management?”

Stiles looked up at Derek, knowing he couldn’t get away with being rude. “Kind of. Maybe freelance.”

Deucalion made a noise at the back of his throat, suggesting he either thought Stiles incapable of such a thing, or that he disapproved of the ambition.

“Well, as nice as it was to see you,” Derek started steering Stiles and himself towards the elevators. “We’ve had a long week.”

Stiles was glad for Derek’s distraction, giving Deucalion a displeased look as they left the man behind. He saw that Deucalion had turned and looked after them.

Derek didn’t say anything as they patiently waited for the chime.

“What?” Stiles asked, narrowing his eyes at Derek’s smirk once they were safely behind the elevator’s shut doors.

He partially shrugged his shoulder. “Nothing,” he uttered as he watched the elevator doors. “It’s not every day someone calls my cock remarkable.”

Stiles partially opened his mouth in protest. “Nobody but me should be calling your cock remarkable,” he evenly replied.

Derek laughed.

Stiles crossed his arms over his chest. “Keep it up, big guy, and your cock will be very lonely this weekend.”

Derek took a few steps towards Stiles, his body languid and calm as he crowded Stiles up against the side of the elevator.

Stiles complied, his arms slipping from being crossed over his chest. His hands touched Derek’s shoulders, sliding down to a stop as he gripped Derek’s biceps. He wasn’t surprised when Derek kissed him, forceful but poignant in the way Derek pulled away.

Derek’s hands moved to Stiles’ hips, magnetic in their destination. He pressed his lips to Stiles’ jaw, teeth gently nipping at the skin of Stiles’ neck.

Stiles jolted some, one hand tightening on Derek’s bicep as his other moved instinctively to Derek’s hair. He enthusiastically dug his nails into Derek’s scalp, moaning when Derek roughly shoved his knee between Stiles’ thighs. He bit Derek’s ear lobe, desperate to make him feel just how much he missed him these last few months.

Stiles hooked his leg over Derek’s hip, unsure when he suddenly wasn’t standing on his own feet. The cold metal of the elevator was pressing roughly into Stiles’ back when Derek lifted him higher, but it was a minor inconvenience with the matter at hand. Stiles flexed his hips as best he could, pulling on Derek’s hair roughly to force him away from Stiles’ neck. He rushed their kiss, more teeth than lip at first as Derek kept them from teetering sideways.

A flash of want cut deep in Stiles’ gut at the reminder of how Batman had manhandled him the other night. Stiles thought of Derek behind that mask, and how he had wanted Derek to be the one pinning him to the ground.

It was a spark that exploded.

“Der,” Stiles moaned into their kiss.

Almost neither one of them heard the elevator doors open at their floor, causing Stiles to push Derek away briefly. “Unless you’re going to fuck me in the elevator, we should take this inside.”

Derek pressed back against Stiles, much to his surprise. “I’m not against that first option.”

“Derek,” Stiles’ breath hitched when Derek gripped him tightly. “I’ve missed you,” he breathlessly admitted. “But I’d really like you to do things to me—in a bed,” he whispered the last part along the shell of Derek’s ear, his teeth nipping at Derek’s earlobe.

Derek hummed in agreement, his hands moving to cup under Stiles’ ass, lifting him with ease.

~*~

Primal ownership. Raw desire.

Like a record skipping on repeat for Stiles.

Derek. Derek. Derek.

The city already claimed Stiles belonged to Derek. Now, Stiles wanted to mark Derek as his.

He wanted Derek to remember them—why they came together. Why Stiles would rather be locked away behind closed doors with Derek Hale than paraded around on the arm of the Prince of Beacon.

He wanted Derek.

He wanted the right to call him home.

And he wanted to be Derek’s home.

Derek reached a hand up, clasping at the back of Stiles’ neck as he kept him close, their kiss utterly debauched as they rode out what little they could ring from each other.

Stiles’ body trembled as his pleasure crashed. He realized, as they both slowed their desperate touches and kisses, that Derek clung to him just as tightly—as if he'd disappear any second.

It battled Stiles’ insecurity in believing his want for Derek was more than Derek’s in return.

Stiles placed a series of lazy kisses to Derek’s shoulder. He paused when he saw the angry red marks across Derek’s skin. The welts that were left in the wake of his fingernails.

He pulled back, making space between him and Derek as he gently touched one of them.

“Hey,” Derek gently spoke, getting Stiles’ attention. “You didn’t hurt me.”

Stiles knew he must have been wearing his concern plastered across his face. “I shouldn’t have …”

“I like it,” Derek easily corrected Stiles.

Stiles’ face scrunched for a moment.

Derek’s hand gently massaged the ache in Stiles’ hip as a distraction. “I bruised you some.”

Stiles shook his head, forcing a little smile as he looked at Derek. “I like it,” he echoed Derek’s earlier words.

Derek’s smile mirrored Stiles’ own before he leaned in to share a kiss.

Despite the reassurance, Stiles couldn’t put to rest the uneasiness he felt twisting up his stomach.

After they showered, cleaning up themselves and the bed, exhaustion fell over them both.

Stiles curled onto his side, leaning back into Derek’s safe embrace as the warmth of the bed started to lull him to sleep.

“What happened?” Derek asked as his finger traced the bruise along Stiles’ shoulder blade. Even with his exhaustion, his attention was still hyper focused.

Derek’s touch was featherlight, but Stiles could feel the bruise’s blossoming pain. “I fell,” he honestly stated.

Derek gently kissed Stiles’ shoulder blade.

Stiles tried not to think of the guilt he felt.

It wasn’t a lie. He had fallen.

But there was no way to tell Derek that he fell because Batman had slammed him into the ground during their confrontation the other night.

Since Stiles’ accident, he found that there were just some unnatural things he was capable of. One of them was falling from insane heights without risk of fatal injury if he landed correctly, which became ideal for when he wanted to flee from Batman.

He found it ironic, actually.

But that didn’t matter. What mattered was the terrible guilt he felt for lying to Derek about all this. Nobody knew what the Cat Thief was doing with all the money and jewelry he stole, an artful disguise for the information he was taking.

But it wasn’t about the profit he gave to those in need. It wasn’t taking from an archaic institution—it wasn’t about righting the wrongs of scrupulous people. It wasn’t even about stopping the gangs from preying on the weak.

It was the purpose.

It was the thrill.

It was the connection he felt to his mother.

He was so close to finding the person who killed his grandmother—who targeted his mother. He was close to finding the proof he needed that Deucalion Prince was the one to shove him out the window with Harris watching.

And Derek couldn’t know any of that.

~*~

I’m gonna be gone for a while. Some stuff happened at work and … sorry. Goodbyes are never easy, right?

Lydia giggled before a breathy sigh crackled the audio.

I met someone. I think you’d really like him. He’s got a funny sense of humor but… he makes me laugh. Really talks to me.

I should have told you earlier but… well, you’ve been busy. So have I, I guess.

An eerie silence filled the gap. A soft hum of a carnival’s melody like an afterthought filled the speaker.

I am sorry, Stiles.

~*~

“Fucking vultures,” Stiles cursed when he saw the Beacon Daily newspaper cover for that day. He grabbed the newspaper from the stand, bringing it closer to read the caption under the photo.

A photo taken directly from the camera in the elevator of the hotel.

Derek had Stiles pinned against the wall of the elevator, his face nuzzled into Stiles’ neck. Stiles’ hand was buried in Derek’s hair, his leg wrapped around Derek’s hip.

Someone must have tipped them off and sold a still shot of the image to the highest bidder.

Stiles scanned the words surrounding the photo.

Steamy weekend getaway!

Commissioner Stilinski’s only son, Stiles Stilinski, was seen stealing away with Beacon’s most eligible bachelor, Hale Enterprises CEO Derek Hale. They’ve had a tumultuous relationship, coming to light after Hale was spotted in the hospital after Stiles suffered a life-threatening injury. Since then, little has been seen of them together—Stiles shopping on Main Street, while Derek works long days in Hale Tower.

Is Stiles Stilinski the new trophy partner Hale has been looking for?

Since Hale’s split with philanthropist Julia Blake, we haven’t seen him with any arm candy. Stiles will mark the longest public relationship the bachelor has kept, excluding Paige Pierce. Are there wedding bells in the future?

Stiles wanted to burn the whole pile, the words forcing bile to rise in his throat. He folded the newspaper and placed it under his arm, handing the newsstand employee the cash necessary. He ignored the recognition in the man’s eyes, knowing that there was little he could do to prevent the man from acknowledging who Stiles was.

He had made his way into Hale Tower, riding the elevator in angry silence. He wanted to surprise Derek for lunch, but now he felt annoyed with everything. It wouldn’t matter what they did, nobody seemed to care anymore that people were entitled to privacy.

Stiles ignored Derek’s assistant as she started to address him. He really had to talk to Derek.

He was already in a foul mood when he couldn’t reach Lydia the second his phone held a charge this morning. He was foolish to think that not having a phone charger over the weekend wouldn’t matter. He had missed calls from his dad, though those were more constant and understanding. Lydia’s voicemail felt like a goodbye.

A bittersweet apology that Stiles didn’t understand.

Derek was in a meeting with Boyd it seemed, both of them looking at the television screen up on the wall when Stiles walked in. He looked at the doors opening just as he paused whatever footage they were watching. He seemed at ease once he realized it was Stiles.

Stiles closed the doors behind him before walking forward. “Have you seen the newspaper?” He started as he held up the front page for them to see. “Hi, Boyd,” he greeted as he put the newspaper on Derek’s desk.

“As always, a pleasure to see you,” Boyd replied with a genuine, if not faint, smile.

Derek looked at the newspaper before looking at Boyd. He hesitated, “I’m guessing you haven’t seen the TV yet?”

Stiles’ stomach sank as he snuck a glance at the television Derek had just paused. He stared up at the wide screen in uncertainty. Dread sunk deep when he saw that it was camera footage of Stiles speaking with Deucalion in the lobby. “Oh my God,” he mumbled, placing his open hand against his throat. “I’m going to vomit, I think,” he uttered as he moved to sit down at the bar on the other side of Derek’s office.

Derek stood, quickly making his way over to Stiles.

“I’ll give you both time,” Boyd offered as he collected folders from Derek’s desk. “I’ll see what I can find out about where it leaked from.”

Derek thanked Boyd as he placed a warm hand on the back of Stiles’ neck. “It’s not … as bad as it could be,” he offered in a calming tone.

Stiles shook his head. “Derek—”

“You haven’t seen it,” Derek rationalized.

“I know exactly what I said there,” Stiles confirmed as he gestured at the paused frame.

“It’s not embarrassing, so much as it is personal,” Derek stated.

“Derek, I implied you hate the wealthy elite, and then made a comment about how much I love your dick,” Stiles answered, looking at Derek.

Derek was faintly smiling, as if he was amused by the whole turn of events. “Again, not the worst thing.”

“How can you not be embarrassed over me?” Stiles hurriedly asked. He realized he misspoke when Derek’s features pinched and the smalle smile disappeared. “This—how can you not be embarrassed with this?”

His attempt to fix it didn’t sway Derek at all.

“I will never be embarrassed about you,” Derek firmly stated as he took a step into Stiles’ space. He took Stiles’ chin in his hand, forcing Stiles to look up at him. “Never.”

Stiles felt warm inside. He loved the thrill of Derek laying any claim to him. “I’m sorry, I’m just—overwhelmed with it all.”

Derek nodded, looking sideways at the tv before uttering, “Why don’t we take a vacation?”

Stiles’ brows furrowed. “As nice as that sounds, where could we go that we wouldn’t be harassed? You’re pretty famous.”

Derek leaned down, pressing a kiss to Stiles’ lips. “Do you like sailing?”

~*~

The wind was almost knocked out of Stiles as his back collided with the fire escape.

The loud thud of boots slamming into the metal grate near him shook the entire structure. “I thought cats were supposed to be agile.”

Stiles remained still, waiting for the man to come closer.

“Hey,” the man called out before kicking Stiles’ thigh with his boot.

Stiles flipped quickly, turning and kicking the man towards the railing. He adjusted his suit and goggles to make sure everything was in place, ignoring the man’s pleas for assistance from where he dangled. “How is that for agile,” he scoffed.

Stiles moved to pick up the paper files he dropped. He did a quick glance over the papers to make sure they were all there.

“Help!”

“Stop your wailing.” Stiles turned, ready to pull the guy up to safety. He paused mid-stride, watching as Batman lifted the man up before punching him unconscious.

Stiles stood, awestruck as he watched Batman drop the man’s unconscious body to the grate as if the thug weighed nothing. “Um,” he blinked up at Batman, placing the papers behind his back as he started to back away from the masked vigilante. “We should stop meeting like this,” he offered.

Stiles had run into Batman more and more, and each time left a different bruise on each of them—mostly from Batman grappling Stiles in an attempt to arrest him, as Stiles stubbornly escaped. Even sometimes drastically. But the last few times, Batman had let Stiles go without even trying to stop him.

Maybe Batman was a cat person after all.

“Breaking into Penguin’s secret stores–”

“Allegedly,” Stiles corrected Batman. He felt a small rush of relief when he felt the edge of the railing brush against his thigh.

“Allegedly,” Batman mused. He turned his head to look into the alley as the rain continued to pour down.

“I thought a change of venue would spice up our lives,” Stiles mused, trying to keep the conversation light. He swore he saw a faint smile on Batman’s lips.

“You should be careful, I won’t be around to save you all the time.”

Stiles laughed, shaking his head.

Batman turned his head to look at Stiles for a moment, brow furrowed.

“Don’t worry, honey,” Stiles smiled as he leaned against the fire escape, tilting his head to look at Batman. “I have nine lives. I think you only used three of them up.”

Batman snorted.

“Oh, that sounded like an actual laugh,” Stiles answered in amusement. “Don’t tell me that the Dark Knight has a sense of humor.”

“When I’m not brooding in the shadows,” Batman answered.

Stiles couldn’t help the smile that pulled at his lips before ultimately sobering. “Don’t you ever get tired of it?” He asked as he looked out across the city. He almost wondered if Batman didn’t hear him, the rain louder than their subjected silence.

And then Batman answered.

“Every night.”

Stiles looked up, almost wishing he wasn’t naive enough to believe Batman would still be standing there. He sighed, folding the papers up to secure in one of his many pockets he recently added to his suit. “Next time, on the Bat and the Cat,” he muttered under his breath in his best sarcastic narrator tone. “The Bat leaves the Cat questioning.” He stepped over the unconscious goon, standing at the top of the stairs leading down the fire escape.

He didn’t want to think of the disappointment he felt at hearing Batman’s answer. He would leave with Derek in a few days, forget about Beacon, and wait for Deucalion to make his move before bringing the whole house of cards down. He just hoped the Batman wouldn’t be caught off guard by the chaos that was bound to ensue.

~*~

Stiles knew absolutely nothing about boats, or sailing.

But Derek clearly had a love for it.

Stiles never thought he’d be on vacation, sailing in the Maldives, while one of the wealthiest men in the world waited on him hand and foot.

Seemed a bit bizarre, but those details all floated away when it was just them. Derek was relaxed, calmed by the freedom they had when their whole world revolved around nothing but their boat.

Stiles was laying, naked, out on the bow with nothing but a towel under him. His head was cushioned on his folded arms as he let the sun beat down on his bare back.

“You’re going to burn,” Derek commented, his voice moving closer with each word.

Stiles faintly smiled, keeping his eyes shut. “You’ll have to rub aloe on me, then.”

Derek snorted, his lips moving to touch Stiles’ shoulder blade. “I’d rather rub things elsewhere.” There was a small rustle of clothes before Derek’s naked body pressed against Stiles’ skin. His body slotted against Stiles’ back, his hands caressing Stiles’ ribs with ease as he placed open mouth kisses across Stiles’ blossoming skin.

Stiles faintly moaned when Derek’s hands skimmed over his ass, shifting his hips and opening his thighs when Derek hauled him in close. “Derek,” he moaned when both Derek’s arms encircled him, moving him with ease to situate them.

Once they left Beacon, Derek acted different—like he could relax for a change. He was more open with his wants, vocalizing and acting on desires Stiles was certain he held back for a while. Their sex life was always an active one, but Derek was more unabashed about it here, no longer constrained.

Derek kissed along Stiles’ neck, behind his ear, a soft admittance of love.

And Stiles felt calm and sated, his heavy breath evening out as he clung to Derek’s arms like a lifeline as they made love.

Stiles didn’t want to go back to Beacon. He wanted to stay lost in the gorgeous waters around them, and know that they both were happier.

But every fairy tale had an ending.

Only, Derek didn’t see that.

“Marry me.”

~*~

Stiles twisted the ring on his finger, gazing down at it in awed admiration. He wasn’t sure what type of ring he thought Derek would give him, but to be given a Hale family heirloom wasn’t something he planned on.

It was a simple band, entwined with gold and silver.

And Stiles felt like shit for accepting it.

“Congratulations are in order.”

Stiles drew in a steady breath, looking up at the approaching figure of his grandfather. He placed a hand over his engagement ring, hiding it from Carmine Falcone’s watchful eye.

He was sitting in one of the VIP booths of the Iceberg Lounge, leaving his drink alone as he had waited for his grandfather to arrive. He had told himself, from a young age, that he would never step foot in this establishment.

But here he was.

Carmine sat across the booth from Stiles, watching his grandson.

There was a fondness in the older man’s features. A look that nearly managed to overcome the exhaustion Stiles could see there.

“Are you here to hand deliver my invitation?”

Stiles nibbled at the inside of his lip. “Would you even come?” He decided to keep with Carmine’s line of questioning. “The Commissioner will be there.”

Carmine waved his hand to dismiss the idea. “I’m an upstanding gentleman—a tax paying citizen.”

Stiles scoffed at that. “Right, aren’t we all.”

Carmine kept an eye on Stiles.

Stiles had absentmindedly gone back to twisting the ring on his finger.

“Do you want to marry him?”

Stiles looked up, surprised by Carmine’s question. “Of course I do.”

Carmine made a noise of understanding. “You want to marry the man, not the image that comes along with it.”

Stiles frowned.

“The Prince of Beacon will take a pawn and become King,” Carmine mimicked the headlines Stiles had seen. “You made a rather fetching damsel in distress.”

Stiles set a cold, calculating look at his grandfather. “That’s what I want to discuss.”

Carmine didn’t react to Stiles’ directness.

“No one will admit it, but I want to know who threw Adrian Harris onto Founder’s Pier,” Stiles plainly stated.

“I authorized it,” Carmine answered. He wasn’t afraid to admit what he was capable of for his family.

“But why did you target him?” Stiles answered.

Carmine sighed, shifting in his seat before he gestured with two fingers to the bartender. “This is a conversation you should be having with your fiancé.”

The weight finally plummeted through Stiles’ stomach at Carmine’s words, the confirmation hitting him. He looked at his glass of water that he had left untouched, watching as an ice cube cracked, splitting completely before floating apart.

“He didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Carmine continued. “From what I could tell, that Hale boy has an inflated sense of morals.”

Stiles looked up at Carmine. “You met with Derek.”

“He came to me, a few nights after your fall,” Carmine explained. He sighed, “I’ve seen the look in his eye once before, you know.”

Stiles remained silent.

“I’ve done unimaginable things for this family—things that would haunt a better man. But I never cared—I never flinched, because it meant I kept my family safe,” Carmine answered. “And as I watched my only child waste away in a hospital bed, unable to do a damn thing with all this power and money—” He cut himself off, looking away from Stiles.

Stiles could see the reflection of tears glazing over Carmine’s cold blue eyes.

Claudia was the only person Carmine had left after his wife had been murdered. And then some incurable disease took her. It cut even deeper to know it was hereditary, an unknown gene passed down from Carmine himself.

“I don’t talk about this,” Carmine suddenly stated. “So listen, and don’t ask for more than you’re about to get.”

Stiles sat in silence as he watched his grandfather light a cigarette.

“Your mother left after what happened that night,” Carmine explained. “She wanted to protect you, and John, from me.” He huffed out a self-deprecating laugh. “I thought about it, letting it all end that night.”

Stiles knew he meant the night Florence was murdered.

“I didn’t see him, I didn’t hear him,” Carmine suddenly stated as he tapped his cigarette against the ashtray. He bit down hard on his bottom lip. “Florence did.”

Stiles tried to ignore the bile that threatened to rise. He had been sick when he read Deucalion’s confession in Chris’ files.

Bitch screamed for Falcone, and she got in the way.

Carmine closed his eyes against the memory of it, how the weight of Florence’s body moved, her voice yelling his name.

Claudia had been the one sitting at his bedside in the hospital when he woke up. Her eyes were red, swollen from tears. He pretended he hadn’t felt her climb into his hospital bed next to him and hugged him tightly.

Florence saw the man with the gun that night, and she had covered Carmine with her body instead of trying to protect herself.

“The assassin was shooting at you from point blank range,” Stiles forcefully stated. “And you didn’t see him?” His anger was bubbling over. He would never put Derek in danger like Carmine did to Florence.

Carmine looked up at his grandson. “No. If I had, we would be having a different conversation.”

Stiles clenched his jaw. If Carmine had killed Deucalion, Stiles never would have been shoved out that window.

“You realize, in times like those, that it never mattered what you were capable of doing,” Carmine finished. “And Derek Hale made a choice in a moment of vulnerability.”

Stiles placed his hands on the table. “He put a hit out on someone. And he used my grandfather to do it.”

“He didn’t use me, kiddo,” Carmine scoffed, though there was endearment in his voice. “He found the proof and gave it to me. He knew I’d happily do the rest.”

Stiles looked shocked at his grandfather’s admittance. “What do you mean proof?”

~*~

Stiles was sitting at the breakfast bar, his hands cradling a cup of coffee. He listened as Derek exited their bedroom. He had planned on speaking to him last night, but wasn’t surprised that Derek didn’t get home until 3am.

“I shouldn’t have to work that late tonight,” Derek started when he saw that Stiles was sitting on one of the stools, appearing to wait for him. He was fixing his cufflink as he leaned over Stiles’ shoulder to press a kiss to his cheek. He paused when he saw Stiles’ engagement ring sitting on the countertop.

Stiles didn’t move when he felt Derek stiffen.

“What’s wrong?” Derek asked as he took a step away from Stiles, moving to take the seat on the corner of the breakfast bar closest to Stiles.

Stiles looked at Derek, knowing he didn’t look as exhausted as Derek did, but his heart hurt all the same. “We have to talk about… about my fall.”

Derek looked down at the ring before nodding.

“I spoke to my grandfather.”

Derek’s face revealed nothing.

“You knew what happened.”

“That’s not fair, Stiles,” Derek started.

“Not fair?” Stiles nearly snapped, releasing his hold on his lukewarm coffee cup. “What’s not fair is you going to my grandfather when you knew how I felt about him!”

Derek ran a hand through his hair. “You didn’t have to go to him. If you had asked me—”

“You’d what?” Stiles snapped. “You’d tell me that you found the CCTV footage of me being shoved out the window?”

Derek looked as if he had been smacked.

Stiles pulled the USB drive out of his pocket, tossing it down on the counter to nearly skid across the whole length, Derek’s reactionary grab the only thing that stopped it from flying off the ledge—falling to the ground, like Stiles had. He hated how it felt like it was burning a hole in his pocket. “You watched it and couldn’t stomach telling me, so you went to Carmine Falcone—”

“I couldn’t tell you because I knew exactly what I wanted to do to that man,” Derek abruptly announced.

“What are you talking about?” Stiles asked with an edge of uncertainty in his voice.

“It's not something that I like to talk about,” Derek admitted with reluctance.

“I think you at least owe me that,” Stiles sternly said.

“You're right. I know you're right. It's just something that's difficult to talk about.” Derek looked conflicted. “You know I don't open up very easily.”

“I want you to try,” Stiles prompted. “I want us to try.”

Derek’s features softened at that.

“I don’t want something like this between us. Not if… not if we’re going to be married.”

Derek placed his hands on the table, staring down at them.

Stiles placed a gentle hand over Derek’s. His anger from earlier bled out, as it always did with the ones he loved. He didn’t want to fight—he was tired of fighting.

“I was scared.” Derek's voice was so quiet. As if he was admitting a deep and dark secret that he didn't want anyone to know. It reminded Stiles of how he talked about his parents and the night they died.

Stiles knew he didn't want to be that type of memory for Derek. Part of him thought he could relate to that feeling, remembering the morning after his mother passed. He remembered how distant his father was; how he wished things would go back to the way they were before his mother was hospitalized.

Stiles couldn't imagine what it would be like though, to lose a parent as violently and cruel as Derek lost his. It made it a little bit easier to understand what Derek said next.

“I was angry, Stiles. So angry,” Derek admitted, his head hanging down as he spoke. “And I know what I'm capable of.”

“You're a good man Derek.”

Derek laughed, a sudden sharp and cruel choke that left the silence between them heavy. “I haven't been a good man for a long time, Stiles.”

It didn't startle Stiles the way that he thought Derek intended it to.

“This whole city,” Derek started, his fingers threading through with Stiles' own. “Every single day, I either walk down the streets or I drive by too many boroughs, and I can't help but think that I know nothing about those people, but they think they know everything about me. They all look at me as if I'm something special. Incorruptible. But I'm worse than them. I have so much anger and guilt in me, that I let it build and build until there's almost nothing left to give. I don't belong on the pedestal they put me on, Stiles. I don't belong on yours either.”

Derek drew in a breath. “I didn't tell you, not because I'm ashamed, I didn't want you to feel obligated to understand me or to fix me. I went to Carmine Falcone because I knew that he was the only other person in this city who loved you enough to do what I couldn't do.”

“That doesn't make you a bad man, Derek.”

“It feels like it.”

“I love you,” Stiles softly said, leaning forward in his seat to get closer to Derek. “I should have told you what happened that night, but I was trying to protect you.” Stiles released a weak watery laugh. “I guess we both screwed up trying to protect the other one.”

Derek turned Stiles' hand in his. He pulled their fingers apart, his fingertips caressing over Stiles’ palm, inspecting the life lines he found there. “I could have torn him apart with my bare hands, Stiles. I knew what he did, and I knew the moment I saw him, I'd kill him. But I knew Carmine would get to him first if he knew.”

Stiles was quiet for a moment. “You don’t know you’d do that.”

Derek shook his head, drawing in a deep breath before looking up at Stiles. “About a decade ago, the man who killed my parents came up for parole,” he started, his voice raw and heavy with the memory. “Cora was still underage, and Laura decided to keep her away from it all.” He looked down. “I went to the hearing.”

Stiles released a steady breath.

“I planned on shooting him the moment he walked out of the courthouse,” Derek flatly stated. “I was so stuck on the idea of revenge, I didn’t even think about how it wouldn’t change anything—my parents were dead. I told myself I went to Carmine because I was afraid to find out if I would kill Harris for the wrong reasons. I told myself I’d kill him to protect you.”

Stiles had read what happened to Joe Chill after seeing the man’s mention in the Beacon Gazette on the anniversary of the murders.

Derek looked at Stiles. “My uncle killed Joe Chill before I could. I tell myself that I hesitated, and intended to leave. But I can’t be certain.”

Stiles realized that even sensationalized journalism couldn’t fight the money the Hale family had—the newspapers said the killer hadn’t been identified in the chaos, but Derek just admitted it was his uncle. His estranged uncle, if Stiles had to guess. “Your uncle didn’t know you were there.”

Derek ran a hand through his hair. “He didn’t look like my uncle anymore, but it was him.” He hung his head, gripping the back of his neck. “I watched Joe Chill bleed out on the court steps, only minutes after getting his freedom. And I felt … nothing. For the first time, it just stopped and then came rushing back in like a flood.” He shook his head as he admitted,  “I guess I really am a coward.”

Stiles stood, pushing the stool out behind him. He walked into Derek's space, his hands resting on Derek’s shoulders. He pulled Derek into him, hugging Derek's head to his chest. He ran his fingers through Derek's hair, pressing a faint kiss to Derek’s temple as he spoke, “That doesn't make you a coward.”

Derek pulled back from Stiles' embrace, looking up at him.

“That makes you remarkable.” Stiles brushed his thumb over the arch of Derek's cheekbones. “You thought I’d hate you, or would be afraid of you if you went through with it. But I feel the same way Derek.”

Derek reached his arms up and circled them around Stiles' waist.

“If someone hurt you,” Stiles started. “I honestly don't know what I’d be capable of.” He pressed his forehead against Derek’s. “But don’t ever go to Carmine again. Please.”

“I won’t,” Derek promised.

“We leave what happened in that alley in the past,” Stiles added, pulling back to look at Derek. “We have to—for both our sake.”

Derek nodded, willing to agree to just about anything if it would bring them both a semblance of peace.

Stiles leaned to slide his engagement ring back across the countertop. “Okay, then,” he softly spoke, slipping the ring back onto his finger. “I’d like to go looking for a venue this weekend.”

Derek pulled Stiles into a gentle kiss, his hands cradling Stiles’ face. Relief flooded him at Stiles’ forgiveness, and he never wanted to be unworthy of him again.

Chapter Text

Stiles stared in horror at the television screen, white noise taking over the cafe’s normally welcoming atmosphere.

On the screen, there was an image of his mother at one of the mayor’s annual parties, the banner at the bottom of the screen reading ‘Claudia Falcone Stilinski named as original Cat Thief’. The news station did the heavy work to crop John out of the photo, but they had to know the shit storm they created for the Commissioner with this report.

Stiles tightened his hold on his disposable coffee cup. He didn’t know who was crazed enough to make an accusation, or what the producers at the news station were thinking.

Carmine Falcone didn’t take kindly to accusations, but perhaps it had been too long since the old man reacted.

And that was when Stiles’ entire stomach plummeted.

“Accusations have been mounting against Mieczysław Stilinski, who is the only son of Claudia Falcone and Commissioner Stilinski, and is the current partner of Derek Hale. There has been an anonymous tip handed off to the DA’s office, which will follow up an investigation into whether Mieczysław, who goes by Stiles, is involved in the current Cat Thief crimes.”

Stiles’ mind was screaming, the feeling of vomit climbing his throat when he saw footage of Derek being swarmed by journalists as he headed into Hale Tower.

“Derek, Derek!” A well put together reporter called his name, moving to slip in front of the crowd.

Stiles recognized her—Paige Pierce, Derek’s ex and the closest one who came to being the future Mrs. Derek Hale.

Until she broke off her engagement—at least that was what she reported. Derek had told Stiles the engagement was a fabrication, but he felt bad enough about the break up that he allowed the lie to remain. It was enough for Stiles that Derek offered to set the record straight if it bothered him.

Stiles still didn’t like her for the way she used her former relationship with Derek to push boundaries.

“Derek, have you seen the news?” Paige asked, microphone gripped elegantly in her hand as she nearly stood between Derek and the door.

“No comment, Ms. Pierce,” Derek answered. His voice was curt with annoyance, though he did his best to offer a smile.

Stiles could tell Derek was pissed, though he was frightened at not knowing what or who Derek was angry with.

They had been so happy this weekend—they had picked out their dream venue, an elegant and well seasoned winery outside the city. Stiles had offered, more than once, to choose Hale manor. He knew it was a tradition that Hales had used for generations, since the founding of Beacon. But Derek didn’t entertain the idea—he wanted something new and different from expectations. The winery’s owner was more than accommodating, likely recognizing the opportunity she had before her when she realized who Derek was.

“Derek, you should get your side of the story out—did you know about Stiles’ identity as the Cat Thief? Are you worried he was using you for access?”

Derek had stopped walking, turning to look back at Paige.

Stiles held his breath.

“Baseless accusations against my fiancé are exactly as they sound—baseless. I have no further comment for tabloid journalism.” Derek curtly walked through the door, breezing by the security that barred the reporters from following him.

Paige’s beautiful features turned back to the camera, an award winning smile cutting Stiles to his core. “There you have it, a brief but concise statement from Derek Hale about the nightly activities of his apparent fiancé Stiles Stilinski,” her features showed her skepticism at the use of the word fiancé in relation to Stiles. “But the question remains, is Derek in denial or is Stiles just a grand liar. We’ll be reporting more on this unfolding story as details continue to roll in.”

It was then that Stiles realized, neither Derek nor him had made a statement to announce their engagement. And Derek had just announced it, as if their marriage was still planned. As if Derek had no intentions of breaking things off with Stiles, despite the outcome.

“Oh my God, are you Stiles?”

Stiles startled, turning to look at the young man who was standing in line waiting to order from the barista. Dozens of eyes turned to look at him now, and his lungs started to burn, the feeling of claustrophobia closing in.

“Holy shit!” Another person commented.

And then Stiles saw the phones coming out. He quickly turned, walking out of the coffee shop at a brisk pace. He started walking down the block, heading towards BCPD.

~*~

“What is Carmine going to do?” Stiles hesitantly asked his father. He had practically run into the police station without much thought of what could be waiting for him. He was fleeing any paparazzi that could catch him outside on the street.

John sighed, closing the folder the DA had generously given him. He knew he’d be under investigation with Claudia being named as the Cat Thief. The Mayor’s call this morning was the threat he knew it was—the Mayor wasn’t going to lose her reelection because her appointed Commissioner was embroiled in scandal.

Figure your shit out, John. And your son better not be involved.

“It depends,” John noted. “He’s protective of your mom, but he’s also not going to stand for people coming after you.”

Stiles hesitantly nodded.

“But I have to know, Stiles,” John started, looking up at his son as he leaned back in his seat. He knew his office was safe from eavesdropping, but he was still cautious regardless. “Is it true?”

Stiles looked at his dad. “You had to know, dad.”

John cursed under his breath. “Why did you start again?”

Stiles looked at the window of his father’s office. “Chris Argent had files on Deucalion Prince.”

John looked down at the DA’s file he had been inspecting. “Those won’t hold up in court.”

“He killed grandma,” Stiles flatly stated. He finally forced himself to look at his father. “He was the assassin Maroni sent.”

John looked around them, calculating if any of the officers were looking into his office—if anyone appeared to react to hearing such a thing. “Stiles, Carmine was there when Florence was shot, and he didn’t see anyone.”

“Deucalion Prince was an informant for Chris,” Stiles evenly stated.

It was a minor blip in an otherwise sea of filth.

His grandmother’s life was calculated as an acceptable loss by Beacon City when granting a man like Deucalion Prince a stay of execution. All because he promised to offer up Maroni on a silver platter.

That didn’t go over well for Chris once the acid hit him in the face.

“Carmine has poor vision at night, did you know that?” Stiles asked his father, looking up at him once more. “Grandma saw Deucalion, and she—” He drew in a sharp breath. “She covered Carmine.”

John ran a hand over his mouth, brushing his fingers over the stubble that had started to grow on his cheeks. He felt sick thinking about it.

Had Deucalion not missed, what would he have done?

Carmine had reacted as best he could, pulling a gun from his nightstand to shoot at the shadowed assassin. But Carmine didn’t see his face—and his grief over his wife had changed all priorities that night.

“Are you going to tell Carmine?” John flatly asked.

Stiles stood up, drawing in a deep breath. “Part of me wants to—I want to give him the peace he so desperately wants. But I know he’ll turn it into a war again.”

John nodded. “Then you’re done with the Thief?”

Stiles hesitated before nodding in agreement. “I found what I needed.”

John looked at the DA’s file. “I’ll be under a lot of pressure in the coming months. And so will you. So I recommend that you spend your nights indoors for the foreseeable future, or in a public setting.”

Stiles felt his phone buzz. He looked down at its screen, seeing Derek’s name flash across the screen, accompanied by a photo.

It was one of Stiles’ favorite photos—a captured image of them together on the boat, Stiles settled against Derek’s chest as they lounged in the shade of some unknown little island’s palm leaves. They looked happy—at ease.

“I have to talk to Derek,” Stiles explained to his father.

John was quiet before he spoke. “I guess congratulations are in order.”

Stiles refused to cry. “Yeah, thanks.” He looked at his ring. “If he still wants to marry me.”

“Of course he does.”

A knock on the door ended their privacy. “Commissioner,” Parrish started, pausing when he saw Stiles.

“What is it, detective?” John asked in a firm tone.

“Derek Hale is here,” Parrish explained. He looked at Stiles. “He said he was here to pick you up, actually.”

Stiles drew in a breath as he looked behind Parrish. He wasn’t surprised to find Derek calmly waiting outside the bullpen of officers.

“How’d he know you were here?”

“There are quite a lot of reporters outside, sir,” Parrish explained.

“Fucking hell,” John swore as he stood. He knew this was likely to happen, though he didn’t think someone would be feeding the reporters already. “Tell everyone I am calling a debrief, and until then no one is to talk to anyone outside this building about what is happening.”

Parrish nodded before backing out the door.

Stiles followed him out the door immediately, forgetting to say goodbye to his father as he headed towards Derek.

Derek was still in his designer suit, the same from the report. He looked even more put together than he had on camera. He seemed calm, despite the anger that was simmering beneath his bored expression.

“Derek,” Stiles uttered his name as soon as he was close enough.

Derek looked up at Stiles.

Stiles froze for a moment. He hadn’t thought this through. What if Derek had come to tell him it was over? What if he was filing a restraining order?

What if he thought Stiles had been using him for a financial payday?

What ifs plagued his mind as he struggled to find his words.

Before the worry could overwhelm him, he found himself enveloped in Derek's embrace. He closed his eyes, wrapping his arms around Derek's waist.

"I was worried they would overwhelm you," Derek's voice softly confessed against Stiles' temple.

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t say anything, wait until we’re home,” Derek gently urged Stiles to keep whatever he was about to say quiet. They were, afterall, in the middle of the police station’s main booking area.

Stiles nodded as he pulled away from Derek. Even holding Derek’s hand as they exited the police station did little to calm his nerves. At face value, they appeared to be a united front. But even the hug Derek had given him felt off somehow.

The car ride was eerily quiet between them, Derek on the phone for most of the trip as he spoke with who Stiles assumed was part of the public relations team at Hale Tower.

Stiles wondered if Derek’s sisters had called him yet.

Derek slipped his phone into the inner breast pocket of his suit as they entered the elevator. “They’re going to be covering the apartment for a while.”

Stiles shifted his weight, folding his arms over his chest, his eyes watching the numbers climb on the elevator’s floor display.

“We can use the landing pad, plan a trip for a while,” Derek rationalized.

“No,” Stiles uttered.

Derek turned his head to look at Stiles.

Stiles was staring at the bottom of the elevator’s doors.

“Stiles—”

“No, I’m not going anywhere,” Stiles stated with finality, shaking his head. He hurried out of the elevator once the doors opened.

Derek followed after Stiles. “We don’t have to go anywhere,” he offered.

“You haven’t asked,” Stiles turned to look at Derek. He placed his hands on his hips as he began to pace inside their apartment. “I would have thought you’d want to know if it’s true, but you haven’t asked, which means you must believe it.”

“Does it matter?” Derek asked.

“It does to me,” Stiles answered. “It really does, Derek.” He stopped pacing, looking at Derek with a furrowed brow.

Derek drew in a soft breath, slowly taking a turn in the entry of their apartment. And that’s what Derek had started to see it as—their apartment.

“You’re saying an awful lot by not saying anything,” Stiles stated.

“I didn’t see it at first,” Derek finally admitted. “But maybe I didn’t want to,” he rationalized.

Stiles wasn’t sure if that made him feel better.

“But that doesn’t matter,” Derek continued, walking towards Stiles. “It never will matter.”

Stiles took a step away from Derek. “I’m a thief, and you’re not going to do anything about it? You can’t believe that’s the right decision to make. I’ve been lying to you!”

The muscle in Derek’s jaw ticked. “I haven’t exactly been honest either.”

Stiles scoffed at that notion. “I know you feel a certain way about this—I could tell at the station. Please don’t lie to me to spare my feelings.” He wanted to be indifferent, because it was better than the alternative of his heart breaking.

Derek walked forward, taking hold of Stiles’ hand as he guided them back towards the office.

Stiles allowed Derek to lead them, lengthening his strides to match Derek’s. He wasn’t sure why Derek was bringing them to the office. He waited patiently as Derek released his hand once they entered the intended room.

The office was never really a place Derek had utilized as much as Stiles suspected someone of his standing would. Though he rationalized that Derek was always staying late at the office so there wasn’t really a need for the at home office.

Not more than the use of a very sturdy desk that they both enjoyed using together to fulfill more than one fantasy.

Derek reached into the top desk drawer, flipping a switch of some kind.

Stiles was about to say something about the secrecy getting to him when he heard a mechanism whirl. He turned to look at the wall beside Derek, freezing immediately when he realized what he was seeing.

It was a suit.

An armored suit.

And the silhouette of it was unmistakably Batman.

It was Batman’s suit.

“What?”

Stiles didn’t recognize his voice as he took an unsure step towards the displayed suit. His eyes dashed over it, trying to see if it truly matched the real one he had seen up close enough times. And it definitely matched. “How?” He uttered as he reached a hand out to touch the suit. “Derek,” he turned to look at Derek, unsurprised to find that he wouldn’t look back at him.

“It’s a long story, Stiles, but yes, I’ve been lying to you,” Derek admitted. He leaned against the desk, pressing his hands along the wooden surface beside his hips. “I wanted to tell you earlier, but I didn’t. And that’s my fault.”

“But that means… how did I not realize it was you?” Stiles asked, turning away from the suit completely.

“Voice changer helped,” Derek answered.

“How did you not recognize me?” Stiles barely registered what Derek’s answer was, his head swimming with a million questions.

“I was focusing on fighting you most of the time,” Derek replied. “And it isn’t like I’m used to seeing you in a full leather suit.”

“Well, same!” Stiles almost snapped. “Oh my God, I threw you off the roof,” he sputtered in realization.

“I also knocked you off the fire escape once,” Derek added, looking down at his shoes.

“Polo,” Stiles grumbled under his breath. “You said those bruises were from polo, Derek.”

“That was a joke,” Derek gently offered, not telling Stiles he was wrong. “And I did tell you, several times, that I’m Batman.”

“As a joke!” Stiles countered in indignation.

“I never said it was a joke.”

And as Stiles started to think about every time Derek mentioned he was Batman, it wasn’t really thrown out as a punchline. Sure, it was funny at the moment, but the genuinely fond look in Derek’s eyes and the calmness in Derek’s serious tone only made Stiles assume it was Derek’s dry humor, not the honest truth.

A blush started to run up Stiles’ neck, resting high on his cheeks. “You told me, that first night—on the way home from the ER.” He looked at Derek. “You said you were Batman.”

Derek hesitated, looking up at Stiles. “Looking back, probably not as funny as I thought I was being.”

Stiles gently nibbled his bottom lip. “It actually is kind of funny,” he admitted with a soft smile. “I feel like such an idiot, this all makes so much sense. I can’t believe I didn’t piece this together. It’s so obvious now.”

Derek furrowed his brow at that, clearly taking offense to his alter ego’s discretion. “And how is it obvious?”

Stiles pursed his lips, giving Derek an incredulous look. “Babe, you’re the only male billionaire in Beacon and— oh my God, your sisters are Batgirl and Batwoman.”

Derek allowed Stiles to take his time with that revelation, watching as Stiles paced for several minutes. He listened to Stiles’ half coherent chain of thought, piecing together most of the half trailed off and forgotten words.

“Why does no one think the Hales are the vigilante crime fighting group who could only be funded by a ridiculous amount of money?”

Derek waited until Stiles turned to look at him, confirmation that it was a question Stiles would like answered instead of rhetorical. He pointed a finger at his face. “Pretty and dumb.” He softly shrugged his shoulders when Stiles visibly deflated. “I told you that it was beneficial.”

“You’re not dumb,” Stiles stated.

“But pretty?”

Stiles nodded as he stepped closer to Derek, reaching a hand out to hold his.

Derek straightened up, drawing closer to Stiles as he allowed him to hold his hand.

“Derek,” Stiles started. “How do we… this is insane,” he shook his head.

“It was nice to know that even as the Cat Thief, you still told people you were taken,” Derek commented, his fingers moving to twist Stiles’ engagement ring.

“I still feel bad that I flirted with Batman, even if it was you,” Stiles sheepishly admitted.

“To be fair, you were flirting with me as Batman so you could kick me in the head.”

Stiles couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up. “You know though, even after everything I think the most upset I’ve been is with Paige Pierce today.” He tried to hide looking at Derek. “I wanted her to trip on those steps today.”

Derek didn’t hide the knowing smile that pulled at his lips. “You know I love you, right? You’re the one I gave a ring to, Stiles, hoping beyond belief that you’d say  yes.”

Stiles pushed into Derek’s space, pulling him into a kiss. “Tell me you still want me to have it.”

“I want you to have it, Stiles,” Derek easily answered. “I want you . But no more breaking into banks.”

Stiles had the nerve to look shocked by the segue. “It’s the mob’s money—”

“Stiles,” Derek’s voice was filled with warning.

“You break the law every time you dress up as Batman,” Stiles countered. “I can’t give money to charity?”

Derek looked thoughtfully at Stiles, tilting his head some as he observed him. “All to charity, huh? Like a modern day Robin Hood.”

Stiles squirmed some under Derek’s knowing gaze. “So, I kept some jewels for myself, but that wasn’t from a bank.”

Derek scoffed playfully at the technicality.

Stiles pressed his body against Derek’s, slotting his hips between Derek’s parted thighs. “Would you feel better if I let you buy them for me?” He caught the heated look Derek was giving him before he leaned forward, capturing Derek’s bottom lip between his teeth. “I’ll make you a deal,” he sucked and nibbled Derek’s lip, forgetting what his proposition was for a moment. “Fuck me in the suit, and I’ll stop stealing money and jewels.” He leaned back some, giving Derek a serious look. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop breaking into supervillain hideouts to obtain dirt on them. I draw the line at that.”

Derek looked as if he was weighing the pros and cons of Stiles’ proposition. “Amendment,” he noted, his hands traveling down Stiles’ waist and hips before curving to settle with a firm grasp of Stiles’ ass. “You tell me when you’re going to break into a supervillain’s hideout, just in case you need help.”

Stiles was about to open his mouth in protest, a soft moan escaped him when Derek hauled him bodily closer, his hands dropping to Derek’s shoulders for purchase.

“I’m not budging on that, Stiles,” Derek’s voice was a low growl in his ear. “You agree to that, and I’ll fuck you whenever and wherever you want while wearing the suit.”

Stiles hummed, looking at Derek as he gently dug his tooth into the plump curve of his lip. “You’re a pretty tough negotiator,” he mused. “But I don’t like being monitored.”

“I’m not going to treat you like a child,” Derek replied. “But I don’t want you in serious danger without a way out. You know it happens, and I… I don’t want to risk losing you. I can’t live with that, Stiles.”

Stiles pressed a kiss to Derek’s lips. “Okay, you win,” he softly relented. “Who knew being loved by Batman has such perks.”

“You’re letting me put armor weaving into your suit,” Derek noted.

“Hey, negotiation is over,” Stiles playfully countered.

“Don’t care,” Derek answered as he straightened up, lifting Stiles with ease as he headed towards their bedroom.

Stiles wrapped his legs around Derek’s waist, his hand slipping into Derek’s hair as he sucked a particularly large and soon to be noticeable hickey just below Derek’s jawline.

~*~

“This one?” Stiles softly asked as his finger traced the scar just below Derek’s collarbone.

“Knife,” Derek answered, his hand gently tracing a circle into Stiles’ bare hip. “It’s why I upgraded to the triweave titanium.”

Stiles placed a kiss to the scar before resting his head against Derek’s chest. His hand grazed low on Derek’s stomach, along his hip. “This one was me,” he noted as his nose scrunched up in distaste. “I can’t believe I hurt you.” He jolted with a yelp when Derek pinched his bare hip.

“Stop that,” Derek grumbled. “You didn’t know it was me, and I kicked you in the stomach, Stiles. Do you want me to feel worse than I do about that?”

“No!” Stiles adamantly argued, lifting his head to look at Derek. “But I can be upset with myself that I hurt you enough that there is a scar.”

“Fine,” Derek sighed, lifting his free arm up to slip beneath his head. He looked at Stiles. “But do so knowing that I feel just as bad.”

Stiles sulked, pouting some before resting his head back on Derek’s chest. “Alright, you made your point.” He childishly nipped Derek’s pec in rebellion.

Derek merely snorted.

“You know this means you’re going to not only be marrying a criminal,” Stiles started as he tilted his head to look at Derek. “One that you haven’t been able to catch, I might add.” He didn’t hide his laugh at what he affectionately called Derek’s smoldering glare. “But you’re also going to be the son-in-law to the Commissioner of Beacon—who you hide being a vigilante from—and the grandson-in-law to the head of the biggest organized crime family in this region.”

Derek was quiet for a beat. “Going to be interesting arranging our wedding’s seating chart.”

Stiles laughed in kind, resting his head on Derek’s chest.

Derek tightened his hold on Stiles for a brief moment. “There is something I have to tell you,” he softly admitted.

Stiles took a deep breath, his stomach twisting as he lifted himself to look down at Derek. He tried to keep his expression open, trying to keep any uncertainty from his features. “Is it something bad?”

Derek reached a hand up to touch Stiles’ arm, his hand gentle. He sighed in defeat as he finally sat up, extracting himself away as he leaned against the headboard.

It didn’t help Stiles’ concern. He sat back, pulling a pillow into his hold as he curled around it. He felt silly at the vulnerability his nudity suddenly presented. He couldn’t think of something Derek would tell him that could change his desire to stay in bed all day and night—just the two of them. But maybe his reaction would make Derek pull away again.

“It’s about my uncle,” Derek  finally admitted. He was looking down at his hands resting against his sheet covered thighs. He looked at Stiles finally. “He’s the Joker.”

Stiles blinked at Derek as he processed his words. He slowly allowed his legs to rest, the pillow plopping down in his lap. “When he killed Joe Chill.”

“He didn’t look… he looks almost nothing like how he used to. His eyes are… it’s like doll’s eyes—there is no recognition. Maybe for brief moments, but…” Derek breathed out a harsh breath, pressing his hand against his forehead as he hid his face.

“Do your sisters know?” Stiles softly asked, idly picking at his nails since he was still unsure if he should touch Derek or not.

Derek nodded. “I can’t kill him,” he weakly stated. “I wanted him to get help but… I don’t think he’ll ever change. I think he’s… he’s the Joker, not Uncle Peter, not anymore.” His hand slid down to run over his beard before ultimately dropping to his lap. He leaned back against the headboard as he observed Stiles and the distance between them. “I told you, I’m a coward.”

Stiles faintly shook his head. “Not killing someone isn’t being a coward.”

“He’s killed hundreds—thousands of people,” Derek answered.

Stiles gently bit his lip before ultimately crawling across the bed to get to Derek. He slunk his way over Derek’s legs, moving to straddle his thighs. He cupped Derek’s face in his hands, pressing a chaste kiss to Derek’s lips. “Am I a coward for not stopping Carmine?” He gently asked as he pulled away from Derek.

Derek shook his head as he breathed the word, “No.”

“Then don’t ever think I would believe you are a coward,” Stiles answered. “You’ve given your whole life to this city—a city, I might add, that most people would have let burn and crumble a long time ago.” He settled one hand on Derek’s chest. “But I am in awe of how you strive to make things better as a philanthropist during the day, and fight criminals at night.” He looked at his ring, where his hand was pressed over Derek’s heart. “And I look forward to standing next to you for what that future holds.”

Derek kissed Stiles, drawing him in closer as he wrapped his arms around him.

“I’ll help you, Derek,” Stiles promised between kisses. “I always will.”

~*~

Stiles hugged the pillow tightly to his chest as he watched his father speak.

BCPD had run the biggest raid in the recent decades, and the public were now aware of Deucalion Prince’s crimes.

“Commissioner, what would you say to the people who question your motives for timing such a large bust?”

Stiles rolled his eyes in annoyance at Paige Pierce’s voice.

John looked at the woman as if she had grown a second head. “Ms. Pierce, this investigation has been ongoing for years, and the bust today was a direct result of the hard work my men and women have put into investigating and gathering evidence.”

“And some would claim it is a convenient way for you to misdirect the narrative away from your son’s crimes.”

“Ms. Pierce,” John’s voice almost took a sharp edge.

Stiles held his breath, hoping his dad wasn’t going to fall for her bait.

“As far as the evidence has shown, my son has committed no crime,” John evenly stated. “The Cat Thief crimes are being investigated by those outside the department, ensuring complete transparency of the situation.”

“What about your father-in-law, Carmine Falcone?”

Paige was really eating up the time of the other reporters, and their annoyance showed.

“Ms. Pierce, Carmine Falcone is a law-abiding citizen and not involved in recent events or this debrief.”

A soft chuckle could be heard moving through the conference room in a wave.

“If you have evidence to the contrary, I ask that you fill out a statement,” John sounded tired.

“What about—”

“That’s your time,” Parrish announced as he gestured to another reporter to ask questions at the microphone.

Stiles couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at his lips when he felt a weight press against the back of the couch cushions just before Derek placed a kiss along Stiles’ neck.

“Aren’t cats nocturnal?” Derek’s sleepy voice questioned.

Stiles hummed. “Usually,” he answered, turning his head up to look at Derek. “But I thought I might have worn you out, and you deserve to sleep in.”

Derek arched an eyebrow at him, a faint smile. “My stamina is better than that.”

Stiles kissed Derek with a matching smile, his hand reaching up to touch Derek’s cheek. He softly laughed when Derek pressed in.

“I’m going to get coffee,” Derek offered, moving to press his face into the soft curve of Stiles’ neck. “Before I pin you to the couch and we miss our appointment,” he partially grumbled as he stood up, extracting himself away.

“Could always pin me to a surface at the bakery,” Stiles called after him, smiling when Derek turned his head to shoot Stiles a warnful look.

They had plans to pick out their wedding cake, something Stiles had trouble believing was happening today. It was stressful, to say the least, picking out anything wedding related. And it brought his attention back to his phone. He checked the notifications for what felt like the thousandth time, unsurprised to see that Lydia still hadn’t returned his texts or phone calls.

Stiles leaned against the back of the couch, watching as Derek walked towards the kitchen. His eyes tracked over the different scars, the new bruises and faint nail tracts down Derek’s shoulders and the small of his back. He gently nibbled at his bottom lip.

“Will your sisters meet us there?” Stiles decided to change the subject back to the day’s plans. He leaned forward and changed the channel before the next newsflash happened.

“Laura wrapped up when she needed with the Joker investigation last night,” Derek offered.

Stiles lifted his head in interest. “Did she find anything about Lydia?”

Derek looked up at Stiles from the mug of coffee he was stirring cream into. “Not yet,” he tried to sound more hopeful than he felt.

“Did he hurt her?”

Stiles knew his voice cracked, and he couldn’t help pressing his face down into the cushion. He had hated himself for days, called Lydia’s contact nonstop as he pressed his father for anything. He even left a call with Carmine to ask if he had any idea if the Joker had a certain redhead psychiatrist that was currently missing.

Nothing. Even Batman couldn’t find anything—the world’s greatest detective couldn’t find Lydia which meant the worst. It still brought some comfort to Stiles when Derek admitted he had been looking into Lydia’s disappearance since Stiles mentioned it—before their sailing trip.

Derek set the cream carton down, forgetting his coffee to move back to Stiles and the couch. He easily maneuvered himself to sit next to Stiles. He pulled Stiles into his arms, which Stiles willingly allowed.

“I’m a bad friend,” Stiles weakly uttered. “She called me that night, and I didn’t pick up. I should have picked up.”

“There was nothing you could have done,” Derek reaffirmed.

“She might have listened to me,” Stiles countered.

“You don’t know that,” Derek countered in a similar manner. “All we can do now is work hard to find where she is, and make sure she is safe.”

Stiles faintly nodded against Derek’s chest. “She’s supposed to be my maid of honor,” he softly uttered.

“We’ll find her, Stiles. I promise you.”

~*~

“I have to say, it’s been a while since I’ve been here,” Paige stated as she turned around Derek’s office. “Looks the same.”

“No need to redesign something that is functional,” Derek replied as he crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze tracking Paige’s every move. He wouldn’t be surprised if she had some sort of recording device on her.

“No, you have enough of a splash in your life,” Paige retorted, turning to look at him. “He’s the topic today, I’m guessing? Off the record, of course.”

“Of course,” Derek parroted her before bluntly stating, “Stop attacking him.”

Simple, concise, to the point.

And yet, Paige had the nerve to look offended. “You want me to stop reporting the news,” she said incredulously.

“I want you to stop slandering him,” Derek corrected her. “Being attached to me has an extreme degree of the limelight, but you’re being cruel for cruelty’s sake.”

Paige laughed as if Derek had told a charming anecdote. “He’s a criminal, Derek. It’s not a crime to report the truth—theft and grand larceny on the other hand…” She trailed off as if there was a thought forming for her to report. “You know, you should really check to see if your mother’s pearls are still in the safe—can’t be too careful.”

“Back off, Paige,” Derek lowly uttered, turning a near murderous look at her. It was a low blow to even imply Stiles would ever do something like that.

“You’re telling me that you believe he’d spare you his tendencies?” Paige demanded. She was accusing Stiles without crossing libel, and it angered Derek how well she could do it.

“Stiles isn’t hiding anything from me,” Derek countered. “Stop attacking my fiancé, or your network will be hearing from my lawyers.”

“Suppressing a story never did look good on you, Derek,” Paige remarked. “But if you’re this hellbent on protecting him, fine. But I can’t stop reporting on him if my bosses want that—you two are a hot topic.”

“Talk about me and my business all you want. Leave Stiles alone,” Derek’s tone was enough to repeat the warning of a threat. He stood to his full height, turning to walk around the desk. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to finish before getting home to Stiles.”

“You don’t think he’s using you?”

Derek froze, turning to look at her. “Like you did?”

Paige visibly flinched at Derek’s words. “You think I’d almost marry someone for publicity?” She sounded vaguely hurt as she walked closer to Derek.

“We were never engaged, Paige,” Derek corrected her. “And I think it didn’t start that way, but you ended up liking the notoriety and what it got you. You still use what you know about me to get the cutting edge when applicable.”

Paige’s lips twisted. “No, Derek, I don’t. I’m a journalist, and I’m good at it.”

“You’re invasive,” Derek replied. “And that’s not someone I want in my life, so stop trying to imply there could be anything left between us.”

Paige didn’t look surprised by Derek’s demand. “Is that him talking?” It was actually Derek who startled when Paige grabbed his hand that was resting on his desk.

“Me, actually,” Derek answered, about to pull his hand back when Paige spoke.

“We were good together, Derek.”

Derek realized too late that requesting a meeting was a mistake—Paige saw this as a last opportunity. He pulled his hand away from her on instinct. “Stop, Paige. I’m serious.”

“You never called me back, Derek. You didn’t let me fight for us,” Paige sounded righteously angry about it.

“You sold photos of my nightstand, Paige,” Derek seethed through clenched teeth. “Implying I have an opioid problem, as well as being a paranoid insomniac recluse. How the fuck do you rationalize that?”

Paige’s brow furrowed. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Oh, your phone accidentally took photos,” Derek sarcastically replied. “And then accidentally somehow wrote an inside scoop about our personal life.”

It was wild for Derek to see how Paige’s gears turned when she realized she was losing an argument.

“We were good together, Derek, in a lot of ways,” Paige spoke in a softer tone, taking a step into Derek’s space. “And you were never home. I could count on one hand how often I woke up with you still in bed. What else was I supposed to think? We were happy when we started out.”

“Right, past tense,” Derek answered as he took a step back.

“We never got to try a lot of stuff,” Paige answered, her hand trailing along the desk.

“We already broke that in.”

Derek looked up at the doorway, a soft smile curling at the corner of his mouth when he saw Stiles standing there.

Paige looked annoyed as she stepped away from Derek—and the desk.

Stiles didn’t wait for an introduction as he marched forward, merely breezing by Paige in order to get between her and Derek. He kissed Derek, refraining from being petty with a raunchy display despite the temptation.

Stiles looked at Paige as he settled against Derek’s side, enjoying the feeling of being under Derek’s arm. “Paige,” he muttered in greeting.

“Stiles,” Paige tersely replied. “Out shopping?”

Stiles swayed as he moved to step forward, pulled back just at the last moment by Derek’s fingers tightening around his belt loops. He settled back against Derek. “No, I just wanted to see if Derek had time for a quick fuck before afternoon meetings.”

Derek did a very poor job of covering his laugh with a cough.

“Well, crass as usual,” Paige answered.

“And you’re the picture of perfection, trying to seduce someone else’s fiance,” Stiles spat back.

Paige didn’t answer him as she turned to leave. “See you around, Derek.”

“Paige,” Derek’s voice held an edge to it, causing her to stop and turn. “I have cameras in the office, as I’m sure you remember.”

Paige furrowed her brow, projecting innocence. “And?”

“If any of this conversation gets leaked in some way, either in or out of context, I will pursue action,” Derek simply stated.

In short, he would bury her integral career—perhaps even her entire career.

“Noted,” Paige tersely replied before leaving.

Stiles felt like an oversteamed dumpling.

Derek pressed a kiss to Stiles’ temple. “Did you eat lunch?”

Stiles shook his head, moving to wrap his arms around Derek. “I was going crazy in the apartment, so I wanted to see you,” he explained. “I can’t say she was a pleasant surprise.”

Derek hugged Stiles back. “I wanted to tell her to back off her campaign to attack you and your father.”

“She took it as a free shot at a rematch?” Stiles asked as he pulled back from Derek to look at him.

“That’s the first time I’ve allowed her to be alone with me since we broke up,” Derek honestly stated. “I should stop giving people the benefit of the doubt, I guess.”

“You really are a pretty face,” Stiles fondly noted.

Derek couldn’t help but laugh. “You don’t mind being married to a pretty fool?”

“Oh, I look forward to it, because despite my jealousy, I trust you. I just don’t trust other people,” Stiles confessed.

Derek hummed, pressing a kiss to Stiles’ lips. “I love you,” he uttered.

“I love you,” Stiles echoed. He reluctantly slipped out of Derek’s arms, putting space between us. “I’m going to go, because if I stay here with you, in the privacy of your office, I’m going to end up making you late.”

Derek looked slightly annoyed at the idea of Stiles departing.

“I’ll see you tonight,” Stiles offered. “On the roofs, maybe,” he offered with a smile as he walked backwards towards the door.

“What makes you think I’ll be available?” Derek playfully jested.

Stiles shrugged. “I think I look particularly attractive in moonlight. And if you don’t join me… well, a certain caped crusader might,” he added with a knowing smile.

~*~

“No luck.”

Stiles fondly smiled, turning to look over his shoulder at Batman. “Not yet, but cats are lucky,” he replied as he started to stand, placing hands on his hips as he slowly paced forward. He was aware of the way the end of the whip tapped against the back of his thigh. He knew it looked like a tail, and despite it not being the first time in front of Batman, he was self conscious in knowing that it was Derek looking at him right now.

Though, he shouldn’t have been as self conscious about his theatrics when Derek was literally dressed as a bat. A very armored and lethal bat, but a bat all the same.

“Usually bad luck,” the voice changer skewed Derek’s tone, but Stiles felt foolish now that he knew it was Derek. It was obviously Derek’s voice beneath the electronic noise.

Stiles stepped up to Derek, tapping his gloved hand against the bat symbol across Derek’s chest. His fingers danced down Derek’s torso and curled around the utility belt. “Busy night?”

A smile pulled at Derek’s lips. “Finished early,” he answered as he reached a hand to his gauntlet.

Stiles followed the movement, watching as Derek entered in something on his gauntlet.

“I’m yours for the rest of the night,” Derek stated, the voice changer gone.

Stiles smiled as he leaned up to press a kiss to Derek’s lips. “We had an agreement.”

Derek reached a hand up to the clasp that dipped into Stiles’ clavicle. He was careful to not cut Stiles with the blades along his gauntlets. He undid the clasp, taking hold of the zipper and pulled it away from Stiles’ throat. “We did,” he answered as his fingers pulled the zipper down to reveal Stiles’ bare skin.

Chapter Text

Stiles hadn’t truly realized that engagement parties were a thing that happened anymore. Then again, he had no idea what being part of the elite wealthy was like. He had accepted the Hale sisters’ offer of throwing an engagement party at the manor.

But little did Stiles know, that meant nearly all of Beacon would be invited.

“Are you okay?” Derek’s voice softly asked, his breath warmed the curve of Stiles’ ear.

Stiles offered a fake smile. “I love being gawked at,” he answered.

“I mean, you do enjoy making a statement,” Derek jokingly stated, offering a glass of champagne.

“Right, rich coming from you,” Stiles answered in kind. He took a sip of champagne, his eyes looking over those gathered.

Derek smiled in response.

“I didn’t realize the Mayor would be here,” Stiles gestured towards the woman who had all but threatened his father’s job for the coverage of the Cat Thief.

“Laura thought it would be a good way to remind her how valued the Hale family is,” Derek turned his head to speak to Stiles. He was keeping his voice lower than usual. “And I think that’s why there are a few off-duty reporters here.”

“Catching all the drama,” Stiles commented.

Derek slipped his arm around Stiles’ waist, pressing a chaste kiss to his temple. “Thank you.”

Stiles looked up at Derek, tilting his head in question. “For what?”

“For saying yes,” Derek softly admitted. “Thank you for loving me.”

Stiles felt his features soften, ignoring the prickling heat in his throat. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to Derek’s lips. “You never have to thank me for that,” he promised. “As long as you love me, I’ll love you.” It was an impossible promise, but Stiles wanted to keep it until his death.

“Excuse me,” Laura’s voice interrupted them.

Stiles looked at his future sister-in-law and smiled. He hoped her recent warmth—no matter how small of a change—meant she was actually accepting Stiles’ placement.

She hadn’t been happy when Derek brought Stiles into the BatCave beneath Hale manor, though she softened some when Cora happily cried and hugged Stiles.

Laura offered what could be accredited to a friendly smile. “Can I steal Derek away for a moment?”

Derek hesitated before looking at Stiles.

Stiles nodded, taking a step back from Derek. He lifted up his near empty champagne flute as an excuse. “I’ll be by the bar.”

Laura reached a hand out, her touch gentle on Stiles’ arm. “Steer clear of Mrs. Cobblepot,” she offered. “The woman with all the pearls. She tends to talk forever, and is a bit cryptic.”

Stiles took Laura’s warning for the olive branch she meant it to be. “Noted,” he replied with a faint smile. He made his way towards the bar area, asking for a refill on his champagne.

~*~

Derek stared up at the monitor in disbelief. “That can’t be right.”

“I ran it twice,” Laura replied. “I also matched her audio recording to the voicemail she left Stiles. It is her.”

A young blond woman was plastered to the Joker’s side, staring up at him in what could be described as unhinged adoration. The Joker’s amusement reached its limit though and his cruel response was to shove the woman away, causing her to trip and stumble before catching herself. She skipped after the man once composing herself.

“I didn’t want to tell Stiles right now, but… I didn’t want to keep it from him, either. I figured you’d know better.”

“Fuck,” Derek cursed, turning away from the monitor.

“I’m sorry, Derek,” Laura softly uttered. “I know this wasn’t what any of us wanted.”

Derek shook his head. “I’ll tell him.”

Laura frowned as she nodded her head, knowing that there was no easy way to break the news to Stiles. How did you tell anyone that their closest friend wasn’t lost, but on a crime spree with the most infamous criminal to grace Beacon’s streets.

~*~

Stiles wasn’t sure what he was doing when he walked up to John and Carmine, his thoughts running completely on autopilot as he reached the two men.

“Stiles,” John started, turning towards his son in an attempt to hold him off.

“It’s okay,” Stiles stated with a soft gentleness. He turned his attention towards Carmine, aware of the people gathered and how they stared in bated silence. “I didn’t realize Derek’s sisters invited you,” he simply commented. He had been momentarily stunned to see his grandfather walking into the Hale estate, but he knew it was bound to be addressed sooner rather than later. He just was glad there wasn’t a camera lens in sight.

“I was made aware of it,” Carmine answered. The man didn’t appear bothered, simply standing with an air of calm as he looked at Stiles. “And just because you may want to hide the fact that you are my grandchild, doesn’t mean I don’t want to offer my congratulations.”

Stiles didn’t care who heard, it had been made public thanks to Paige’s digging so it wasn’t the scoop any present reporters were looking for.

“Take a walk with me,” Carmine gestured towards the pair of ornate glass doors that led into the vast gardens of the manor.

Stiles placed a hand on his father’s arm, stopping him from protesting–or outright telling Carmine to leave. He watched his grandfather slowly make his way towards the door–the appearance of an old man without concern. He offered his empty champagne glass to his father.

“I don’t want to feel tempted to throw it at him,” Stiles jokingly mused, offering a faint shrug of apology when his father’s gaze became serious. “Dad, I’ll be fine. He won’t hurt me.”

“His words still can,” John answered.

Stiles offered a sad smile to his father before following after Carmine.

The night was a little crisp, the cold blowing through Stiles’ thin dinner jacket when the wind picked up. Stiles admired the garden’s lights, catching the way they had been artfully arranged through the small maze and older masonry of the manor. It was picturesque, no doubt exactly what Laura had envisioned for the first Hale engagement announced in over decades.

Stiles paused when Carmine moved to sit on one of the benches, watching as the older man rested his cane next to him. He was appreciative that Carmine didn’t gesture for him to sit. Instead, he busied himself with inspecting the different blooms surrounding them. He was aware of the faint loop of running water coming from the fountain nearby–it filled the silence they shared.

“I’m not expecting anything from you,” Carmine’s voice broke the calm between them. “You or your fiance,” he clarified.

Stiles felt a wave of relief hit him, an anxiety he didn’t know he had finally lifted thanks to Carmine’s words.

“I simply wanted to see you,” Carmine finally admitted.

Stiles turned to look at Carmine.

Carmine was watching Stiles, a look of ease on his normally stoic features. He seemed to be remembering something, though Stiles was certain the man would never admit to whatever memories he held close.

“What did you expect to see?” Stiles asked.

Carmine merely smiled, shaking his head. “I’m not sure.”

Stiles frowned at that.

“Florence was the one who handled things like this,” Carmine suddenly stated, his eyes drifting to look over at the hydrangea bushes.

“Handled family?” Stiles asked with an edge of sarcasm.

Carmine smiled as he shook his head. “Matters of the heart were never something I enjoyed having,” he offered instead. He stood without relative difficulty, leaning on his cane out of necessity as he approached Stiles. He reached a hand into his jacket’s breast pocket, retrieving a small box.

Stiles blinked at the box his grandfather was holding out for him to take. He looked up at the man, his brow furrowed in confusion as he tried to judge what exactly Carmine was playing at.

“You neither need nor want any money from me,” Carmine explained. “But these aren’t something I bought for you.”

Stiles took the box, opening it without flourish. He stared down at the pair of diamonds that were nestled in the velvet box.

“I married Florence with nothing to my name,” Carmine explained. “She didn’t care for the money, or power that I was trying to accumulate. She was just happy every time I walked through that front door without a bruised face.” There was a lilt of fondness in Carmine’s voice as he spoke about Florence. “I moved up the ranks for the first time, which came with a significant pay increase. I was still a dumb kid in some ways, and I didn’t realize those diamonds weren’t exactly as rare as the salesman made them out to be.”

Stiles touched one of the diamonds.

“But Florence didn’t mind–she wore those, every day, even after I became the boss. She didn’t want anything else.”

Stiles looked up at Carmine, realizing that his grandfather had taken those earrings–Florence’s prized possession–and changed them into cufflinks.

“Your mother wore them on her wedding day,” Carmine explained. His jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth. “Florence gave them to her for that rhyme… what was it?” His brow pinched as he tried to remember what Florence had said when she was bringing them to Claudia. He had offered, numerous times, to get Claudia whatever she wanted for jewelry for her wedding–Florence told him to count his blessings that he was allowed to pay for the wedding dress.

Claudia didn’t have to invite him to the wedding, and he knew–deep down–that she did so for her mother’s sake.

Carmine had watched from the doorway as Florence helped clasp the wreath necklace around Claudia’s neck, a matching pair of smiles reflected through the mirror as Florence settled Claudia’s veil into place. His whole world was reflected back at him in those smiles.

And in an instant, they were gone.

“Something borrowed,” Stiles’ voice cut through the memory.

Carmine looked at Stiles, watching as his grandson easily pulled one of the diamond cufflinks from its spot in the box.

Stiles looked up at Carmine, feeling a sadness fall over him. He remembered there was a portrait, one that had been used sometimes in news articles, of the Falcone family. Carmine, Florence, and Claudia. Claudia had been a child, maybe five or six. But it was a portrait that was paraded around any discussion of Carmine and the Falcone crime family’s workings.

The women were long deceased now, but there had been a looming reality in that portrait–the Carmine pictured was smiling, something the man didn’t do now. The man had lost everything that mattered.

“Thank you,” Stiles gently spoke. “But you’re acting like these won’t be borrowed.”

Carmine nodded. “Something old, I guess.”

Stiles looked at Carmine. “You had them fitted for me,” he stated the obvious.

“Florence had joked about it once,” Carmine explained. “That if you didn’t get your ears pierced, she’d have to have them turned into cufflinks.”

Stiles smiled at that. “Are you sure you’re willing to part with them?”

Carmine nodded. “I keep her here,” he gestured towards his chest, an obvious reference to his heart. “She’d want you to have them.”

Stiles placed the cufflink back into the box, making sure to keep them secured before closing the lid. “Thank you.” He held the box closer, feeling for a moment as if he could have something back of his grandmother.

As if he could change the reality of Deucalion Prince killing her–of almost killing him.

“Have a good night,” Carmine finally stated as he moved to take his leave.

Stiles watched his grandfather, a pang twisting in his chest. Carmine wasn’t expecting to be invited, or that his grand gesture of sentimentality would change Stiles’ mind.

Carmine was letting Stiles go.

Derek had given Stiles free reign over who was invited to their wedding, and Carmine’s name was still sitting on an envelope in Stiles’ nightstand drawer. The invitation was burning a hole in Stiles’ thoughts, knowing that he had to make the decision for himself and not what anyone else expected of him.

“Grandpa,” Stiles’ voice cracked. He hadn’t called Carmine that outloud in years, since he was a little boy too naive to see the crime boss.

Carmine turned, looking at Stiles with a twinge of shock creeping into his features.

Stiles reacted before he could second guess himself. He quickly moved, closing the space between them as he hugged Carmine.

Carmine hesitated for only a moment before reciprocating the hug. He pressed his cheek against Stiles’ temple, the short hair nearly tickling his nose.

“I expect to see you at the wedding,” Stiles softly uttered as he pulled away from Carmine. He was surprised when Carmine cupped his face before placing a kiss on his forehead. Without another word exchanged, he drew in a steadying breath as he watched his grandfather leave.

~*~

Stiles idly spun his engagement ring, watching as the band easily slipped around his ring finger with ease. He was listening to the way Derek softly breathed behind him, the weight of Derek’s arm around his waist grounded him.

Stiles had nightmares about what happened to Florence happening to him, or Derek. The thought of someone breaking in to kill Derek, or Stiles, and harming the wrong one. He had night terrors grip him, the thought that Derek would take a bullet for him, and he’d live his life like Carmine, obsessed with the desire to kill the person that took everything from him.

“You’re thinking awfully loud,” Derek’s sleep-addled voice spoke in a muffled way against the pillow.

Stiles pressed back into Derek, happy when Derek’s strength pulled him flush against Derek’s chest. He let Derek’s arm settle tightly against his chest, wrapping his arm around Derek’s. He kissed Derek’s knuckle.

Derek lifted his head, turning their bodies in a way that allowed him to look down at Stiles. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m scared,” Stiles admitted. He thought about the video Derek showed him once the party had ended–the video of Lydia with the Joker. He had been in disbelief, even when the computer told him of the near identical match it was reporting. He had thrown up, thankfully not on the BatComputer–he was confident that while Derek would forgive him, Laura and Cora would be annoyed with him for making such a mess. He turned his head to look up at Derek. “When does it end?”

Derek’s brow furrowed. “We’re always going to be in the spotlight,” he started.

Stiles shook his head. “When does the Batman end?”

Derek’s features softened, understanding washing over him.

Stiles reached a hand up to touch Derek’s cheek when he saw the sadness that washed over him.

“I don’t know,” Derek honestly stated. “I wish I could give you a better answer than that. That I could walk away from it without guilt no matter what state Beacon is in.”

Stiles pressed a kiss to Derek’s cheek. “I shouldn’t have asked that.”

Derek shook his head. “No, you should.” He kissed the curve of Stiles’ bare shoulder. “I’ve been taking steps back. But it does feel unending.”

“I’m selfish, really,” Stiles softly admitted. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt or … worse.” He clenched his jaw tightly.

“Trust me,” Derek started, turning both of them until he was settled over Stiles, slotting between Stiles’ welcoming thighs. “I have something worth living for. And I’m not letting that go.”

Stiles smiled as he wrapped his legs around Derek’s waist, his hands buried in Derek’s hair. “I’m not letting you go, either.”

~*~

Stiles’ ears were ringing, his head swimming with a thudding pain. The cold from the concrete floor was seeping into his bones, a tremor raking through him. He tried to turn onto his back, a sharp pain cutting into his arm when he realized it was in the way—his hands were tied behind his back.

Stiles tried to blink his eyes open, the sharp luminous light throwing his vision off.

“Oh, wakey wakey.”

Stiles flinched when a hand grabbed his bicep, yanking him up into a sitting position. He felt his back pressed against a pallet of cement. He blinked as his eyes adjusted, looking up at the person. He shoved himself back into the cement pallet, wishing he could get away when he saw the man in front of him.

The Joker was crouching next to him, a gun loosely held in his hand propped against his thigh. He tilted his head with a widening smile. “Mornin’, sunshine.”

Stiles tried to take in the area around them, realizing that they were in a construction site.

“You got quite a bump,” the Joker commented, lifting the gun to tap the end of the barrel against Stiles’ temple.

Pain shot through Stiles’ head, the unseen welt clearly reacting to the pressure of being prodded at.

“I told them to be gentle,” the Joker sighed, as if he was annoyed with not being listened to. “You’re a catch, you know.”

“I don’t know why—”

The Joker tutted in disapproval. “Ah, ah, ah,” he wiggled his finger at Stiles. “Don’t lie to me. We know who you are.”

Stiles remained silent.

The Joker stood, reaching a hand in his suit jacket. He patted around in an exaggerated motion, as if he was searching for something. “I know I put it in here,” he mused. A chattering teeth toy fell out of his pocket. “Ignore that, everyone does.” He made a noise of approval when he pulled a notepad out. “Here we go.”

Stiles pulled his leg away from the chattering teeth toy, watching as it tried to keep moving from laying on its side, the toy’s legs moving through the air.

“Let’s review who you are,” the Joker offered. “Commissioner Stilinski’s son,” he licked his finger to flip the page of the small pad. “Carmine Falcone’s grandson,” he made a roll of his eyes. “The Cat Thief,” he gave Stiles an arched eyebrow. “Impressive.” He flipped to the last page. “Oh, and this one is my favorite,” he moved to crouch close to Stiles, a bemused laugh escaping him as if he was reading an amusing joke. “The love of Derek Hale’s life.”

Stiles tried to keep all emotion from his features.

“Now see, I really hate that,” the Joker’s voice deepened as he carelessly tossed the pad of paper to the side. He lashed out quickly, grabbing a handful of Stiles’ hair in a tight grip as he hauled Stiles’ helpless body close. He pressed the barrel of his gun into Stiles’ cheek. “You should give me a smile,” he suddenly commented, his eyes taking in Stiles’ shaking breath. “You give him such nice ones. And I’d hate to have to mar that pretty face before he gets here.”

“I thought you said I was a catch,” Stiles barely got the words out.

The Joker froze. He blinked a few times before laughing. He released Stiles as he stood, brushing a hand through his hair to correct the loose strands. “You’re right, that wouldn’t have been funny to end the party before the guest of honor gets here. Destroying the prize is no fun.”

Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat.

The sound of approaching steps caused Stiles’ stomach to unravel. He could tell it wasn’t Batman, and part of him dreaded it being Derek without his armor, or his father foolishly answering the Joker’s demands.

“A prize indeed.”

A cold sweat broke out as nausea roiled in Stiles’ stomach.

Deucalion Prince.

Stiles turned his head to look up at the man, catching sight of his two bodyguards. He felt sick when he saw the smile on Deucalion’s face. “Carmine killed Harris,” he stated. “What do you think he’ll do to you?”

Deucalion laughed. “The old man is on his way as we speak.”

Stiles tried to keep his expression neutral. “Carmine won’t walk into a trap.”

“He would for you,” Deucalion replied. “Besides, he thinks this is a trade.”

Stiles looked at the Joker, unsurprised to find the man leaning against the support column with utter boredom on his features. “You’re so pathetic you needed the Joker to kidnap me?”

“Thanks to your father, my options were limited,” Deucalion lowly stated.

“If Carmine doesn’t kill you, my father will,” Stiles retorted. “And if they don’t, Derek will.”

The Joker shifted, pushing off the column as he took a step closer. He looked intrigued by Stiles’ claim.

“A good little trust fund baby like Hale isn’t capable of that,” Deucalion mockingly laughed off Stiles’ threat. “He knew, deep down, that I had you thrown out like trash. And he did nothing.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Stiles answered. “You’re finished, Deucalion. You just don’t see it yet.”

“You know what, I’m sick of you talking,” Deucalion stated. He gestured to one of the men flanking him. “I don’t think you’ll survive the same jump twice,” he commented, looking down at Stiles as if he was a stain to be removed.

Stiles didn’t care if he was injured, the pain in his side obvious now as he fell to the side in his attempt to scurry backwards when one of Deucalion’s men came at him.

The Joker shot the man who moved to grab Stiles.

“No ruining the fun,” the Joker stated in a tired voice, as if he hadn’t just killed a man. He looked at Deucalion. “I don’t like it when people change the plan.”

Deucalion looked furious at the Joker. “I don’t listen to crazy people in makeup.”

The Joker was quiet before a laugh loudly cracked out of him. He leaned over, taking support against the column as he continued to laugh in an exaggerated manner. “Well, even if that is true, it isn’t smart to piss off the crazy with the gun,” the Joker whirled and pointed his gun at Deucalion. “Now, where is Derek?”

Deucalion didn’t seem bothered to have the Joker aiming a weapon at him. “He will have been informed of Stiles’ whereabouts once Carmine gets here.”

The Joker looked annoyed at having to wait. “I guess a few more minutes is nothing compared to the decades I waited,” he muttered as he lowered his gun.

Stiles tried not to flinch away as Deucalion approached him. He glared at the man crouching next to him.

“I want you to know,” Deucalion started, looking down to pick a piece of nonexistent lint from his trousers. “It was never personal against you. It was good business to get Carmine out of the way.” He looked at Stiles. “And then you had to start dating Derek Hale, of all people. That put you in the worst position for me.”

“Because I knew you were trying to scam Hale Enterprises?” Stiles incredulously asked. “Newsflash, asshole,” he sneered at Deucalion. “Derek is one of the smartest people you’ll ever know. He knew you were trying to scam him–he just probably wanted to take a look at your books to confirm it. And you were stupid enough to let him.” He felt the rush of adrenaline hit him when Deucalion looked surprised by his words. He was hurt and tired, and he didn’t have the mental energy to sugarcoat anything for the man who tried to murder him. Instead, he laughed in Deucalion’s face. “Derek probably gave an anonymous tip to BPD about you. He saw right through you and you were too stupid to realize that just because Derek has a pretty face doesn’t mean he’s an idiot.”

Stiles hadn’t been expecting the back of Deucalion’s hand to slam across his cheek, the impact making his head ring even worse. His lip felt like it had split, and the taste of copper confirmed it.

The sharp connection of Deucalion’s shoe hitting his stomach was almost enough to cause him to vomit. He pressed his cheek into the concrete, refusing to move.

“I think I’m going to take my time with you,” Deucalion commented as he turned his back on him.

The Joker tutted, shaking his head in disapproval as he waltzed over to Stiles. He crouched beside Stiles, tilting his head to get the upright view of Stiles’ face. “That had to hurt,” the man commented, reaching a hand out to tap Stiles’ cheek.

Stiles winced and opened his eyes, glaring at the Joker.

“I have a doctor on call if you need one,” the Joker mused. “She’s supposed to fix the mind, but she isn’t very good at that.” His eyes widened some before he comically whispered at full volume, “don’t tell her I said that.”

Lydia.

Stiles’s stomach clenched.

“Oh, honey bear,” the Joker crooned, a smile on his face. It was as if he knew it would crush Stiles’ spirit even more to see her.

The sound of skipping steps followed after Joker’s call.

The Joker held out his hand with a flourish, as if he was about to start a dance.

And then Stiles saw her.

Lydia spun into the Joker’s waiting arms after she took his hand. Her leg lifting, pointing into the air with flourish as the Joker dipped her low.

Stiles stared in horror as he watched Lydia kiss the Joker, a sense of uneasiness hitting him when he saw that the Joker was looking at him.

The Joker finally looked at Lydia. “He’s a little banged up,” he gestured towards Stiles. “See to our guest’s booboos, okay?” He kissed the tip of her nose after she eagerly nodded.

Stiles startled when Lydia moved to kneel next to him. “Lydia,” he started, shocked to see that she had remnants of her own clown makeup staining her skin. He could see how pale she was, even the hint of dark circles beneath the tear smudged eye makeup. “Lydia.” His voice was sterner.

Lydia looked at Stiles.

Stiles leaned away from her, wavered by the hollowness in her stare.

“I’ll take care of it, Stiles,” Lydia stated with an unsettling smile splitting her lips.

Stiles lightly shook his head. “Lydia, listen to me, we have to–”

“I have to patch you up,” Lydia stated as she looked at Stiles’ lip. “It’s what puddin’ said you needed.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. She shook her head, plastering on a smile as she stood to go retrieve her first aid kit.

“Lydia, why are you doing this?” Stiles asked in urgency when she returned, his gaze flickering over to the Joker.

The Joker was far enough away, looking out over the city streets below–likely scouring for sight of Derek, or Batman.

“What do you mean?” Lydia asked as she sorted through the different medical items.

“Why are you here?” Stiles started. “I remember seeing you earlier when…” He stopped, thinking about the moments before he woke up here. He had been heading to the bakery to meet Derek, but he had turned to follow… “Lydia,” he forcefully stated. He flinched away from her when she tried to clean his lip. He didn’t feel bad about her frown, not when his stomach felt like it was unraveling with the revelation. “You tricked me.”

Lydia blinked a few times. “I didn’t trick you,” she rationalized. “Puddin’ said he needed you, so I thought about the best way to get you without causing a scene or hurting anyone else.”

“You purposely walked down that alley, knowing I’d follow you if I saw a glimpse of you–because I’ve been worried!”

“How worried were you?” Lydia suddenly asked, looking at Stiles with a dead stare.

“What?”

“How worried were you while you were sailing with your fiance,” Lydia asked. “How worried were you while planning your wedding.” She leaned closer, her nose almost touching Stiles’ nose. “How worried were you, Stiles?”

“You want to blame me for him?” Stiles flickered his eyes over to the Joker. “I didn’t ignore you on purpose.”

“You’re a bad friend, Stiles,” Lydia sighed, leaning back out of his space.

“I fell in love, Lydia.”

“So did I,” Lydia replied as she looked over at the Joker.

“I’m not the only bad friend,” Stiles decided to say, glad that it was enough to yank her attention away from the man she was infatuated with. “You were working almost every night, and then on weekends too,” he pointed out. “Were you really working, or did you just find something else to keep your attention besides friends?”

Lydia’s brow furrowed, gently shaking her head. “He needed me.”

“Did he?” Stiles asked.

Anger snapped across Lydia’s face. “Shut up!” She abruptly stood, kicking over the first aid kit without any care as she stomped over to the Joker.

Stiles watched as Lydia wrapped her arms around the man from behind, pressing her face into his back. The Joker didn’t appear at all moved by the embrace, his eyes still tracking the streets below as if he hadn’t noticed Lydia.

“Someone’s coming,” the Joker noted, catching everyone off guard. He turned, a look of annoyance plastered on his face when Lydia’s embrace stopped him from moving. He grabbed her arms, forcefully unfolding them before tossing her back and off balance.

Stiles’ heart lodged in his throat when he saw Lydia stumble towards the edge–where there was no barrier to stop her from one misplaced step and toppling over.

Lydia’s minor moment of sorrow was replaced with a fake smile as she skipped after the Joker.

Minutes passed in agony as Stiles thought about who it could be–which person got here first.

“You’re finally here,” Deucalion stated when the footsteps approached.

Stiles strained his neck to see who it was, his stomach already in knots. “No,” he softly uttered.

It was Carmine.

Alone.

“Would have been here earlier if you let me have my cane,” Carmine answered Deucalion, but his eyes didn’t leave Stiles.

“Surprised you came at all,” Deucalion noted. “And I’m not an idiot, Carmine, I know you keep a blade in that cane.”

“When you tell me you’re going to murder my grandson if I don’t show up, alone, on the outskirts of the city–well, that inspires urgent complacency,” Carmine replied as he approached. He put his hands up when Deucalion aimed his gun at him.

Stiles scrambled to stand with the speed the Joker pulled on his arm, unsteady on his feet despite the way the man held onto him.

“Take off your coat, and throw your wallet out,” Deucalion instructed.

Carmin scoffed at the order. “You’re going to make it look like I was… what? Mugged? In this city, you’d have to be quite stupid to do that to me.”

“Police will be happy to get rid of you,” Deucalion reasoned.

“I think you forget who my son-in-law is,” Carmine replied, even as he started to unbutton his coat.

Stiles wanted to protest, to tell Carmine to stall just a little longer. There was no way Laura of all people wouldn’t have put a tap on Carmine once Stiles was declared missing–she would have been determined to prevent bloodshed. They just had to wait until one of the Hales showed up.

Carmine took his coat off with ease, tossing it towards Deucalion per his instruction. He pulled his scarf from his neck before retrieving his wallet from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. He tossed them onto his discarded coat. He watched with ease as Deucalion’s bodyguard moved forward to gather the items.

“Careful,” Carmine’s bored tone gave off more annoyance than worry. He gestured towards the scarf that was dangling precariously from the bodyguard’s hold. “That’s Hermès.”

Stiles couldn’t help the smile that pulled at his lips. He truly had wondered where his mother had gained an appreciation for such outlandish styles and designer names. It was clearly Carmine’s influence moreso than Florence’s.

“A what?” The bodyguard asked.

“It’s worth more than your salary,” Stiles answered. He saw the way Carmine barely hid a similar smile.

“Keep your hands away from your pockets,” Deucalion bit out.

Carmine lifted his hands up. “What next? Want me to jump on one foot? That is going to be a little difficult,” he deadpanned.

“You’ll come with me, and Stiles will walk out,” Deucalion decided to ignore Carmine’s jest.

Carmine briefly looked at Stiles. “You don’t think I’m going to leave my grandson alone with him,” he pointed a finger at the Joker.

The Joker pressed a hand to his chest in mock hurt.

“I’d say you don’t really have a choice,” Deucalion replied.

Carmine hesitated for a moment before gruffly agreeing with a curt, “Fine.”

Stiles tried to pull away from the Joker, only stopping when the man tightened his grip and yanked him back.

“He’s going to kill you!” Stiles quickly yelled, a vehement argument against Carmine just accepting Deucalion’s word.

Carmine didn’t appear fazed by the revelation in Stiles’ words.

“I don’t think the old man really cares as long as I let you go,” Deucalion replied to Stiles, refusing to take his eyes off of Carmine.

“Don’t listen to him,” Stiles argued.

“I won’t live with that regret, Stiles,” Carmine simply stated, looking at his grandson. “I won’t.” He looked back at Deucalion.

Regret. How much regret had Carmine let consume his every move these last decades?

“You can’t believe him–that he’ll just let me go,” Stiles pushed. “And even if he does, he won’t stop coming after me.”

Carmine hesitated for a moment.

But when that look of resignation came back, Stiles forced himself to admit the truth he was terrified of Carmine knowing. The truth he should have told him to begin with.

“He killed grandma!” Stiles yelled at Carmine.

Carmine’s gaze flickered from Deucalion over to Stiles.

“He was sent by Maroni–he knew he was fucked for botching the attempt so he ran to the DA.”

“As much as you want to have this wrapped up in a bow,” Deucalion scoffed at Stiles. “You honestly think an outlandish claim like that would be believed?”

Stiles laughed at Deucalion. He could give Deucalion the benefit of being a good actor when he revealed nothing.

The Joker arched an eyebrow, watching Stiles with interest as he released his grip on the young man.

“You forget,” Stiles started, his eyes flickering over to his grandfather for a moment. “You gave a recorded interview to the DA, in exchange for protection against Maroni and Argent.”

Deucalion’s stoic expression cracked with realization.

“Chris Argent kept those files,” Stiles added.

Carmine was watching Deucalion, as if he was trying to recall the exact shape of the shadow that had lingered only for a moment before fleeing after the shots. He was sizing the man up, the wheels turning in his head.

“You really are an insufferable little bitch,” Deucalion lowly stated as he observed Stiles with clear anger.

“Funny,” Stiles uttered, ignoring the pain in his side where Deucalion had kicked him.  “What did you call Florence? A bitch who got in the way? I guess I have that in common with my grandmother.”

Deucalion’s mask of control shattered with that final nail in the coffin. It was proof that Chris Argent had kept those files, and Stiles had found them.

“You’re probably wishing right now that that shove killed me, huh?” It was a gamble to lay every guilty charge at Deucalion’s feet at this moment, but he could only hope that Carmine had some sort of plan.

And Stiles’ victory fell from his lips when he saw his father coming up the stairs behind Carmine, his weapon drawn to attention.

“John,” Carmine spoke in a curt tone, still processing Stiles’ revelation. “I told you I would handle it.”

“Stiles, are you alright?” Commissioner Stilinski ignored Carmine as he continued to aim his weapon at Deucalion.

“Dad, what are you doing?” Stiles tried to keep the fear from his tone.

“I invited him,” the Joker offered before leaning close to whisper in Stiles’ ear. “I wanted to invite all the men who love you. I’d like to see which one will die for you first–so far Derek is disappointing.”

Stiles flinched at the Joker’s laugh. “Dad, be careful, Lydia is here somewhere.”

“She’s downstairs,” John answered, his gaze flickering briefly to Stiles. “She’s handcuffed to a support bar.” He looked back at Deucalion. “This is over, there are dozens of BCPD waiting downstairs.”

“That’s a bluff, John,” Deucalion confronted him.

“Believe it is if you want, but my goal is stopping this before it escalates to violence.”

“Too late for that, John,” Carmine stated, his gaze focused on Deucalion. “Decades too late for that.”

“Carmine,” John spoke the older man’s name with a warning. “You are already interfering with police matters. Don’t make me charge you with obstruction instead of being a victim.”

Carmine laughed.

John dared to look at Carmine.

“I think you misunderstand me,” Carmine started, reaching into his vest’s pocket to retrieve a cigarette case. He looked unaffected by the way Deucalion and his man kept their weapons aimed at him. “I’m not letting him walk out of here without admitting what he took from me,” he continued, slipping a cigarette from the case to tap it against the engraved surface. “I’m insulted, to say the least.” He lifted the cigarette to his lips. “Disgusted, actually.”

John recognized the cigarette case—Claudia had given it to Carmine as a birthday gift, just months before Florence’s death.

Carmine slowly lifted his lighter to his lips, his thumb sparking the grinder into a flame.

A booming shot cracked through the empty space of the construction site.

Stiles startled, leaning into the Joker to get away from the blood spatter. He stared at what was left of Deucalion’s bodyguard.

“You think I would walk in here without a definite way for my grandson to walk out?” Carmine scoffed at the look on Deucalion’s face. “You once again insult me.”

Stiles did his best to calculate where the shot came from, realizing that it was a sniper from one of the distant buildings–buildings well across the bridge.

“Christ, Carmine!” John yelled at him, knowing that it was a countdown until officers arrived.

“You can put your weapon down,” Carmine instructed Deucalion as he ignored John, taking a drag of his cigarette with an unnerving calm. “I hire the best–always have. You could even say she’s quite the dead shot. She’ll put one in your spine before you even think of what to do with that gun.” He briefly let his eyes stray from Deucalion, looking at Stiles. “Let him go,” he spoke to the Joker.

The Joker released a cooing laughter as he shook his head. “No, we need to wait.”

“I am not asking,” Carmine stated in a sterner tone.

“Going to have your pet assassin shoot me?” The Joker mocking asked. “Wouldn’t be very smart.”

Carmine narrowed his eyes. “Seems to be the smartest thing to do when a mad man is threatening my family.”

“Not very smart because the madman can do this,” the Joker replied, just as he slipped a handcuff to Stiles’ wrist. He spun them away from the palette of cement bags, tossing Stiles’ weight out and away from him.

And away from the edge of the construction site.

Stiles’ stomach dropped as he felt his balance nearly leave him, his feet barely on the edge of the floor as he was leaning out over nothing–practically hovering in the air as he clung to the Joker’s hand.

If the Joker was shot, there was no doubt in Stiles’ mind that they would both plummet to the ground beneath them–at least twelve stories beneath them.

Stiles dug his nails into the Joker’s hand as he tried to hold onto him, to even pull himself up from the incline he was hovering at. But each time the Joker leaned even further.

The Joker was prepared to die to make his point–Stiles wasn’t getting out of this if Batman didn’t show.

“Now, if Batman doesn’t show in the next few minutes, I may be joining his beloved little cat in a deadly trip to the ground,” the Joker announced, an edge of darkness in his tone. “I’ve waited long enough!” He yelled.

Carmine clenched his jaw before looking back at Deucalion. “You have two options at the moment: surrender or a bullet. Choose quickly, Deucalion.” He waited for Deucalion to drop his gun and kick it away. He drew in a breath before uttering, “You better handcuff him, John.”

John hesitated before moving, his gaze distracted with the sight of his son dangling above midair.

“Should we start a countdown?” The Joker asked Stiles.

Stiles clenched his jaw. “Did you countdown for Joe Chill?”

The Joker’s pupils suddenly dilated with intrigue–recognition–delight. “Joe died too quickly for my liking. But I was never good with playing with pets for a long time.” He leaned backwards, the weight of them both forcing the metal of the cuffs to cut deep into their wrists.

Stiles winced, straining to keep a pained cry in.

The Joker smiled. “He loves you,” he suddenly stated in a tone that sounded normal. There was a calmness in the Joker that was unsettling.

Stiles stared at the man that once was Derek’s uncle. He would have been at their wedding had he not become this.

“I think that’s why it is going to feel so good taking you away,” Peter softly spoke, sounding the most logical he had all night. “Tell me, Stiles,” he softly started to pull Stiles towards him and away from the precarious position he placed him in. “Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?”

Stiles caught sight of a blurred shadow. “Have you?” He quietly asked when he saw the figure standing just out of sight from the Commissioner.

The Joker giggled a laughter under his breath, amused by Stiles’ response. “You’ll fly so beautifully.”

“Peter.”

Derek wasn’t using his voice changer.

Stiles was the only one privy to the way the Joker’s features fell, the twisted joy from earlier drooping into a browbeaten expression of disappointment.

“Well, this isn’t fun,” the Joker noted as he looked up at Stiles.

“Leave him out of this,” Derek continued as he took a step out from behind the pillar.

Carmine looked from Batman to the Joker, his expression pinching with concentration–an attempt to put memory to the distorted face of a stranger.

“Rather hard to leave him out of this,” the Joker answered, slowly turning his head towards Batman. “You brought him into this.”

“You wanted me here, I came. Now let him go,” Batman answered.

The Joker laughed. “No, no,” he gently shook his head before violently yanking Stiles close.

Stiles tripped over the momentum that threw his weight forward, stumbling into the Joker. He was disoriented when twisted around, handcuffed arm pinned behind his back as the Joker used him for a shield. He hated knowing the cold metal feeling pressed tightly under his jaw was a gun.

“I wanted you here to watch him die,” the Joker explained. “Your sisters were too obvious of a choice, a comfort you built up but kept at arm's length. They wouldn’t have the same reaction.”

Batman remained still, only his cape swayed when caught in the burst of wind off the water.

“You’re getting another chance, to save the thing you love most, so don’t fuck this one up.” The Joker sounded as if he was giving Batman instructional advice. “I’ve been in and out of asylums for decades, you know, and they always say that it is healthiest to work through trauma. What better way than to reenact it?”

Stiles clenched his jaw tightly, concentrating twisting his fingers the right way–he just had to turn the pick into place and he could make his move. He didn’t mean to freeze when Derek spoke, but the softness caught him off guard.

“This isn’t going to bring them back.”

It was like a child trying to explain to a spiraling adult that their vices wouldn’t change the disappointments of their lives.

“You think I don’t know that?” The Joker demanded. “I am doing this for you–as usual, I am doing it all for you to deal with your increasing thoughts of lunacy.” He lifted the gun from its place on Stiles’ throat to gesture at Batman. “You dress up like a freaking bat–I’m insane and even I know that isn’t normal, Derek.” He laughed as if he only just realized he had outed Derek’s identity without thought. He wildly gestured once more. “Go on, take off the helmet–show your lovely former in-laws-to-be who you really are.”

Batman drew in a breath, head tilting down.

“Don’t,” Stiles quickly stated. He was almost free, and then they could all walk out of here.

The Joker shushed Stiles. “I would like you to see this, so don’t make me put a hole in your pretty head out of regret.”

“Don’t you dare take that helmet off!” Stiles yelled at Batman when he started to reach for his helmet. “Don’t you take that helmet off for me– don’t put that on me!”

Batman’s hands tightened on the bottom of his helmet, just to the curve of his jaw. “There’s no point anymore,” he finally answered, looking up at Stiles. “I put this mask on to protect the people I love… it just put you in danger.”

Just as Batman turned the first clasp loose, Stiles felt the handcuff release from his wrist.

Stiles shot his leg out quickly, spinning to knock the Joker off his feet with precision. He twisted his body far enough to kick the Joker’s discarded gun away. He stood to take a few paces back from the Joker, watching as the man realized his hands were now the ones cuffed together.

There was an eerie silence before the Joker’s unhinged laughter started to erupt.

“Shut up,” Stiles snapped at him before looking at Batman. “And keep your fucking helmet on,” he ordered, hoping there was more anger in his tone than the tears that stung his eyes. He never wanted to live in a world where Derek sacrificed himself for him.

“That really is funny, you know,” the Joker mused, a bubble of laughter following his words.

“Really?” Stiles demanded, turning to look at the man.

“Yeah,” the Joker’s laugh disappeared. “That you thought that was my only gun.”

Stiles registered the Joker’s sudden movement–the way a small concealed gun slipped from beneath the cuff of his pant leg with ease. He calculated how fast he could move out of the way.

He could see the blacked shadow of Derek moving towards him, and for a split second he had a hope that maybe Derek would reach him.

A deafening shot rang out, just as the weight of Derek tackling him registered. His heart was beating fast, the blood rushing through his veins as fuzzy white noise blocked out all other sounds. He felt Derek’s gloved hands touch his face, the echoing call of Derek’s voice saying his name over and over.

Stiles blinked up at Derek, adrenaline wearing away to shock as he tried to feel where he could have been shot. There was no pain. He looked down at himself, softly shaking his head when Derek asked if he was hurt, all sound rushing back in a flooded instant.

“Shots fired,” the Commissioner’s calm voice spoke over the radio. “I discharged my weapon.” John sounded tired.

Stiles looked at his father, seeing his service weapon in his hand, before turning his head to see the Joker. He tightened his hold on Derek, his hands gripping onto the plated armor of Batman’s shoulders. He grabbed Derek’s face, forcing him not to look. “Don’t look,” he whispered.

Derek’s hand tightened into a fist against the concrete, just parallel to Stiles’ head. He clenched his jaw, breathing through it.

“You’ve seen enough,” Stiles reasoned as he caressed his thumb across Derek’s cheek. “Hey,” he softly spoke, pulling Derek’s eyes to his with the simple word. “Just keep looking at me.” He nodded his head as he repeated, “Keep looking at me.”

People would say that Batman would have complicated feelings about the Joker’s death, but that didn’t matter to Stiles.

Derek Hale didn’t need to see his uncle with a bullet hole in his chest.

Stiles guided Derek’s face towards his neck, turning his head away as John moved close to inspect the Joker. He tightened his hold on Derek when John reported into the radio that he couldn’t find a pulse. He was thankful when his father moved to block Peter’s body from view.

Stiles stood with Derek’s help, making sure to turn him purposefully away.

“I need to get out of here before others arrive,” Derek spoke, his voice tinged with an unusual coldness.

“My place?”

Derek’s eyes flickered over Stiles, a faint nod before he started moving.

Stiles allowed his hold to linger on Derek, fingers slipping away just seconds before watching Batman use his grappling hook to take flight. He reached a hand up to touch his neck, rubbing the aching spot as he turned to look at his father. His gaze dropped to the Joker and the bullet hole in his chest.

“I hope he can forgive me,” John suddenly stated, his own gaze staring down at Peter.

Stiles walked over to his father, touching John’s arm to gain his attention.

“Dad–”

“I don’t want to know how long you knew,” John cut off Stiles’ words. “I understand why you wouldn’t tell me.” He holstered his weapon. “I just hope he can forgive me for making a choice that cost his uncle his life.”

Stiles gently shook his head, “You put it together then.”

“Not that hard to piece together that the Joker was somehow related to Batman. I guess Derek put on a better front than he thought when it came to acting like he couldn’t possibly be Batman,” John offered. He looked up, shaking his head. “It seems insane that no one else has figured out the billionaire is the heavily armed and equipped vigilante.”

Stiles hugged his dad's arm, pressing his forehead into John’s shoulder. “I said something similar.” He looked up at John. “And don’t worry, Derek won’t blame you for saving my life.”

Stiles released his father when another call came over the radio with an estimated time of arrival. He took a step away, turning to check on Carmine. And he froze.

Carmine had a cigarette between his lips, smoke softly billowing away from the lit end, as he focused on cleaning his hands with his handkerchief. His bloodied hands.

Stiles turned his head, eyes catching on Deucalion. “What did you do?” He softly asked Carmine, a thousand thoughts running through his mind.

John turned at Stiles’ words, pausing before pushing by Stiles. “Damn it!” He snapped when he saw that Deucalion was dead, a knife lodged in his throat. He turned on his father-in-law. “I’m a cop, Carmine! What did you think–”

“I thought you’d arrest me,” Carmine answered as he finished wiping his hands, folding the handkerchief together to slip into his pants pocket. He pulled the cigarette from his lips, tossing it to the floor before stepping on it.

“You couldn’t wait for him to go to trial?” Stiles finally found his voice.

“He’d get a slap on the wrist,” Carmine countered. “And no matter the sentence, it wouldn’t be enough for what he’s done.”

A shuttering scoff cracked from Stiles’ throat. “I almost thought you’d change,” he stated. “This doesn’t bring justice to the people he hurt–this doesn’t bring grandma back.”

Carmine looked at Stiles, a fond sadness in his eyes. “I didn’t do this for me, kiddo.”

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, the hot sting of tears burning as realization hit him. He didn’t feel an ounce of actual guilt or empathy–he felt relief.

“You can handcuff me, John, but I am going to need help getting down the stairs,” Carmine simply stated as he offered his wrists up. He looked at Stiles as he waited for John to handcuff him. “He wasn’t going to leave you alone–because of me. So I made a choice–I wasn’t going to risk your life like I did hers.”

“Carmine, you don’t know–”

“Dad,” Stiles softly spoke, stopping his father. “Dad, he … he had me …” He breathed out his shakiness. “Deucalion is the one that had me shoved out the window.”

Thoughts churned in John’s head, turning to look at Deucalion before returning to Carmine.

Carmine held a neutral expression. “Read me my rights, John.”

It was permission to put an end to all of this.

~*~

“You need to leave,” Stiles partially laughed through their kiss.

Derek cradled Stiles’ neck and jaw, bringing their lips together in another kiss as he pressed between Stiles’ thighs.

Stiles wrapped his legs around Derek’s waist, uncaring of the way his silk robe fell open. “Derek–I am not dressed,” he reasoned, despite the way he turned his head to give Derek’s mouth more access to his neck. “And the guests–”

“Will wait,” Derek uttered.

After everything, this day felt impossible.

Derek never thought he would live long enough to find someone he could envision himself marrying, let alone loving. And Stiles was that for him–everything. The trauma of the last few months still lingered, a haunting pale figure that loomed.

Derek had kept himself together the night the Joker died. He forced himself to keep moving, to get to Stiles’ apartment downtown. He only managed to get his gauntlets and helmet off, his knees giving out. The cats kept him company, Ms Kitty moving to climb up Derek’s chest and press her face into his cheek. He instinctually hugged the normally stoic cat, taking the comfort she offered through her purrs.

Stiles took over once he arrived, hugging Derek all night. It wasn’t easy–it wasn’t black and white. The Joker had bled through Derek’s world, splintering shades of gray working to twist his own grief and trauma into a continuing nightmare.

Stiles placed his hands beneath Derek’s chin, forcing Derek’s lips away from his skin. “You are dressed, and if you keep touching me like that, I’m going to mess up your hair, and possibly ruin your suit. And I would much rather do that tonight, when we are Mr. and Mr. Hale.” He smirked, rubbing his leg up and down as his foot caught Derek’s pant leg.

Derek grumbled, kissing Stiles once more. “Fine,” he uttered before releasing Stiles from his hold. He didn’t miss the way Stiles slowly covered himself, purposefully dragging the robe back into place.

Stiles smiled at Derek when he didn’t move to leave. “You can’t see me until my dad walks me down the aisle,” he sternly stated. “Shoo,” he playfully made a gesture of brushing Derek away.

Derek took Stiles’ hand, placing a kiss to his skin before backing away. “Don’t leave me to make small talk.”

Stiles gently laughed. “Half the guests are yours,” he reasoned as he moved to sit back down at the vanity. He wanted to make sure he wasn’t too flushed–his skin tended to do that in relation to Derek.

Derek offered a shrug. “Doesn’t mean I like most of them. Boyd I like,” he noted.

“Boyd is your Best Man, you’re supposed to like him,” Stiles answered. He frowned some when he thought of the empty space he had now. He thought of Lydia every day, and attempted to visit her every month only to be turned away when informed Lydia had specifically revoked his visitations. He was trying to get her transferred from Eichen, but she seemed to only dig her heels in more and reject all help.

There was an empty space on Stiles’ side. Thankfully, his father had offered to stand with him after walking him down the aisle.

“Regrets?”

Stiles shook away from his thoughts, looking at Derek. “No,” he answered. “I told you, I’d never regret you,” he added with a smile.

“Hurry and join me, then” Derek answered. “I don’t think I can keep John and Carmine separate for much longer.”

Stiles rolled his eyes at the thought.

Carmine had gotten lucky when John turned the key in the handcuffs, lifting the cuffs from his wrists. He walked away, making his own way through the construction site that he appeared to have extensive knowledge of.

Carmine apparently claimed Deucalion stole his cigarette case–the same case that usually held the knife found embedded in Deucalion’s throat. Carmine shrugged when the cops questioned him. At the moment, the man had a pending trial, free to roam anywhere in Beacon.

Stiles actually had laughed when Derek mentioned they’d have a high-profile criminal and the Commissioner at their wedding. Don’t forget the Mayor , Stiles had added.

“I love you,” Derek suddenly stated.

Stiles tilted his head as he observed Derek’s features in the vanity’s mirror, trying to understand more about the look sinking his features. He knew Derek was still recovering from everything, and their honeymoon was more a lifeline at this point–for them both. He looked at Derek’s reflection. “I love you,” he echoed.

Stiles turned in his seat, crossing his arms over the back of his chair as he watched Derek approach the door. “Derek,” he softly called his name. He watched Derek’s body turning to look at him. He let his gaze rake over Derek for a few moments. “I’m not going to spoil what is in my vows, but I want you to know that I’ll always be in your corner–I might not be on your side of legality,”–he smirked–“But I’ll be there for you, Der.” He breathed out softly. “I meant it–just keep looking at me.”

A warmth washed over Derek’s features as a small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Never stopped.”