Archive of Our Own ^beta

The problem with saving the supernatural community while pretending to be married to Derek Hale was that Beacon Hills had an uncanny way of finding out things it shouldn’t.

Specifically: everything.

It started with a text.

Then another.

Then twenty-seven missed calls, three memes, and one photo of a Hawaiian shirt that somehow went viral on the pack group chat with the caption:

“WHO ALLOWED THIS MAN TO GET MARRIED WITHOUT US???” — Lydia Martin, self-appointed Maid of Honor.

Stiles was at the Sheriff’s station, half-asleep over his keyboard, the dull hum of the vending machine behind him the only thing keeping him conscious, when his phone vibrated itself into cardiac arrest.

He blinked blearily at the flood of notifications and groaned, dropping his forehead onto the desk.

“Oh, for the love of—”

His dad looked up from a pile of reports, coffee in hand, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Something wrong, kid?”

“Define wrong,” Stiles said, lifting his phone like it was evidence in a murder case. “Does the pack thinking Derek and I got married count as a felony or just emotional terrorism?”

The Sheriff adjusted his glasses, unimpressed. “You didn’t tell me you were married.”

Stiles froze mid–panic motion. “Because I’m not married! It was an undercover thing! A mission! There was a witch hexing couples at a resort! I pretended to be his husband so we could blend in!”

His dad raised an eyebrow in that long-suffering, I’ve heard weirder but not by much way. “And did you two share a bed?”

“That’s not relevant!”

“Uh-huh.”

“Dad—”

“Congratulations, son,” the Sheriff said dryly, returning to his paperwork. “Your mother would’ve liked Derek.”

Stiles threw his hands up. “This town is cursed.”

By the time Stiles reached the loft, the pack had assembled like a firing squad.

Lydia. Malia. Kira. Scott. Even Peter—perched on the couch like a smug gargoyle that had been waiting centuries for this exact form of entertainment.

There was cake.

And balloons.

And a banner that said CONGRATS MR. & MR. HALE! in glittery cursive.

Stiles stopped dead in the doorway. “What. The actual. Hell.”

Kira beamed. “Surprise!”

Scott grinned, looking far too pleased with himself. “We wanted to celebrate!”

“Celebrate what?!” Stiles demanded, waving his arms. “The fact that you all apparently have zero boundaries?!”

Malia blinked, chewing on a cupcake. “Your wedding.”

“THERE WAS NO WEDDING!”

Lydia crossed her arms, unimpressed. “Then explain the photos.”

“What photos?” Stiles asked, instantly regretting it.

Scott turned his phone around. There, in full HD, was a screenshot from the resort’s website: Derek and Stiles standing close, both wearing leis, caught mid-laugh. It was stupidly domestic.

“That’s—that’s out of context!” Stiles sputtered. “That’s from the Lover’s Luaū, right before we fought a witch! He was shirtless for tactical reasons!”

Peter hummed, voice dripping smug amusement. “Tactical shirtlessness. How quaint.”

“Shut up, Nosferatu!”

That was the moment Derek chose to appear from the kitchen with two mugs of coffee, calm as ever, like he hadn’t just walked into social Armageddon.

“Hey,” he said, handing one to Stiles. “You made it.”

“Do not act normal right now,” Stiles hissed. “They think we’re married!”

Derek took a long, slow sip. “I know.”

“You know?!”

“I saw the messages.”

“And you didn’t correct them?!”

Derek shrugged. “Didn’t see the point.”

Stiles blinked at him. “Didn’t—Derek, we are living in a romantic farce!”

Peter leaned back with a smirk. “Finally, something entertaining in this town.”

The situation only escalated from there.

By noon, Lydia was planning a belated reception (“It’ll be small, just family, possibly a string quartet.”).

Kira was making flower crowns.

Malia offered to hunt down anyone who posted honeymoon photos.

Scott just looked starry-eyed. “Dude, I can’t believe you two finally made it official!”

“There’s nothing official!” Stiles said, voice cracking. “There’s no paperwork, no vows, no—”

Peter cut in smoothly. “Actually, you registered as Mr. and Mr. Hale under the resort’s supernatural cover registry. It’s a legally binding front in some regions.”

Stiles froze. “Legally binding what?”

“Oh, relax,” Peter said, waving a hand. “It’s not a human marriage. Just an old supernatural bonding clause. Harmless. Unless one of you happened to, say—kiss the other within the marked timeframe…”

“Don’t,” Derek warned.

“…it could technically seal it.”

Stiles gawked. “You knew about this?!”

Derek looked suddenly very invested in his coffee. “I might’ve… skimmed that part.”

“Skimmed?! Derek, we could be magically married right now!”

Peter looked delighted. “Oh, this just keeps getting better.”

The pack refused to let it die.

By dinner, Lydia had candles and a playlist. Stiles sat at the loft table surrounded by cake, wine, and too many witnesses.

Malia asked, “So who proposed?”

“NO ONE!” Stiles yelped. “There was no proposal!”

Scott frowned. “But the banner says—”

“The banner LIES!”

Kira giggled. “You’re cute when you’re defensive.”

“I’m traumatized!”

Derek’s hand brushed against his under the table, steadying, maddeningly calm.

“Stop touching me,” Stiles hissed.

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m vibrating with rage!”

“Sure.”

“Don’t you sure me!”

Lydia sighed, chin in her hand. “You two have more chemistry pretending to be married than most couples do.”

“Because we’re acting!” Stiles said.

Peter murmured, “You’re not that good an actor.”

“OH MY GOD.”

When the dinner finally ended (complete with Malia’s chant of “kiss for luck!”), Stiles fled to Derek’s room, slamming the door.

“This is my nightmare. This is literally a sitcom hellscape.”

Derek leaned on the doorframe, perfectly composed. “It’s not that bad.”

“Not that—Derek, your uncle thinks we’re mystically bonded! Lydia’s planning a ceremony! Scott’s googling venues! This is DEFCON wedding!”

Derek set his mug down, voice even. “Because it doesn’t bother me.”

That stopped Stiles cold. “It—doesn’t?”

“Pretending,” Derek said. “With you.”

Stiles blinked. “Right. Cool. Totally normal. Fake-married and unbothered.”

“You sound jealous.”

“I’m indignant.”

“Jealous.”

“Of what?”

“That I’m not flustered.”

“I’m radiating serenity, thank you very much.”

“Sure.”

“I swear—”

Derek’s smirk was almost cruel. “You really want to end the rumors?”

“Y-yeah?”

“Then we’ll have to act less married.”

“What does that even—”

But Derek was already walking away, leaving Stiles half-dizzy and half-furious.

The next morning, it somehow got worse.

Stiles arrived at the station to find his dad reading something with an expression that could only mean trouble.

“Morning,” the Sheriff said. “You and Derek made the Beacon Hills Gazette.”

Stiles froze. “WHAT?!”

His dad slid the paper across the desk.

Front page: LOCAL COUPLE WINS RESORT RAFFLE, DONATES PRIZE TO BANSHEE RELIEF FUND.

Photo: Derek and Stiles, arms around each other, laughing.

“They called to confirm your quote,” his dad said, smiling now. “Apparently you said, and I quote, ‘We believe in community support and strategic cuddling.’”

“I—no—that’s—fake news!”

“So,” his dad said mildly, “how’s married life treating you?”

“I’m living in a telenovela,” Stiles muttered.

The Sheriff was still smirking over his coffee when the door to the station swung open and Melissa McCall swept in like divine retribution armed with caffeine.

“Morning, Sheriff,” she said, holding up a tray of to-go cups. “Figured you and the boys could use some coffee after your… big week.”

The way she said it made Stiles look up immediately. “What big week?”

Melissa slid a cup toward him, all faux innocence. “Oh, nothing. Just saw the Gazette. Very flattering photo, by the way.”

Stiles groaned into his hands. “Not you too.”

“Oh, definitely me,” she said, grinning. “Scott texted me at six in the morning—‘Mom, Stiles and Derek got married and didn’t tell anyone!’ He was so excited I thought you two eloped to Vegas.”

“Melissa—”

“I mean,” she continued, all mischief now, “you could’ve at least invited me. I clean up great at weddings.”

Stiles made a strangled sound. “We didn’t get married! It was an undercover thing! There was witchcraft involved!”

“Uh-huh,” she said, sipping her latte. “That’s what everyone says when there’s witchcraft involved.”

The Sheriff was valiantly trying not to laugh. “They really do.”

“Dad, please,” Stiles begged. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“Oh, I am,” his dad said dryly. “Just not the losing one.”

Melissa chuckled, then softened. “For what it’s worth, honey, you two look good together. Happier. It’s nice seeing that.”

That short, warm line hit Stiles square in the chest. “We’re not—it’s not like that.”

“Of course,” she said with that gentle I’ve worked in an ER, I know denial when I see it tone. “Whatever you say, Mr. Hale.”

Stiles groaned so loudly she patted his shoulder in pity and left him to his spiraling.

Later that afternoon, Stiles made the critical mistake of stopping by the general store for snacks.

He should’ve known fate was still bored.

“Stilinski!”

Coach Finstock’s voice boomed from somewhere behind the sports drinks aisle, followed by the unmistakable squeak of running shoes on linoleum.

“Oh, no,” Stiles whispered. “Not today.”

But it was too late. Coach rounded the corner, red-faced and brandishing a pack of beef jerky like it had personally betrayed him.

“Is it true?” he demanded.

Stiles blinked. “Is what true?”

“That you—” Coach gestured wildly— “got hitched to Hale!”

“Why does everyone know about this?!”

“Because it’s in the paper, you moron!” Coach waved his phone. “And it’s all over Facebook! My niece sent me a meme—‘When the grumpy alpha finally marries the disaster human.’ What the hell kind of world are we living in?!”

“I didn’t marry him!”

Coach squinted. “So… fake married?”

“Temporarily fake married,” Stiles clarified helplessly. “Supernaturally. For a mission.”

Coach stared at him for a long moment, then sighed like he’d just aged twenty years. “You know what? I don’t even wanna know. As long as you’re not eloping during playoffs.”

“There aren’t playoffs, Coach.”

“There’s always playoffs!” he barked, then marched off muttering something about needing aspirin and holy water.

Stiles exhaled, thunking his forehead against a refrigerator door. “I’m never living this down.”

Behind him, someone cleared their throat.

He turned to find Derek holding a shopping basket, looking unfairly composed. “That bad?”

“Derek,” Stiles said miserably, “I just got emotionally assaulted by Coach and passive-aggressively blessed by your mother figure.”

Derek’s mouth twitched. “You mean Melissa?”

“She brought coffee and judgment. It was lethal.”

He looked amused now, reaching past Stiles to grab a bottle of water. “You could’ve just told everyone the truth.”

“Oh yeah,” Stiles said. “Let me just gather the whole town for a PowerPoint presentation titled ‘How I Accidentally Married Derek Hale: A Tragicomedy.’ That’ll clear everything up.”

Derek chuckled under his breath.

It was rare—soft, low, and so unfairly fond that Stiles forgot his next sentence.

“Don’t laugh,” he said weakly.

“Too late.”

“Ugh. You know what? You deal with public relations next time, Mr. Hale.”

Derek gave him a sidelong look that was pure mischief in slow motion. “I’m fine with that, Mr. Hale.”

Stiles stared at him. “You’re evil.”

“You like it.”

“Unfortunately,” Stiles muttered, “yeah.”

By the time they reached the loft that night, the internet had already declared them soulmates.

There was fan art. Of them. Riding wolves. In tuxedos.

“I hate everything,” Stiles muttered, staring at his phone. “Someone just tagged me in a post titled ‘Domestic Hale Husbands Aesthetic.’ There’s a mood board, Derek. A mood board.”

Derek set the grocery bags down on the counter, calm as ever. “Could be worse.”

“Worse?” Stiles yelped. “There’s an edit of us kissing under fireworks!”

Derek’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “You’re checking the comments?”

“I’m— doing academic research into my public image,” Stiles said defensively, scrolling anyway. “Oh my God, there’s one that says, ‘They’re the blueprint.’”

“Blueprint for what?” Derek asked, unwrapping a loaf of bread like this was any normal Tuesday.

“Domestic disaster, apparently.” Stiles dropped his phone onto the counter and groaned. “We have to end this. The fake marriage thing. We need a fake breakup. Dramatic. Messy. Maybe I throw a drink at you.”

Derek just looked at him. “You’re not throwing anything.”

“Okay, fine,” Stiles said, pacing. “But we have to post something, or else everyone’s gonna start writing fanfic—oh no, they already did—okay, more fanfic. You don’t even have social media, this is my reputation at stake!”

“You have a reputation?”

Stiles stopped mid-pace to glare. “Yes. It’s chaotic, but it’s mine.”

Derek’s mouth curved. “So what’s your plan?”

“I’m glad you asked.” Stiles grabbed his phone again, eyes lighting up with scheming energy. “We post a breakup photo. Something moody, like—two coffee cups, one tipped over, captioned ‘it was good while it lasted.’ Then you unfollow me.”

“I don’t follow you,” Derek said flatly.

“Wow, okay, no need to sound so proud about it.” Stiles squinted at him. “Then—then I’ll change my relationship status to ‘it’s complicated,’ and boom—damage control.”

“You know this is insane.”

“Welcome to my process.”

For a moment, the loft was quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the faint hiss of the rain outside. Then Derek said, “Or we could just tell the truth.”

“The truth?” Stiles blinked. “That we accidentally got magically married during a coven sting operation in upstate California? Yeah, that won’t sound crazy at all.”

“It’s still better than pretending to break up.”

“Debatable,” Stiles muttered. “At least with a fake breakup, I can get pity muffins from the sheriff’s office ladies.”

Derek gave him a look—amusement flickering under the usual stoicism—and Stiles suddenly couldn’t meet his eyes.

The quiet stretched. Soft. Charged. The kind of silence that had weight.

“You know,” Stiles said finally, voice lower, “it’s kind of weird. People keep talking about us like we’re real. And for a minute, I keep… forgetting we’re not.”

Derek’s gaze lingered on him, something unreadable in the way his expression softened.

“That’s dangerous,” he said quietly.

“Yeah,” Stiles breathed. “I noticed.”

Outside, the rain began to fall harder, a steady rhythm against the glass.

Derek stepped closer, not touching, just there—warmth and gravity in human form.

“Then maybe,” Derek said, voice low enough to hum, “we shouldn’t lie to ourselves either.”

Stiles swallowed. His pulse tripped. “Derek—”

Before he could finish, the loft lights flickered.

And Stiles’s phone buzzed.

Lydia Martin [8 New Messages]:

DO NOT FAKE-BREAKUP.

IT’S ALREADY TRENDING.

SOMEONE EDITED YOUR ‘DIVORCE ANNOUNCEMENT’ TO ADELE’S SOMEONE LIKE YOU.

YOU’RE WELCOME.

Stiles groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “We can’t even fake break up properly.”

Derek smirked. “Guess we’re stuck together.”

“Guess so,” Stiles said, and this time—when their eyes met—it wasn’t exasperation that filled the space.

It was quiet, dangerous want.

That night, the pack meeting was chaos as usual—Lydia analyzing patterns on her laptop, Kira playing with foxfire, Malia perched on the counter.

Scott was just saying something about banshee frequencies when Derek, standing near the doorway, said calmly:

“Stiles and I are getting a divorce.”

The room froze.

Stiles choked on his coffee. “WHAT—NO—WAIT—”

The silence that followed could’ve been bottled and sold as pure mortification.

Lydia blinked once, expression flat. “Excuse me?”

Malia frowned. “Divorce? Since when do you guys do marriage paperwork?”

Scott just looked like someone had told him his two favorite golden retrievers were breaking up. “Wait—are you guys serious?”

Stiles flailed. “No! I mean—yes? I mean, not—ugh!” He gestured helplessly toward Derek, who was calmly sipping his coffee like he hadn’t just been publicly dumped in the middle of a pack meeting. “Tell them, Derek!”

Derek took his time setting the mug down. “We’re not getting a divorce.”

“THANK YOU,” Stiles said, throwing his hands up in triumph—then paused. “Wait. We’re not?”

Derek’s mouth twitched. “You can’t get divorced if you were never married.”

Malia gasped like this was the biggest plot twist of the century. “You lied to us?”

Kira’s eyes widened. “You guys aren’t actually married? But Lydia was planning your reception!”

Lydia, who had indeed been on her laptop looking up “rustic minimalist receptions with werewolf-friendly catering,” froze mid-scroll. “You said you were registered for towels.”

“That was a joke!” Stiles shouted, voice breaking on the edge of hysteria. “I said we were joking!”

Scott tilted his head, brows furrowed. “But you said you went on a honeymoon mission.”

“It was a mission,” Stiles said desperately. “An undercover operation! There was a witch, a hex, and a—ugh, a Hawaiian shirt!”

Isaac crossed his arms, smirking. “So you pretended to be married for a week at a resort and then… just didn’t tell anyone it was fake?”

Stiles opened his mouth, realized the truth sounded worse than the lie, and closed it again. “In hindsight,” he muttered, “communication was not our strongest field tactic.”

Peter, lounging against the wall like a smug gargoyle, smiled. “Oh, I don’t know. Seems like you two are very… bonded.”

“Peter,” Derek warned, low and dangerous.

Peter only raised an eyebrow. “What? I’m thrilled for my nephew. Who wouldn’t want to marry someone who never stops talking?”

“Hey!” Stiles protested. “I stop talking sometimes!”

“Like when you’re asleep,” Peter said sweetly. “Occasionally.”

The room erupted into overlapping voices—Malia asking if they could still have cake, Kira offering to bless their marriage with foxfire, Lydia muttering about annulment paperwork, Scott trying to “mediate the emotional fallout,” and Peter enjoying every second of it.

Stiles felt his brain short-circuit.

“Okay!” he shouted finally. “Time out! Everyone out of the loft! You’re all banned! No pack, no questions, no Pinterest boards!”

Lydia opened her mouth to argue.

“OUT!” Stiles bellowed, pointing at the door.

And miraculously, they listened.

The last of the pack trickled out, Lydia muttering something about “idiots in love,” Peter smirking like the devil himself, and Scott squeezing Stiles’s shoulder on his way by with a sympathetic, “Hey, breakups are hard, dude.”

Stiles waited until the loft door finally slid shut before he let out a long, exhausted groan and faceplanted into the couch. “Congratulations, Hale. You’ve officially made me the laughingstock of Beacon Hills’ supernatural community. Again.”

Derek, unfazed as ever, started stacking mugs into the sink. “You were the one who said the word ‘divorce.’”

“I was trying to de-escalate!” Stiles said, voice muffled by couch cushion. “And instead, I escalated the situation into emotional Armageddon.”

“You always escalate,” Derek said mildly.

Stiles sat up, glaring. “Yeah? Well, maybe if you didn’t drop marriage bombs in the middle of meetings like some broody relationship anarchist—”

Derek turned, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. His expression was unreadable. “It got them to stop asking questions.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, exasperated, “because they were too busy losing their collective minds!”

There was a pause.

Then—quietly—Derek said, “It worked.”

Stiles froze mid-rant. “What?”

“The cover,” Derek said. “It worked.”

That—annoyingly—was true. The entire pack now thought they’d been fake-married and fake-divorced, which meant no one would go sniffing around the real reason they’d done it in the first place: the coven sting, the binding spell, the way the magic had lingered even after the job was done.

And—if Stiles was honest with himself—the way something else had lingered too.

Something in the look Derek gave him now.

“Right,” Stiles said finally, rubbing the back of his neck. “Mission accomplished. We fake-divorced. Congratulations on your freedom.”

He tried for flippant, but it came out a little softer than he meant.

Derek’s gaze lingered. “You think that’s what this feels like? Freedom?”

“Don’t do that,” Stiles muttered. “Don’t get all broody Jedi master on me right after emotionally nuking my social life.”

Derek’s mouth twitched—just a fraction. “You care what they think.”

“Of course I care what they think!” Stiles threw up his hands. “You can’t just marry a guy, fake or not, and then un-marry him in front of all your friends without a little residual trauma!”

“Fake marry,” Derek corrected.

“Emotionally scarring fake marry,” Stiles shot back.

Silence stretched between them—thin, tense, familiar. The kind that had started to feel almost like static before a storm.

Stiles broke first, sighing. “You know what? I’m gonna go downstairs and pretend I’m not living in the world

By the next morning, the fallout from “The Divorce” had spread through Beacon Hills faster than a banshee rumor on caffeine.

Someone — probably Peter — had leaked it to the pack group chat, and now Stiles’s phone was melting down under the sheer weight of emojis, memes, and unsolicited sympathy GIFs.

Lydia: “Divorce brunch? I’ll bring mimosas.”

Scott: “Bro, I’m here for you if you need to talk.”

Kira: “Wait, who keeps the fox?”

Malia: “You can’t divorce a Hale. They bite back.”

Peter: “Tragic. I already ordered the black roses.”

Beacon Hills had never been good at minding its own business — but even by its gossip standards, this was record-breaking.

It had been exactly forty-eight hours since “The Divorce” heard ’round the supernatural community, and Stiles had officially hit every stage of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, and hiding under the desk at the sheriff’s station with a donut.

“You can’t live here,” his dad said, leaning against a file cabinet with the patience of a man used to supernatural nonsense.

“Define live,” Stiles mumbled around a powdered sugar mustache. “Because technically I’m just… existing quietly in the evidence room.”

“Where there are still claw marks from last month’s hellhound incident.”

“Exactly,” Stiles said. “Nobody will look for me here.”

The Sheriff sighed. “You know Derek came by earlier?”

Stiles froze mid-bite. “He what?”

“Left you a Tupperware of lasagna,” his dad said casually. “Said you weren’t eating.”

Stiles blinked. “So now he’s pity-feeding me? Wow. Love that for my dignity.”

Before the Sheriff could reply, Lydia’s name popped up on Stiles’s phone, followed by a string of texts:

Lydia: Divorce counseling session at 4. Don’t be late.

Lydia: Yes, it’s mandatory.

Lydia: And no, Derek doesn’t get to skip.

Stiles groaned. “She’s scheduling therapy for a marriage that didn’t even exist.”

“She’s thorough,” his dad said. “Eat the lasagna.”

4 P.M. – Lydia’s Loft Therapy (a.k.a. Pack Interrogation Hour)

Lydia had commandeered Derek’s living room with the efficiency of a hostile takeover. A whiteboard stood against the wall, titled ‘The Hale-Stilinski Relationship Timeline (and Where It Went Wrong)’ in red marker.

“Okay,” she began briskly. “Let’s unpack this.”

“We don’t need to unpack anything,” Stiles said, perched awkwardly at the end of the couch. “There was no suitcase, no marriage, and definitely no divorce.”

Scott, sitting cross-legged on the rug like a golden retriever therapist, said earnestly, “Sometimes closure isn’t about legality, Stiles. It’s about emotional healing.”

“Scott,” Stiles said flatly. “We faked it. There’s no emotion to heal.”

Derek, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, murmured, “Could’ve fooled me.”

Stiles whipped his head around, glaring. “Excuse you?”

Lydia’s marker squeaked across the board. “Good. Tension. Keep that energy. Peter, stop smirking.”

Peter, lounging in Derek’s armchair with a cup of tea like an evil talk-show guest, smiled lazily. “I’m merely observing the raw pain of a man freshly widowed.”

“I’m not—” Derek started, voice tight.

Peter talked over him smoothly. “Tragic, really. One moment, you’re sharing candlelit missions and fake honeymoon suites, the next—”

“Peter,” Derek growled, voice dropping low.

“—she’s filing metaphorical divorce papers while you’re still emotionally constipated.”

“OUT!” Derek barked.

Peter stood, unbothered. “Ah, yes. Classic denial. I’ll fetch tissues.”

Lydia threw him a glare that could melt paint. “If you come back with popcorn, I’m hexing you.”

Later That Night

By the time Lydia finished her “session” — which mostly consisted of Malia asking if the breakup meant she could keep the blender Stiles bought for the loft — Stiles had reached his limit of public humiliation.

He escaped to the lower level, ducking into the storage area that smelled faintly of old concrete and wolf shampoo.

The quiet was almost nice. Almost.

Then, inevitably: footsteps.

“You know,” Derek’s voice rumbled from behind him, “if you’re going to hide, maybe don’t pick my basement.”

Stiles turned, half-hearted glare ready. “I was here first.”

Derek’s mouth twitched. “You’re eating my Pop-Tarts.”

“…Squatter’s rights,” Stiles muttered.

They stood there for a moment, the silence stretching — not uncomfortable exactly, just heavy with everything unsaid.

Finally, Stiles sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “So. How’s the whole ‘not-married widower’ thing treating you?”

Derek gave him a long, unimpressed look. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, well, you knew that going into our fake vows,” Stiles shot back — then hesitated. “You’re not… actually mad, are you?”

Derek’s shoulders eased a little. “I’m not mad.”

“Good. Because if you were, I’d have to bake cookies or something, and that always ends in blood.”

The corner of Derek’s mouth lifted. “You think baking fixes things?”

Stiles grinned faintly. “No. But it distracts people from emotional vulnerability.”

Derek huffed out a laugh — small, genuine. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Not even a little,” Stiles admitted.

Derek stepped closer, close enough for the light to catch in his eyes, for the air to shift — warm and still. “You don’t have to avoid everyone,” he said quietly. “Or me.”

For a heartbeat, Stiles forgot how to breathe.

“I know,” he said softly. “I just… needed a minute to stop feeling like the world’s most dramatic reality TV show.”

Derek’s gaze softened. “You’ve always been dramatic.”

“Hey,” Stiles said weakly, but he was smiling now.

And when Derek brushed past him to grab the forgotten Pop-Tart box, their shoulders brushed — brief, familiar, grounding.

(Two Days Later)

Stiles had just decided he was finally, blissfully, done with supernatural drama for the week.

He’d clocked out of the station early, iced coffee in hand, earbuds in, mind set firmly on the goal of going home, putting on pajama pants, and pretending the world didn’t exist.

Naturally, that was when a black SUV pulled up beside him and a bag went over his head.

“WHAT THE HELL—?!”

“Relax,” said a familiar, velvety voice that immediately did not inspire relaxation.

“PETER?!” Stiles thrashed, elbow connecting with something satisfyingly soft. “Are you—ow!—KIDNAPPING ME?!”

“Technically,” Peter said, sounding far too calm for someone committing at least three felonies, “yes.”

When the bag came off, Stiles blinked into the dim light of—of course—a creepy abandoned warehouse. There were cobwebs. There was one flickering bulb. There was a chair.

Stiles, tied to it.

Peter, in a three-piece suit, holding a glass of wine like he was about to host Masterpiece Theatre: Abduction Edition.

“I swear to God,” Stiles muttered, squinting against the bulb, “one day I’m going to sage you out of existence.”

Peter smiled faintly. “And yet, here you are—still in my company, still making catastrophic life choices, and still hopelessly entangled with my nephew.”

Stiles froze. “What—no—NO. I am not entangled! I’m disentangled! I’m like, emotionally Teflon!”

“Of course,” Peter said smoothly, swirling his wine. “Because nothing screams ‘emotionally Teflon’ like fake marriage certificates, couple’s cover missions, and crying into a police report labeled ‘misuse of fire spells.’”

“I was not crying! I was—okay, maybe a little damp-eyed—but that was the weather!”

Peter ignored him. “Tell me, Stiles—why do you keep doing it?”

“Doing what?”

“Throwing yourself between Derek and death. Over and over again. Mountain ash, electrocution, Eichen House, sacrificial ice baths—need I continue?”

“That’s—those were situationally necessary!” Stiles sputtered. “And I didn’t do it just for him!”

“Mm.” Peter’s voice was rich with doubt. “And Derek, of course, saved you back. Again and again. Dragging your stubborn mortal carcass out of the fire like it was his full-time job.”

Stiles flinched. He remembered. The alpha pack. Nogitsune night. The bite that didn’t take. Derek catching him in that final fall from the nemeton’s scaffolding, holding him like he’d stop time if he could.

“That’s different,” Stiles muttered.

Peter’s expression softened, just slightly. “Is it?”

The words hung there—quiet, barbed, true.

“Because from where I’m standing,” Peter said, leaning closer, “it looks like you’ve both been saving each other for years and neither of you’s noticed you stopped doing it out of obligation.”

Stiles swallowed hard. His throat felt dry.

“Don’t do that,” he said, voice shaky. “Don’t make it sound—like that.”

“Like what?” Peter asked mildly. “Like love?”

The single word landed like a blow.

“Wow, okay,” Stiles said quickly, eyes darting anywhere but Peter’s face. “Nope. We’re not doing this. You’re not licensed, you probably eat therapists for breakfast, and this—this is emotional kidnapping, which is somehow worse than the physical kind!”

Peter smirked. “You’ve been in denial so long it’s practically a lease agreement. You think you’re clever enough to talk around your feelings, but I see the pattern. You don’t flinch when danger comes for you—you flinch when it comes for him.”

“Because he’s my friend!”

“Really?” Peter said softly. “Then why did you stop breathing when you saw him fall off that ledge in Mexico? Why did you check for his pulse before your own after the berserker fight? Why do you still keep a spare flannel of his in your Jeep—washed, folded, tucked under the seat?”

Stiles blinked rapidly, jaw working, but no sound came out.

Peter tilted his head. “You see? Even your silence agrees with me.”

For once, Stiles didn’t have a comeback. His brain was too busy doing that thing it did when panic met truth—short-circuiting.

He swallowed hard, voice small. “You’re bluffing.”

Peter smiled—not smug, not cruel. Just knowing. “If I were bluffing, you wouldn’t look like someone just flipped on the lights.”

The bulb above them buzzed faintly. Outside, rain started to patter against rusted metal.

Then Peter set his glass down, produced a small knife, and with one quick motion, cut the ropes binding Stiles’s wrists.

Stiles stared. “Wait—you’re—”

“Go,” Peter said simply.

“What?”

“You’re going to run to him,” Peter replied, tone almost gentle. “You’ll try to make a joke of it, you’ll talk too fast, and then you’ll finally say what you’ve both been too stubborn to admit.”

Stiles hesitated at the door. “Why… why help me?”

Peter sighed, the sound almost wistful. “Because for all his brooding, Derek deserves to be happy. And you’re the only disaster in this town who ever made him laugh.”

That hit harder than Stiles expected. His chest tightened.

“…You’re terrifying,” he muttered hoarsely.

Peter gave him a faint, wry smile. “And yet, oddly effective.”

He paused just as Stiles reached the doorway. “Oh, and Stiles?”

“Yeah?”

“Try not to trip over your own panic on the way there. It’s very unbecoming for a romantic lead.”

“Bite me, Hale.”

Peter’s smirk was slow. “You’re barking up the wrong one. Go get my Hale.”

By the time Stiles reached the loft, he was panting. The elevator clanged open, and he nearly tripped running in.

“Derek!”

Derek appeared from the kitchen, towel over his shoulder, startled. “What happened? Are you—”

“I was kidnapped,” Stiles blurted. “By Peter. But it’s fine! Kind of! He gave me… emotional clarity?”

Derek stared. “He what?”

“Yeah, I know! Weird day. Anyway—listen—before I lose my nerve—”

He took a breath. His heart was pounding.

“I love you.”

Derek froze.

Stiles rushed on, words tumbling like he couldn’t stop. “And not in, like, a platonic bro-with-a-shared-trauma way. In the real way. In the way that makes me want to murder you and marry you in the same hour. I tried to pretend it was just fake or convenient or mission-based, but it wasn’t. I love you, Derek Hale. You impossible, gorgeous, emotionally stunted werewolf, I love you.”

Silence.

For a long, terrifying second, Derek didn’t move. Then—slowly—he did.

He crossed the space between them in three steps, cupped the back of Stiles’s neck, and kissed him.

It wasn’t hesitant. It wasn’t careful. It was everything they’d been pretending wasn’t there—heat, relief, inevitability.

When they finally broke apart, Stiles was breathless. “So… we’re not getting divorced?”

Derek’s mouth curved, soft and sure. “Not a chance.”

“Good,” Stiles whispered, tugging him back in. “Because I’ve still got the honeymoon playlist.”

Next morning… 

The loft was quiet.

The kind of quiet that only happens after a storm — not just the weather kind, but the emotional, messy, world-turning kind.

Early light crept through the huge windows, cutting long gold bars across the bed. Derek was awake first, lying on his side, watching the way sunlight tangled in Stiles’s hair.

Stiles was starfished on the bed — one leg kicked out, one arm thrown over Derek’s chest like a claim. His mouth was open just enough to snore faintly.

Derek smiled. Actually smiled.

He hadn’t realized how heavy his chest had felt until it wasn’t anymore.

When Stiles mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “no more werewolf tax audits, please,” Derek huffed a quiet laugh and reached over to smooth a thumb over his jaw.

The mark there — faint shadow of beard burn — made his wolf purr in contentment.

It was… peace.

Weird, domestic, unbelievable peace.

The peace lasted exactly forty-three minutes.

Then Stiles’s phone, somewhere under a pile of clothes, started vibrating.

Then again.

And again.

And again.

With a groan, Stiles half-sat up, hair sticking in every possible direction. “If that’s a ghost, tell it I’m off duty.”

“It’s your phone,” Derek murmured, amused.

“Ugh. What time is it?”

“Eight-thirty.”

“WHAT— we overslept!”

“For what?”

“…Good point.”

He fumbled for the phone, squinted at the screen, and immediately went pale.

“Oh God.”

“What?” Derek asked.

Stiles turned the screen so he could see.

It was the pack group chat.

And it was on fire.

[PACK CHAT – 142 new messages]

Scott: GUYS WHY IS NO ONE ANSWERING??

Lydia: Because it’s eight in the morning, Scott.

Malia: Derek’s not at training. Did he die again?

Allison: He’s fine. Probably.

Lydia: …He’s not fine.

Scott: What do you mean?

Lydia: Look at Stiles’s location.

Scott: …DEREK’S LOFT??

Malia: wait wait wait WAIT

Allison: oh my god

Lydia: finally

Isaac: does this mean we don’t have to do the divorce counseling anymore?

Kira: can someone send a picture i’m not caught up

Peter: [attached photo]

(It’s of two coffee mugs on Derek’s kitchen counter — one black, one with cartoon foxes. Timestamp: 7:06 AM.)

Peter: My work here is done.

Lydia: You KIDNAPPED HIM, didn’t you?!

Peter: Semantics.

Scott: PETER.

Malia: omg stiles is typing

Stiles: you’re all dead to me.

Lydia: Aw, he admits it.

Scott: I’m so happy for you guys!!

Peter: I expect an invitation to the second wedding.

Stiles: BLOCKED.

Derek: also blocked.

Peter: <3

By the time Stiles dropped the phone face-down on the nightstand, he was blushing so hard it looked like a medical condition.

“I hate all of them,” he muttered, flopping back into bed.

“Even Scott?”

“Especially Scott. He’s too wholesome about it. It’s unsettling.”

Derek leaned over him, voice soft. “You could always move in here. Then you won’t have to read the group chat first thing every morning.”

Stiles blinked up at him. “Was that… an invitation?”

A small, crooked smile. “Yeah.”

Stiles’s answering grin was slow and sleepy. “Then yeah. I’m in.”

He pulled Derek down for another kiss, gentle this time — morning breath and all — and the world outside could have burned for all either of them cared.

When they finally broke apart, Stiles whispered, “Guess the fake marriage wasn’t so fake after all.”

Derek brushed a thumb over his cheek. “Guess not.”

Outside, Beacon Hills hummed back to life — sirens, birds, pack chaos, the usual.

Inside, there was coffee brewing, sunlight warming the sheets, and two idiots finally where they were meant to be.

And somewhere across town, Peter Hale raised his wine glass to no one in particular and said softly,

“You’re welcome.

Beacon Hills Preserve smelled like rain and pine sap. The sky was still low and misty, beams of gold breaking through the canopy — the kind of morning that made everything look washed clean.

Derek stood in the middle of the clearing, hands on his hips, watching as Stiles waved a stick like it was a sword and yelled something about “innovative combat strategy.”

Scott, of course, was grinning like a proud camp counselor.

Malia was stalking Kira with a look of feral focus.

Lydia sat on a tree stump, immaculate as ever, calling out “form notes” like a choreographer at the end of her patience.

“Stiles, that’s not a staff,” Derek said finally, voice dry.

“It’s an improvised tactical prop,” Stiles said, twirling it and promptly hitting himself in the shoulder. “Ow. Okay, that was sabotage.”

From the sidelines, Sheriff Stilinski chuckled — actually chuckled — arms crossed over a soft gray sweatshirt, baseball cap pulled low. Melissa handed him a travel cup of coffee, eyes warm and a little misty.

“Look at them,” she said quietly, watching Scott duck under Kira’s blade with a playful grin. “They’ve actually grown up.”

“Still manage to give me heart attacks every other week,” the Sheriff replied, but his voice was fond. “But… yeah. They’re happy. All of them.”

“Especially your kid,” Melissa said, glancing toward the center of the clearing.

Stiles was mock-arguing with Derek — which, by the pack’s collective body language, had become its own kind of love language.

Derek was doing his stoic glower thing, and Stiles was pretending not to notice the smile hiding in it.

Scott jogged past, catching the look, and called out, “Hey, Coach, you two gonna join us or just flirt from the sidelines?”

Derek didn’t even blink. “We’re strategizing.”

“Sure,” Lydia said dryly. “Strategic longing.”

Malia barked a laugh; Kira’s foxfire flickered with amusement.

Stiles groaned. “You’re all bullies.”

“Pack,” Melissa corrected, smiling.

That shut him up for a second.

By the time they wrapped up, the mist had burned away completely. Scott and Kira were sitting shoulder to shoulder, laughing over some inside joke; Lydia was packing up her laptop with satisfied precision; Malia was dragging Peter into a sparring match he definitely didn’t agree to.

The Sheriff wandered over to Derek and Stiles, who were collecting water bottles and bickering over whose turn it was to drive.

He paused, watching them for a moment — his son, happy, alive, loved — and said quietly,

“Don’t forget to eat something before you head home.”

“Yes, sir,” Stiles said automatically, but there was a smile tugging at his mouth.

Derek glanced sideways at the Sheriff, nodded once in that quiet, steady Hale way, and murmured,

“He’s in good hands.”

The Sheriff’s expression softened. “I know.”

When they finally piled into the Camaro, the pack trailing behind with snacks and inside jokes, the air was lighter than it had been in years.

No hexes. No ghosts. Just laughter, pine needles, and the sound of Derek muttering under his breath as Stiles changed the music to something offensively upbeat.

Melissa caught the Sheriff’s eye again across the clearing and raised her coffee cup.

He raised his back in silent toast.

For once, everything was okay.

The pack was home.

Post-Credits Scene — “Operation: Double Date”

Somewhere in Beacon Hills, long after midnight, a candle flickered to life in the Hale loft’s upstairs office.

Not Derek’s candles.

Lydia’s.

She sat cross-legged on the desk, laptop open, a spreadsheet glowing in the dark.

Across from her lounged Peter Hale — wine glass in hand, expression smug enough to be illegal in several states.

“Well,” Lydia said, scrolling with manicured precision, “it only took them seven years, two curses, and one fake marriage. Honestly, I expected worse.”

Peter tilted his glass. “You’re welcome.”

“I don’t recall thanking you.”

“You implied gratitude,” Peter said smoothly. “And you’re welcome.”

Lydia’s eyes narrowed. “You kidnapped Stiles.”

“Motivationally redirected him,” Peter corrected. “And it worked. My methods are unorthodox, but results-oriented.”

She arched an unimpressed brow. “If by ‘results’ you mean two emotionally constipated idiots finally kissing in a thunderstorm, yes. Success.”

Peter smirked. “Romantic cinematography courtesy of nature. You can’t buy that lighting.”

Lydia shut her laptop with a decisive click. “Fine. They’re happy. Mission ‘Domestic Disaster’ complete.”

A pause.

A dangerous gleam lit Peter’s eyes.

“Shall we begin the next one?”

Lydia sighed like someone already regretting the future. “What did you have in mind?”

He slid a folded paper across the desk — a list titled, in elegant handwriting:

‘Operation: Double Date Intervention’

Beneath it:

1. Scott & Kira – “Too Wholesome to Function.”
   
   
2. Malia & Parrish (?) – “Still a Public Safety Concern.”
   
   
3. Derek & Stiles – “Unsupervised = Inevitable Collateral Damage.”
   
   
4. Us (Non-negotiable).
   
   

Lydia stared at him. “You’re not serious.”

Peter smiled — slow, sharp, and utterly sincere in the worst possible way. “Lydia Martin, I’ve never been more serious in my life. It’s time to give the people what they want: coordinated couples therapy. Preferably with cocktails.”

She groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I hate that this might actually be entertaining.”

“Exactly,” Peter said, raising his glass. “To chaos.”

Lydia clinked her coffee cup against it. “To plausible deniability.”

They drank.

Outside, thunder rolled again — faint, promising.

Somewhere across town, Stiles sneezed violently.

Peter smiled to himself, already opening a new document labeled ‘Mission: Accidental Double Date.’