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Chapter Text

On a particularly sunny morning in the city of London, England, Derek Hale walked down the street, face half covered by a dark grey sweatshirt.

From a first glance, he looked like any London teenager, wearing a pair of skinny jeans, ratty red Vans, and the hooded sweatshirt. To his mother, the one and only Queen of the United Kingdom, he probably looked like a disgrace.

At any rate, it didn't matter. He didn't care.

He was on the run, slipping past the palace guards and through a back exit in the kitchens they thought he was unaware of. Of course, he shouldn't have known a lot of secret places in the Palace yet, but he was a curious boy, and so he did.

Given the sudden death of his Grandmother, the late Camilla Hale, the former Queen of the UK, he was swept out of his house on the outskirts of London, handed the title of Prince of Wales, and thrust into Buckingham Palace while his mother became Her Majesty, Anne Hale II, the new Queen of England.

If that hadn't been a big enough change, he was given a new stepfather and a sister, too. His new stepfather was an ordinary man- a wealthy businessman none the less, but not of Royal descent.

His sister, the newest addition to the palace, Lady Allison Argent, was actually pretty okay. Derek didn't mind having her around, she was just as much trouble as he was and an excellent partner in crime. Within the small amount of time they'd been in the palace, they'd already dyed a few of their mother's dresses bright pink, put a rubber frog in the soup, and just generally caused a ruckus, running and whooping through the long hallways.

Now, here he was, nervously hiding out and running away from his life, tired of the constant scrutiny, always under the watchful eye of someone he didn't know, but someone who knew him.

That was another thing, too. Everyone in the whole world knew him now; or at least it'd seemed like it. He was only sixteen, Allison a few months younger then him, and already they'd been called the Royal heartthrobs. His face had graced several rag magazines, claiming to know "secrets of the new Royal hottie!" when honestly they knew nothing correct at all.

The first time he had attempted to go out in public without his sister or a bodyguard and get some ice cream down the street, he had been mobbed by screaming British teenage girls, which he had supposed was nice, but it wasn't so nice when he had to sneak into the bathroom and embarrassingly call for security to come and get him out of the crowd. Embarrassing indeed, especially when the head of his own security detail chewed him out and he wasn't allowed out of their sight for an entire week.

His phone, a sparkling new iPhone Five he could barely use gave a little chime, letting him know someone was calling.

Incoming call from Seth DeCaria, read the screen, making Derek smile. Took you long enough, he said to himself, darting behind a bush to take the call.

~

American exchange student Stiles Stilinski was really, really lost. He had been wandering around for what seemed like hours (but was really only twenty minutes), trying to find his tiny flat. He didn't know how he'd gotten so mixed up- he had gotten off the bus, walked a few streets to meet Scott at a bistro, and then left, totally turned in the wrong direction.

He surveyed his surroundings yet again, finding only old buildings, lots of trees, and tourists clogging the sidewalk. There was no one around he could ask for directions either, and he was so screwed.

Then he heard a voice coming from the bushes, and too curious for his own good, he stopped and listened quietly.

"No, Seth," the British accented voice was saying. "Seth, for gods sake. No one has recognized me, and I'm in disguise. Tell Mother I'm fine, and if I need to, I'll call Allison."

There was a moment of silence, and shock shot up Stiles' spine. The quick clues clicked together- disguise and Allison.

Wasn't the stepsister of the prince named Allison? Stiles thought to himself, furiously trying to remember the British history class he'd taken before leaving the US. No way, he thought to himself. No fucking way is that the Prince hiding in the bushes.

"Tell them I'll be back at the palace by sundown," the voice said, sounding very ticked off. "That's all, Seth." There was another pause, and Stiles assumed the person had hung up the phone.

He knew whoever it was would be coming out of there soon, and his eyes darted around for a place to hide, but he was too late, the person already climbing out of the shrubs. Their hood got snagged on a branch and yanked it back, revealing for a split second the face of none other then The Prince of Wales himself, a face even Stiles (who barely passed History) would recognize.

The magazines he'd seen at the supermarket didn't do him justice with their grainy, pixelated photos plastered all over the cover. He looked different in person- tall, all long arms and legs. The second his hood was down let Stiles see his fringe of dark brown hair, all missed up and spiky, and a flash of paranoid icy blue eyes.

He caught Stiles staring, already putting his hands up in retreat. "Please don't shout my name," he muttered under his breath, Stiles standing completely still with shock. "I swear, I'll give you whatever you want, just-please."

Stiles swallowed, trying to calm his fluttering heart and actually say something intelligent. "I know how it feels to be hiding from your parents," he tried, taking a step closer. "I don't have to hide from Royal bodyguards, but still."

The boy flashed him a quick, genuine smile, extending his hand.

He had perfect hands, Stiles realized, with long, thin fingers. It was early June, but he was still stuck with his winter paleness.

He took it, shaking it lightly while trying to touch him as little as possible.

"I'm Derek," he said, eyes jumping around, obviously on watch. "Also known as the heir to the throne of England, or the Prince of Wales, if you'd prefer."

Stiles liked his easy smile and his ripped up jeans, and the tiny little freckles underneath those eyes of his. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Do you want to do something daring, Prince Derek?" he asked, and could scarcely believe his own ears. What the hell was he doing?

He could see the wheels in Derek's brain turning, and he fidgeted slightly, sure he was going to brush him off like the tourist he (sort of) was. "I'd have to know your name first, sir," he said jokingly, laughing quietly. "And we'd have to get a move on so they don't see us."

Stiles took one step in front of him, then another, waiting to see if he'd follow. He was still in the same spot when Stiles reached the corner, and Stiles called "I'm Prince Stiles of California," down to him.

A grin broke out on Derek's face, reaching all the way up to his eyes as he jogged to catch up to Stiles.

"American, eh?"

"Someone knows their geography," he joked back, looking across the street and wondering where the hell he should take royalty if he didn't even know where he was.

Derek must've noticed how confused Stiles looked, because with a bemused expression on his face he observed "You really have no idea where you are, do you."

Swallowing more embarrassment, he muttered "No."

Derek laughed, throwing his head back and darting across the street, hood back up. "I know just the place."

Stiles shook his head in wonder as he followed the other boy down the street, completely numb to what was happening.

~

Derek's head was screaming at him that he was being really dumb, that he didn't even know this kid, that he could be a murderer / rapist / kidnapper, but he shoved those thoughts down and continued walking. He was taking Stiles to the pub just down the street, the one that would serve him bubbly champagne and never tell a soul unless they wanted to be shut down.

It was a good deal they had, really. Derek got drinks and they got to stay in business, hooray.

Derek stole little glimpses of Stiles as they walked down the street, the silence comfortable between him.

He looked American, but he could also pass for hipstery London student, with his rumpled plaid shirt and black rimmed glasses. He had to be sixteen or seventeen, judging by his gangly legs and the way he kept tripping distractedly over the sidewalk, too busy looking around.

"Here we are," he said cheerfully, stopping at the wooden door built into the wall, Stiles shooting him a surprised look.

"You'll like it," he promised, pushing open the door and hearing the little bell on top of it tinkle.

As usual, there was no one inside, only a waitress slumped behind the bar.

"Well well," she said, perking up as soon as she saw him. "As if it ain't the Prince."

Derek dipped his chin shyly, smiling at the young woman, who was maneuvering her way out from behind the counter.

"C'mere, ya wanker," she said good naturedly, pulling him into a hug. "Long time since you've brought your mates in."

Derek cast a backward glance at Stiles, who was looking down, hand running through his hair bashfully. "M'Stiles," he said, barely looking up.

"And an American," said the waitress, a glint in her eye. "Your bubbly is on the house today, Derek," she said, just like every other time.

The faint smell of cigars and lemony cleaner lingered in the air, all the lights besides the OPEN sign in the window off. The surroundings were, well, grim, but it was private and secluded, and thus special to Derek.

"Come on," Derek said quietly, tugging on Stiles' elbow to make him follow him. He headed up the small back staircase to the single table on the small balcony overlooking the streets of London, pulling out a chair.

Stiles took a seat, looking a little bit dazed. "I don't believe this," he said, looking out over the edge.

"Don't believe what?" Derek responded, leaning back in the chair, bridging his fingers on the table.

"Why'd you pick me?" Stiles countered, eyes connecting with Derek's, who didn't flinch away.

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "I just needed someone, anyone. I needed to know what normal was for a minute."

Stiles scoffed, looking away again, and Derek wondered if he'd offended him. He was quiet as the waitress came up the creaking steps, placing a dusty green bottle of Chardonnay on the table along with two long stemmed glasses, fancier then usual. He pretended not to see her wink as she set them down and descended back downstairs. Derek knew better, knew that she was standing beneath the stairs and listening, but he didn't care.

"Are you a student?" Derek finally asked, Stiles nodding at him. "Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts," he answered, and Derek whistled.

"Well done, mate," he said appreciatively. He reached up and grabbed the glass bottle, popping the cork off and watching it bubble inside. Taking the glass closest to Stiles, he poured it halfway full of the light pink liquid and then did the same with his own. "Do a monologue," he said suddenly, wanting to see the kid in action.

Stiles' face brightened considerably, thinking about what he could say. "Hmm," he said, lips pursed in thought.

~

Inside, Stiles' mind was racing, trying to think what could impress this sixteen year old champagne drinking prince, and he took a long swallow of the drink to try and calm his nerves. Contrary to what his friends thought, he didn't drink a lot, and so that probably wasn't the best idea, but that was just too bad.

Finally, nerves jangling worse then they did in front of a huge audience, he began.

"'Friendship is constant in all other things, save in the office and affairs of love, therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues; let every eye negotiate for itself,
and trust no agent.'"

He spoke directly to Derek, their eyes never breaking from each others, the tension between them practically sparking as Stiles pronounced each word and it's clear message.

"Well done," Derek said seriously, squinting carefully at Stiles. "Shakespeare, not the easiest to recite from memory."

Stiles mouth twitched once, his eyebrows raising in surprise. "Are you a closet theatre geek, or was that just a good guess?"

Derek gave him his own eyebrow raise back, swigging down the whole glass like it was nothing. "Little more then a good guess," he replied, voice slightly rough from the drink.

"Mmm," Stiles answered, watching him. He sat so relaxed then, the now afternoon sunlight highlighting his features perfectly. It actually made Stiles think he might be drunk and just dreaming.

"So, Stiles of California," Derek said, pouring them each another glass. "Where exactly is it that you live?"

"I don't want you stalking me, now," Stiles dared to tease. "I don't give my address to just anyone."

How fitting it was that just then, a rather large looking man burst onto the balcony and demanded "Put yours hands up and step away from the Prince!"

~

Chapter Text

x

Stiles watched in fascinated horror as Derek took one long sip out of his glass, then looked the man in the eye and said "Hello, Seth. Care for a glass?"

The man, presumably Seth, stopped and just boggled at Derek for a moment. "Did he," he asked, nodding his chin toward Stiles, "hurt you in any way?"

Derek's face contorted into a grin as he answered politely. "Not in any way, Stiles and I are mates."

Stiles giggled inwardly at the word mates, knowing damn well it was British slang, but that didn't mean it wasn't funny.

The security guard looked quite unsure, and Stiles saw Derek make quick work of that opportunity. "Let us be for a little while, please?"

Seth shook his head firmly, crossing his arms. "No. Come with me now, please."

"I'll go," Stiles interrupted. The hulking dude was making him very uncomfortable and the last thing he wanted was to be a part of an international incident. "I remember where my flat is now, anyway," he said, looking directly at Derek, who looked frustrated and angry and sad all at once. "See ya, dude."

It took everything Stiles had in him to turn away from the Prince, walk down the stairs alone, and mix into the crowd on the street, unable to tell anyone what just happened. It didn't matter, anyway. No one would believe him.

Somewhere in the back corner of his mind, he wanted Derek to come running out the door, hoodie waving behind him like a cape, and at least tell him a way to contact him. That didn't happen. So Stiles just swallowed his disappointment and tried to forget everything that happened in the past hour, and go back into his plain old life.

Yeah, right. Was he in for a surprise.

~

The next morning dawned warm and sunny, a stroke of two day luck for the residents of London. Stiles had tossed and turned all night long, unable to get any decent sleep, plagued by nightmares. It was 7:30, way earlier then he usually awoke, but it was no use trying to go back to sleep. Sleepily, he dragged himself out of bed, poured a cup of yesterday's cold coffee, and took a glance out the front window. There was a magazine of some sort lying on the first step, which was strange. He rarely ever got mail besides a few letters here and there from people back home.

Curious, he poked his head out the front door, picked it up, and headed back inside, but a piece of paper fluttered out. It could just be a insert for a subscription, he told himself, but he could've sworn he saw writing on the paper. Glancing quickly from left to right, he ran down the steps, picked it up, and then ran back, getting a few stares from people on the street.

He padded back inside, holding the paper and the magazine close to his chest. Sliding into a chair at the table in the kitchen, he set the book down and took a look at the cover.

"The Little Prince Gets A Drink," blared the cover, featuring a picture of the pub, but no picture of Derek. 'Waitress spills Royal secrets about the Prince's secret hideaway.'

Stiles clucked under his breath at the mention of the waitress. She and him seemed to be good friends, he couldn't imagine Derek being pleased at the fact that she sold him out. He flipped to the article, ignoring all the other pages, and his mouth dropped open in shock. "Prince and his 'friend Stiles' head to the pub yesterday," read the tag line, and Stiles was completely flabbergasted. They even had a bad picture of him heading down the street! Where did they come from?

Mouth dry with nerves, Stiles swallowed hard and looked at the other object in his hand. Sure enough, the paper was in fact thick, cream colored cardstock with a blood red wax seal. Hands shaking, he pulled it open, revealing... 10 digits in chicken scratch, boy handwriting.

~

One of the bonuses about living in Buckingham Palace definitely had to be the breakfast, Derek supposed, as he shoved a syrup covered waffle into his mouth. Next to him, Allison daintily cut her fruit into small pieces and ate them, nose wrinkling slightly at Derek's sloppiness.

"So," she whispered in the quiet, secretive tone they used too much. "Do you think he knows that you followed him home yet?"

Derek's phone went off before he could respond, chiming quietly. He checked it- one new text message from a number not in his contact book. 'You're such a fucking stalker,' it read, and made Derek bust out in sudden laughter, startling one of the maids. "Your Highness?" she said, wide eyed. "Are you alright?"

Derek and Allison shared a knowing look, and he flashed the maid a sparkling smile. "I'm doing just fine, Mirabelle. Thank you." The maid smiled back, continuing to clean up the food.

"Go off, lovebird," Allison said, waving her hand at him, and Derek glanced at her, slightly confused.

"It's not like that," he hissed, and she just nodded.

"Uh huh," she replied, turning back to her food. "Sure it isn't."

The thought of Allison thinking Stiles and him were a thing filled him with dread. The press couldn't think that- could they? If they did, there was no doubt Derek would never be able to see Stiles again. His mother wouldn't take too kindly to that, and neither would the British public, he assumed.

Glancing back down at the screen, he made his way out of the large dining hall and down to the gardens, trying to act as nonchalant as possible. 'So you do know it's me,' he tapped back, Stiles replying almost immediately.

'I don't think anyone else could've gotten a copy of the National Inquirer so quickly.'

Derek smirked at the phone, pushing open the glass door to the gardens. He didn't admit it to anyone, but he absolutely loved the outdoors around the Palace. The gardeners kept the surroundings pristine, and there was always something new to see. Currently he was headed toward the lake, one of the private areas of the Gardens. More often then not he slipped away to the water after breakfast, dangling his feet in the cool liquid.

And yes, maybe he brought a cigarette with him while he sat, but no one needed to know that.

Part of the gardens was open to the public, and at this time of the morning almost no one was there. Sometimes, though, he caught a few tourists by surprise, and they were always very polite with him, unlike the afternoon crowd. Today there was only an old woman, sitting underneath a large lemon tree, smiling happily.

"Hello," he said quietly, smiling at her as he walked past.

"Oh, Derek!" she exclaimed, and he stopped, turning toward her. "I saw your picture in the paper this morning, lad," she said, and his stomach clenched. Everyone in the world seemed to have seen the paper, which meant his mother would eventually as well.

"Did you?" he asked, trying to keep up his cheerful façade.

Her eyes twinkled with knowing as she nodded. "That I did. And I'd just like to say-" He held his breath, waiting for her to reprimand him. "It's not easy, being you. Is it?"

He swallowed a sudden lump in his throat and answered her honestly. "No, madam. It is not."

He rolled his eyes inwardly at his switch from casual speaking to the crisp, formal language he was being taught to use.

She nodded again, eyes far away. "Your future is yours for the making, Your Highness. Remember that."

A feeling of déjà vu came over him, making him feel uneasy as he nodded slowly and walked away, unsure exactly how to respond to that.

'Were you surprised to see the magazine article?' Derek asked Stiles, walking down the wooden dock to the water. It was indeed a perfect morning, slightly breezy but still sunny, perfect for sailing or playing tennis.

'I was, but my "mates" weren't.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

~

Stiles sat with his feet up on the couch, perfectly okay with sitting around and texting the fuckin' Prince all day (yes, he was still trying to wrap his head around that one) but he did have a rehearsal to get to in an hour and a half.

'Well,' he replied. 'My theatre friends Scott, Isaac, and Lydia won't stop bothering me about the Inquirer article. And I don't know what to say'

It took Derek a while to reply, giving Stiles enough time to jump in the shower, throw some clothes on, and for Lydia to text him 3 more times.

He came back to a single message. 'You can't tell them, Stiles. They cannot know. Understand?'

If he closed his eyes and concentrated, he could picture Derek's face saying those words. Stiles got the gut feeling he was getting into something he had no idea about, and frankly it scared the living hell out of him, but it also excited him. Who could say this had happened to them?

Not many people, indeed.

~

He hopped up the stone steps to the auditorium and opened the stage door, slipping inside silently. Already, the enormous room was filled with the sound of vocal exercises, tech directors shouting, and stage managers hurrying to get props in the correct places.

Ah, Stiles smiled, watching the organized chaos. Home sweet home.

He headed into the costume room, his favorite place in the whole RADA complex. It was usually dark during showtime, so there were Christmas lights strung all around the room to give the actors light to change in. There were racks upon racks of costumes, boxes spilling over with hats, ties, scarves, gloves- almost anything you could imagine. The smell of acrylic paint hung in the air from the set designers doing some last minute touch ups, and multicolored drops of paint were splattered all over the floor. He supposed he liked this room so much because of it's artsy-ness, the whole thing bursting at the seams with creativity and ideas.

"Miss Lydia?" he called, knowing she was around here somewhere.

"Stiles!" Someone shrieked, and suddenly there was a person on his back. He rolled his eyes, and with a smile held up her legs as she wrapped her arms around his neck, like every other day.

"Onward, steed," she said with that fancy little accent of hers, and off they went to find Scott and Isaac, who were probably canoodling in the tech room, like the whole cast (assumed) they did.

Stiles shifted his weight a little and began walking toward the tech booth, people waving and smiling at the two of them as they went.

"Knock knock!" Lydia called as Stiles rapped on the door behind the audiences seats.

"'Ello," Isaac said cheerfully, a newsboy hat balanced jauntily on his halo of blonde curls.

"Stiles!" Scott crowed, spinning around in his office chair and throwing his arms up.

He set Lydia down on the floor, holding her elbow as she got her balance back.

"Hey, guys," he said, laughing slightly at their enthusiasm.

They all looked different, but they also all shared features that would tell you they were into theatre if you looked close enough.

Lydia Martin was a sharp looking girl, seventeen like the rest of them, with long red hair that curled slightly at the ends. She had big blue eyes and a pale complexion, with a quick wit to match her strong yet feminine features. Almost always she looked stunningly beautiful, with some complicated, trendy outfit draped upon her. She was, of course, a makeup and costume design intern.

Scott McCall looked like a werewolf from a Twilight movie, and they all liked to tease him about it. He had deep tan skin all year round, and almost almond shaped brown eyes that matched the color of his hair. He was Stiles' best and most trustworthy friend, even though Stiles trusted all three of them with his life.

The blonde one of the trio, Isaac Lahey, had sharp cheekbones and always questioning blue eyes. He was always smiling and cheerful, singing loudly behind the scenes and making everyone laugh. He and Scott were both actors along with being technical assistants.

"Can I talk to Stiles for a minute, guys? Alone?" Scott asked Isaac and Lydia, not in a mean way, just honestly. They shrugged and Isaac headed out of the room just behind Lydia. Stiles stepped inside the tiny control booth, and shut the door behind them.

There was a mischievous glint in Scott's dark eyes as he sat back in the chair and let Stiles wait for a few moments. "You want to explain this?" Scott asked, a smirk settling on his face, one eyebrow raised.

"I can't," Stiles said solemnly, and surprisingly, Scott nodded.

"Stiles," Scott said seriously, leaning on his hands, and Stiles fought the urge to groan. When he sounded like that, things never went well.

"Scott," Stiles imitated, but his expression didn't change.

"Stiles, I'm dating Allison," Scott said quietly, as serious as he'd ever seen him, and Stiles began questioning his sanity.

~

Chapter Text

~

"Yeah, and I'm secretly sneaking through His Royal Highness's window every night," Stiles snarked back, trying to quell the nervousness steadily building up inside of him with loud, nervous laughter.

Scott swallowed hard and looked away, then back at Stiles again. "Come on, it's true!"

Stiles shook his head and crossed his arms stubbornly, leaning up against the door. "No way. That's too much of a coincidence, dude."

"Yeah? Same kind of coincidence that you somehow met Allison's stepbrother and then you happened to have pints at the pub down the street?" Scott snapped back immediately. "You think Allison didn't text me at 5:30 this morning when her stepbrother was climbing out the window of his bedroom to put a copy of the National Inquirer on your porch step?"

Stiles took a deep breath, trying to remember Derek's words. 'They cannot know. Understand?' echoed through his mind, over and over as he contemplated telling Scott.

"Prove it," he said finally, dropping into the chair next to Scott's. "Let me see the messages."

A sure, confident look on his face, Scott dug out his phone, tapped the screen a few times, and then handed it to Stiles.

The contact name at the top read Princess, which Stiles supposed was a code name, since Lady Allison actually wasn't an official Princess.

He skimmed the text messages quickly, realizing just how many of them there were, and knowing that Scott couldn't fake all of them. Especially not the pictures from inside the Palace, silly ones like Allison posing with a gold statue or photo bombing a bunch of tourists.

It was real.

"Shit," Stiles breathed. "Oh, god. Scott, what in ever living hell are we going to do?"

"Not tell anyone," he replied. "We can't. It puts them in danger and prevents us from ever seeing them again."

An idea sparking in Stiles' mind, he got up and opened the door, Isaac and Lydia falling inside.

"Um," Isaac said meekly, looking up from the floor to Stiles, who tried to look angry at both of them.

"Get in here," he grumbled, both of them standing quickly and joining them in the booth, which was quickly becoming more crowded.

"Just what did you think you were doing?" Stiles tried very hard not to shout. "Look what you've done!"

"Look, Stiles," Lydia said sympathetically. "Did you really think we didn't know about Allison and Scott?"

"Yeah, we really just wanted to know about you and Derek," Isaac chimed in, not making him feel any better.

Then it dawned on Stiles that he hadn't been a student there that long, and that Lydia and Isaac had. Duh.

"Whoops," he muttered, blushing furiously.

Isaac flashed him a goofy smile and laughed at his expression. "It's quite alright mate, no worries."

"It was quite a story of how Allison and Scott met," Lydia said dramatically, and if she had been a cartoon character her eyes would've been hearts.

Isaac faked a gag and Scott elbowed him in the ribs, but a dreamy look had settled over his face anyway.

"Do you want to know?" he asked Stiles, Lydia practically breathing down his neck for him to say yes.

"Enlighten me, why don't you."

"Fine then. It was a dreary Monday morning..."

~

I was running late to work, having dropped by the coffeehouse to get myself and my boss a drink; when I heard this soft sound of someone crying. Now, on the way to work there's this beautiful old church, great old architecture an' everything, and so I'd heard a few people crying here and there as I was walking. This, though, this was different. It was a sound like I'd never heard before, like someone was literally choking down a sob. It just sounded awfully lonely, and so I, holding my great Batman umbrella, stepped onto the path to find whoever it happened to be.
Took me a while to find her, it did, and so that day I never did show up to work.

I was about to give up and get on my way when I saw her, curled up in the corner of one of the archways of the church. Even from a distance, and even all red faced with tears, she looked a strange kind of beautiful right then. Damn, did she look stubborn, staring off into the rain angrily, rubbing at her eyes so hard her makeup got everywhere. I decided she looked cold, even for the summertime, so I walked right up to her and said "Miss? Pardon me if I'm wrong, but you look like you could use a pick me up right about now." And I took that second drink for my boss and set it down right in front of her, and then backed away slowly. She looked at the drink carefully, then up at me, cocked her head like the cutest thing I've ever seen, and literally said, "Are you Jesus?"

I was gonna say some cheesy pickup line, but decided against it.
I just said no, and stood there awkwardly until she snapped "Well? Are you going to sit down?"

I carefully took a seat next to her on the cold floor and didn't say anything for a few moments. "I'm Scott, Scott McCall," I remember saying.

"I'm Allison Argent, except not anymore," she replied. "I'm quite sorry for snapping at you. I'm not in the best mood."

"Allison Argent," I repeated. "Pretty name. Why not any more?"

"You haven't heard of me?" she scoffed, and I remember being really confused and embarrassed, like there was some secret I didn't know about.

"You know The Prince Derek, yes?" she said, and I laughed. Of course I knew who he was. Everyone did, even me.

"Well yeah, duh," I said, trying so hard not to stare at her. The redness was clearing from her eyes and then I could finally see them, a beautiful brown. Her hair was intricately braided and curled around her like a snake. She was dressed almost plainly, in a little red dress and black shoes.

"I'm his stepsister. The new Lady Allison."

All I kept thinking was whoa. Holy shit. That's insane.

"So, like," I said, trying to remain casual. "Does that mean you get to live in the palace?"

She picked up the drink, took a sip, and smacked her lips. "Mmm," she said happily ignoring my question. "How'd you know this was my favorite?"

I remember only one more thing. She asked me that, and I replied "I didn't. Fate did."

Her smile was what really drew me in, I think. It was half razor sharp, and part warmth, but it seemed to me that when this girl smiled, it and the feelings behind it were sincere.

And that is when I knew.

~

Stiles hadn't realized he was leaning forward, straining to catch every word coming out of Scott's mouth, and so was Isaac, curiously.

"Knew what?" he asked a little too excitedly, Lydia letting out a little titter at his reaction.

"Well, that I knew she was the one, of course," Scott said, completely serious.

"You," Stiles said, waving a fake-menacing finger at his friend, "are such a sap, and you know it."

Scott winked charmingly, and suddenly he could just picture the two of them huddling together in the rain, sipping their beverages while Allison ranted on about the Royal Family. It was almost too cute for Stiles to stand, and it made him feel a bit hollow inside, a ache inside of him beginning to form that could only be filled, however cliché, by love.

How fitting it was that his love suddenly appeared in the theatre.

"Er, guys," said one of the mousier interns, appearing at the door, opening it just a tad. "The, um, the, well, you're just going to want to get out here. Like, now."

The four friends shared a confused glance and then walked out of the booth, blinking rapidly at the sudden brightness.

"Ah, there they are," said someone Stiles didn't know, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and forcefully guiding him toward the stage.

"Um," Stiles said. "Who's here?"

The person turned to him and grinned, and then he realized who it was, their face half covered again by a hood.

"Allison?" Stiles whispered in shock, peering under the hood. She grinned mischievously at him, eyes sparkling with all kinds of evil, and continued to guide him toward the stage.

She pulled back the velvet curtains and revealed the Prince, talking to the current Productions Manager / Director, Matt Kearney.

Allison dropped her arm from around his shoulder, whispered "You're welcome for guarding the door while Scott made up some totally bullshit story to trick you and distract you" and then disappeared back behind the curtain, probably to go make out with Scott or do whatever rebellious non-princesses do.

Stiles strode up to Matt and stood next to Derek awkwardly, testing himself to see how long it would take him to look at him. He got to about ten seconds of listening to Matt talk excitedly about costume design for the upcoming production of Aladdin, and then be just had to steal a look at the Prince.

"I told you he wouldn't make it ten seconds," Derek said a second after Stiles' eyes landed upon his.

His friends just couldn't go one moment without tricking him, could they.

He was simultaneously trying not to kill Scott /and/ Allison /and/ Derek for being tricky little bastards when Matt said, "Stiles, say hello to the new Aladdin," and his heart nearly gave out altogether.

Derek, shirtless and singing? /And/ a perfectly good excuse to watch?

God Bless America-er, England.