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Stiles slumps against a fainting couch and stares glumly into the matte sunset that’s being wheeled off the sound stage. His best friend’s off somewhere winning over the girl of his dreams with love songs by fake starlight (Stiles’ idea: he loves Scott, but he’s never been what Stiles would call suave). And Stiles is happy for him, of course he is—how couldn’t he be? Allison’s a great girl. She’s sharp enough to keep Scott on his toes and sweet enough to put up with him. It’s a picture-perfect ending.
Stiles is probably going to end up playing the Eccentric Bachelor Uncle to their kids and showing up alone for Christmas and Thanksgiving, and he doesn’t mind, really he doesn’t. Of course Scott and Allison won’t have room for him in whatever lovenest they end up doing their billing and cooing in, and that’s how things are supposed to be, but—he wouldn’t mind having someone himself.
And then there’s the question of just what the hell he’s going to do now. Scott dragged him into the film business, but Stiles doesn’t think he’s long for it; he’s no leading man, and playing the comic sidekick gets old after a while.
"Stilinski."
Stiles manages to stay still. Barely. He twists and grimaces a little when he recognizes the man behind the voice: it’s Jim Rolf, the cherry on the sundae that’s been Stiles’ life lately.
He and Rolf aren’t pals. They’re about as far from friendly as Stiles gets with anyone, and he likes to think of himself as a reasonable guy. Rolf’s been dismissive of Stiles at best and downright surly at worst, and it doesn’t help that he’s been everywhere lately, scowling off into the distance. Stiles is kind of afraid of the guy, honestly; he keeps staring at Stiles like Stiles owes him money or something, and Stiles has enough problems without having to worry about making surly (albeit attractive) enemies.
"You shaved your mustache," Stiles says, staring at Rolf. He’s still in costume for whatever tinplate Western’s on the lot today, and he looks every inch the black hat, all dark colors and menacing spurs. But without the mustache he looks—familiar. Very familiar, and Stiles can’t figure out why.
Rolf makes an affirmative noise and moves closer. Stiles’ breath catches, and he inches back towards the safety of the couch; Rolf’s not scary anymore, that’s for sure, but the way he’s looking at Stiles is definitely still intimidating. Maybe it’s second nature; Rolf’s not one of the better-known Western heavies for nothing.
"I never got a chance to thank you," Stiles says, mustering up his courage. "For, um, distracting Lydia at the party. That was decent of you."
Rolf nods. “Least I could do,” he says, and “So McCall finally wised up, huh?” He jerks a thumb back in Scott and Allison’s general direction.
"Yeah," Stiles says, looking away. "He did. I’m happy for him." He swallows down the lingering bitterness and tries to smile.
"Sure," Rolf says easily. “What now?”
“You mean, what’m I going to do now that my best friend’s headed off to wedded bliss?” Stiles shrugs as dismissively as he can. “Head off to glory and write that symphony. Or maybe join the Foreign Legion; it’s a toss-up.” It’s the answer he’s been giving everyone, and honestly? He just might. He’s always looked good in hats.
“You could keep going,” Rolf says, his brow furrowing. “I’ve seen you dance. You’re—good.”
"At Finstock’s," Stiles says slowly, because he remembers seeing Rolf lurking outside the voice coach’s office. This conversation is getting increasingly weird; it’s almost like Rolf cares about what happens to Stiles. More than Stiles cares, even.
"Not just then," Rolf says. He looks down, avoiding Stiles’ eyes. "Do you remember Anything Once?”
"Sure," Stiles says, puzzled. It had been his and Scott’s first gig as stuntmen, and the two of them spent what felt like years on the sidelines waiting for their turn to get tossed into a barroom mirror by the hero. They’d killed some of that time with improvised dance routines, and once they’d pulled some of the other guys in, even the shyer ones. Even— He looks at Rolf with sudden recognition. "You were the other stuntman," Stiles says wonderingly. He can’t really blame himself for not getting it before; it’s been four years, and the Jim Rolf—Derek Hale, he corrects himself, it’s Derek, it’s always been Derek—who’s standing in front of him is a long way from the boy who Stiles laughed with on the set of Anything Once.
"Yeah," Derek says, his mouth quirking. "We were just kids, huh?" He looks a little sad about that. Stiles can’t blame him; he remembers the gossip rags from a couple years back, the headlines from the tell-all interviews with Kate Argent blaring across the newstands. ‘ROLF’S SECRET PAST’, and ‘THE WOLF REVEALED’; boy, she’d done a number on the guy. Stiles hadn’t been able to bring himself to read any of the articles then, and he can’t blame Derek for being gun shy now.
"I didn’t know," Stiles says, staring at Derek. It’s as plain as the nose on Stiles’ face, now he’s looking; Derek’s pale eyes, the way he carries himself (a little surer, now, and much more guarded). "You just disappeared, after shooting stopped. I—" He stops himself before he gives anything away; Derek probably wouldn’t appreciate knowing just how big a torch Stiles used to carry for him, back in the day. It’s perilously close to getting relit, if Stiles is honest with himself, and boy howdy wouldn’t that be an interesting conversation. He’s pretty sure Derek wouldn’t stick around for most of it, though, and that’s colder comfort than it ought to be.
"You promised me a dance lesson, back then," Derek says. "Is that offer still good?"
"Sure," Stiles says, and curses the flush that he can feel spreading across his cheekbones. "If you still need it. They probably don’t ask you to dance much these days, huh?”
Derek shrugs. “I’m thinking of retiring,” he says. “It’s probably time for a change.” He’s watching Stiles, now, pale eyes intent and cautious. Stiles has no idea why; it’s not like he’s got any horse in that particular race.
Stiles realizes what an awful, awful idea this was about two minutes in to the dancing lesson. Derek’s very close, suddenly, and Stiles is horribly aware of just how attractive Derek still is without the Mount Rushmore-sized chip on his shoulder. He puts a tentative hand on Derek’s waist, meaning to start them off with a waltz—a simple, old-fashioned dance, because Derek always struck Stiles as an old-fashioned kind of guy, before.
"I can lead.” The tips of Derek’s ears are red; Stiles tries not to think it’s cute. That way madness lies.
"I like my feet, though," Stiles says. "Real fond of them. Sort of attached, you might say. Let’s start with following, first."
Derek scowls, but he obeys, shifting away to let Stiles take the lead.
"Attaboy. There’s that sweet smile," Stiles teases softly. Derek’s head jerks up, and he stares at Stiles. He looks so young, suddenly, soft and open just like he did on the set of Anything Goes. They’ve both been through a lot, since then. Probably too much.
"I—“ Derek cuts off. His hand is warm and heavy on Stiles’ shoulder, and he’s stroking his thumb across the weave of Stiles’ vest. A lot of things got lost, over the years, worn down by everything that’s happened, but Stiles never forgot Derek’s eyes: they’re just as distinct, now, clear and blue-green like the sea glass Stiles and Scott used to go hunting for when they were kids.
"I’m crazy about you," Stiles admits, forcing himself to meet Derek’s eyes. It’s not like he has anything to lose, here. Except maybe a couple of teeth. "Always was." He takes a deep breath and braces himself for the worst.
"Thank god," Derek breathes, and Stiles finds himself getting pulled—well, dragged—towards the dressing rooms off the lot, towards a door labeled ‘ROLF’.
Derek kicks the door closed and crowds Stiles against it, curving a hand around his waist and pulling Stiles just enough off balance that he’s forced to brace his hands on Derek’s shoulders for support.
"Used to watch you," Derek says roughly, tracing calloused fingers down Stiles’ cheekbone. "When you weren’t looking."
“I was looking a lot,” Stiles says. “In case you were wondering.”
“You said you were thinking of quitting,” Derek blurts out, pulling back. His eyes cut down away from Stiles’, and he has the look of a man who’s about to say something he thinks he’ll probably regret. “I’ve got a ranch out in the country,” he says to Stiles’ tie. “I’m going there in a few weeks, and you could come too. If you wanted.” He finally looks up, then, all resignation. Stiles knows that look: Derek’s getting ready to be rejected.
“If I wanted,” Stiles says slowly. “Yes, I want.” The certainty in his voice surprises him a little; he doesn’t even know Derek, not really. But Stiles has always done things by the seat of his pants, off-the-cuff and without enough thought. It’s worked well enough for him so far. And he wants to get to know Derek again, away from Hollywood’s cheap shine. He thinks Derek might be a guy who’s worth getting to know. And if Stiles is wrong, well. There’s always the Foreign Legion.
Derek opens his mouth, then closes it sharply. He looks like a landed fish, honestly, and Stiles stifles a hysterical giggle at the picture he makes. “I didn’t think you’d say yes,” he says quietly.
“Yeah, well,” Stiles says, leaning in again. “We never did finish that dancing lesson.”
Derek laughs into the kiss. It’s a good laugh, warm and deep and unexpected in all the best ways, and Stiles—Stiles doesn’t think he’s going to regret this, somehow.