Forget This Might Hurt, I am completely fucking obsessed with how the Alpha Pack is apparently there to lure Derek into their pack, with, I don’t know, I assume beautiful ladies who are into murder (Derek’s canonical sexual orientation) all Deucalion leaning an elbow against the bar in a way that his shirt pulls across his chest, all heavy-lidded stare and half smile (DON’T GET ME STARTED ON DEUCALION, EVERYONE, MY CANONICAL SEXUAL ORIENTATION HAS BECOME: GROSS SMIRKY TRASHBALL JERKWADS, UGH, I’m going to be so turned off if Deucalion turns out to be a handsome reasonable person who would never inappropriately touch someone but LET’S BE REAL, WHAT ARE THE CHANCES OF THAT?) Anyhow, Deucalion is all, just give into your destiny, Derek, and clearly there are tons of weird coercive you-know-you’re-just-a-SLUT-you-know-you-want-it-why-do-you-dress-like-that-then-slut-whore-bitch undertones and people touching Derek and Derek trying hard not to flinch while Deucalion tells him all about how he can’t escape it, just accept that all you are is a super hot Alpha with cool stubble we’re all just going to hang out for HOURS squinting sexily and being beautiful people and wearing tight t-shirts and leather and seducing high school students and I have to assume the conflict is that Derek has learned that there’s more to life than being really, really, ridiculously good-looking and that seducing high school students may seem like a great fucking plan but it only ends in heartbreak, MY POINT IS:
It’s not like Scott isn’t allowed to have other friends; Stiles isn’t a jealous weirdo, they hashed out the whole Isaac thing months ago, so it’s fucking bullshit that Scott still feels like he has to lie to him, a weirdly specific obviously planned lie, because Scott had said he was meeting up with Derek to have some ultra boring, awkward information exchange but is instead is sliding into a booth at Patsy’s Pizza across from a guy in a sweatshirt with a hole in the elbow just like the one Stiles lost at Scott’s house six months ago, and HEY—and that’s the moment that the guy looks up from the menu and shoves the hood back off his head and it’s Derek.
Up close, it’s worse. The sweatshirt was always huge on Stiles; he’d picked it out of the station Lost-and-Found one night when it had started to rain, shoved the too-long sleeves up and never given it back. It’s big on Derek too, drooping sloppily off his shoulders. He’s wearing a crumpled up grandpa-checked button-down under it and a couple t-shirts underneath that, collars overlapping. The hems of his jeans are chewed up, grimy, and he’s wearing untied sneakers, mud-stained old Nikes.
“I don’t even know where to start,” Stiles says, shoving in next to Scott.
“Stiles,” Derek says, resigned.
“Yup,” Stiles says.
They’re halfway through an extra large mushroom and sausage pizza before Derek finally comes out with it.
“That is grossly insulting,” Stiles says. Derek is munching stolidly on a slice of pizza, staring down at the table. “And moreover—yeah, moreover, deal with it—it will never work—“
“They think I’m a—a certain way,” Derek says. There’s a smudge of grease on his lower lip. His hair is flattened on one side of his head, like he pulled the strings of the sweatshirt tight and fell asleep like that. “And I’m not, so—“
“Oh my fucking god,” Stiles says. “Wearing like seven layers of clothing is not going to stop people from noticing that you have a super hot body and a beautiful face—“
“Works for you,” Derek says, matter-of-factly. He wipes his mouth on the sleeve of the sweatshirt, which should be disgusting, and, annoyingly, isn’t.
“What?” Stiles says. Derek meets his eyes.
“Nothing,” he says.
“Are you gonna eat that?” Scott says, pointing to the last slice, like Derek’s not acting like he’s lost his mind. Derek shrugs, and pushes the pan towards him.
“I’m gonna go on the record and say that this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, a dumb plan that’s going to end in disaster,” Stiles announces.
"The seer, she—" Stiles stopped, swallowing.
"What," Derek said. The edge of Stiles’ face was gilded in the warm glow of the lamp; there were blue-black smudges under his eyes. "She warned us that you’d do something crazy," he said, voice low.
"Then she also said you wouldn’t be able to stop me," Derek said.
"Yeah," Stiles said, voice breaking. "But you don’t have to be alone."
"Oh," Derek said, a soft, punched-out noise in the back of his throat. Their eyes met, electric in the contact. They didn’t touch. Finally Derek turned away and picked up the long, gleaming blade. He drew in a breath, head bowed; made the first cut in silence.
“We could have had everything,” Deucalion shouted. He threw a brutal punch into Derek’s chest and Derek staggered, dropped to his knees in the pitted, muddy road. Deucalion kept coming, slapping his clawed-hand across Derek’s face, leaving livid trails of blood from his temple to the corner of his mouth.
“I’ll never give them up,” Derek said, his voice hollowed-out, weak, triumphant.
“I would have been your brother,” Deucalion said, chest heaving, his face a mask of rage and pain. “But you—“
“Jorts,” Derek whispered, taunting. Deucalion’s roar of anger broke open the skies.
Costume Design: T. Hoechlin. Wardrobe Supervisor: T. Hoechlin. Wardrobe Consultant: T. Hoechlin. Costume Buyer: T. Hoechlin. Jorts: T. Hoechlin by T. Hoechlin.
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