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Title: Moon Dogs 9/13
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Rating: PG (so far)
Word Count: 1976
Summary: Derek spends the summer season playing for the Mankato Moon Dogs, hoping to catch the eye of a major league scout. He doesn't count on someone catching his eye.
Notes: I blame Tyler Hoechlin and Dylan O'Brien for loving baseball so much. And for making me love them so much. All the love to accordingtomel for agreeing to beta something for a show she doesn't even watch.

I am playing fast and loose with ages and the structure of summer collegiate baseball leagues.

WORK IN PROGRESS. Literally. I am writing as I post, and I don't know how long this is going to be or how quickly I'll be posting. I'm hoping (for my own sanity) it'll be pretty regular. Rating and pairing is endgame. Crossposted at AO3.

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight

Moon Dogs, Chapter Nine

Derek had always loved waking up next to another person, the warmth of another body, the sound of someone else breathing. It had always been comforting, never awkward, even with his few one night stands.

It wasn’t awkward with Stiles, either. Derek woke up first, his head pounding and his mouth tasting sour. The tent was filled with muted sunlight, filtering in through the nylon walls of the tent, and the smell of damp woods and warmth. Stiles was on his back with his sleeping bag shoved down around his waist, mouth open and snoring softly. One of his arms was flung out to the side, fingers curled up near Derek’s chest like he’d been reaching for something in his sleep.

Derek was muzzy from whiskey and groggy from a night’s sleep on the ground. Stiles’s eyelashes were a dark sweep against his pale cheeks, and Derek couldn’t bring himself to stop staring, even when Stiles started to stir, coming awake in stages.

Stiles turned his head and grinned sleepily, a morning after kind of smile, and Derek’s heart clenched up.

“Morning,” Stiles said, and stretched his arms up over his head. Derek tried to un-stick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. Stiles scratched low on his stomach where his shirt had ridden up and exposed skin.

Derek yanked his gaze away when Stiles looked back up at him, and swallowed hard, grimacing.

“Yeah, I feel pretty shitty, too. Damn that Jack Daniels for being so tasty. I need bacon. And hashbrowns. So many hashbrowns. And a fountain soda as large as my head.”

“Fountain soda?” Derek’s stomach had started gurgling as soon as Stiles said “bacon”, and he sat up.

“Yes. Not a can, not a bottle. It’s gotta be a fountain drink. There’s a diner in town that knows exactly how I like my hashbrowns. You in?”


You home?

The text came in while Derek was still in bed. He was fighting a cold and had slept later than he usually did on an off day, hoping that the extra sleep on top of the meds he was taking would keep him healthy enough to play well.

Since their camping trip Stiles had taken to texting Derek every now and then. Sometimes it was pertinent information, about a game or going out or asking if Scott was home (since he couldn’t trust Scott to be there when he said he would be after he’d been “stood up” multiple times), sometimes it was silly stuff about what Stiles was watching on TV or a conversation he’d overheard that he thought would make Derek laugh.

Derek still wasn’t used to it, still got a little buzz under his skin to accompany the buzz of his phone, and had started keeping his phone in his front pocket so he always knew when a message came in.

Yeah., he typed back, and laid the phone on his chest, waiting for it to vibrate.

It did three seconds later, and Derek grinned at the screen.

Can I come over? I have a pile of stupid movies guaranteed to cure any ills.

Derek rolled his eyes, not even questioning how Stiles knew he was sick. Scott probably mentioned it to Allison, or Melissa mentioned it to the Sheriff, or Stiles was just psychic. He always seemed to know everything, it wouldn’t surprise Derek at all.

If you get my cold, you asked for it.

Ten minutes later Stiles let himself into the house and came downstairs, his arms full.

“What is all that stuff?”

Stiles shrugged. “Movies. Soup. Tea. Normal sick stuff?”

Derek rolled his eyes and scooted over on the couch. “Did you bring a blanket? You do know I live in a house where there is bedding, Stiles.”

Stiles’s hand spread out over the fuzzy thing in his arms protectively. “Shut up, I have a Florence Nightengale thing, okay?”

Stiles laid everything out on the table and Derek eyed the Tupperware container. “Is that soup homemade?”

The sheepish look he received confirmed his suspicions and he sighed to cover the wave of affection that swept over him. “My dad tells me I can be a bit overbearing when he’s sick. I always hope other people will think it’s charming.” He cleared his throat. “It’s my mom’s recipe. She used to make it for me when I was sick.”

Derek felt lightheaded, and it wasn’t from the cold. Stiles kept fiddling with the DVDs, shuffling them in their stack, and Derek wished he could tuck them both under the blanket and forget about batting averages and scouts and signing bonuses. Instead he reached out to still Stiles’s hands, tugging a DVD case out from the pile and slapping it against Stiles’s chest.

“This one. And don’t make my soup too hot.” Derek saw the corner of Stiles’s mouth tilt up before he got to his feet with the bowl clutched in his hands.

“Charming’s still a stretch,” he called out as Stiles loped up the stairs, and his laugh trailed behind him.


The stretch of games that led up to the All-Star Game was a cakewalk, and Derek played better than he had all season. He made the All-Star team as a starter, Isaac and Boyd were both back-ups, and everyone in town started making arrangements to spend a couple of days in Madison.

The Moon Dogs had a few away games the week before the All-Star Game, and Derek barely had time to do laundry and re-pack before he had to board the bus to Madison, where the game was being held.

The night before the game was the All-Star dinner, and Derek didn’t know what to expect. Coach Finstock had given him a lecture about the bigwigs that would be attending, and Derek had come home freaked out about not having a suit. Scott and Stiles were lounging around the living room with their XBox controllers and bags of chips, and Stiles showed up the next day with a garment bag, telling Derek that he may be able to squeeze his “ridiculous shoulders” into his dad’s suit coat.

Derek shifted said shoulders in the borrowed coat and looked around the banquet room. The attendee list was impressive, current major leaguers and managers, franchise owners and scouts all mingling together with drinks in their hands. The current all-stars stuck out with their deer-in-headlights looks and cheaper looking suits.

He lingered near the hor d'oeuvres table, holding a plate but not touching the crackers or veggies he’d filled it with, and tried not to look too awkward. He was debating going over to the nearest group of people and jumping into the conversation when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Being anti-social?”

The voice made him jump, and he almost dropped his plate when he turned around and saw Stiles standing there, grinning like a loon with Scott and Allison at his side. Derek gaped, and the three of them chuckled.

“We bought a table,” Allison said, and smoothed the front of her party dress. “It’s for charity, and we all wanted to be here.”

“We wanted to surprise you,” Scott said, and reached out to thump Derek’s arm. “Surprise.”

Derek was surprised, but more by the way Stiles looked in his suit, tie knotted at the base of his throat, his cheeks pink. Derek couldn’t take his eyes off him.

“I am definitely surprised,” Derek said, his voice rougher than usual, and all three of them beamed.

They trailed away to the bar after that, claiming they didn’t want to keep him from “rubbing elbows with important baseball folk”, as Stiles said, but Stiles seemed reluctant to leave Derek’s side. Scott had to drag him away by the elbow, and even then Stiles looked back at Derek over his shoulder as he shuffled away. Derek could feel his face getting hot, and wanted nothing more than to plaster himself to Stiles’s side, where he’d feel more comfortable than he did in this room full of strangers.

He made an effort to mingle, talking to a few other players from teams the Moon Dogs had hosted at the Frank, introduce himself to a scout and a former big league manager. After that he needed some air, and he ducked out of the ballroom doors to find the exit, loosening the knot of his tie.

“Trying to escape?” Stiles said, coming up behind him.

“Are you following me?”

“Nah, just had to pee.” Stiles gestured down the hall towards the bathrooms, then cocked his head. “Having fun?”

“It’s a little nerve-wracking.” Derek hadn’t planned on telling Stiles that, but that happened a lot with him and Stiles. He never meant to tell Stiles all the things he told him, and he thought maybe he should stop fighting it. He wasn’t winning. “I was going out for air.”

“Do people really do that?” Derek shrugged. “Alright, let’s go.”

“Don’t you have to pee?”

“I’m an adult, Derek, I can hold it. Let’s go outside so you can freak out about being a big important baseball player, I’ll hit the bathroom on the way back in.”

They found a side door that led out to a parking lot and propped it open with a trash can, and Derek dropped down on the curb and propped his elbows on his thighs, his hands dangling between his knees. Stiles perched next to him, fingers digging at his collar.

“I hate dressing up like this. I feel like I’m being choked to death. Suits and ties are not good for my anxiety.”

“You look good in a suit,” Derek said, the words slipping out before he could stop them. Stiles stopped plucking at his tie and glanced over, eyes narrowed. It was a calculating look, one Derek had seen a few times. Like Stiles was trying to read his mind. Derek thought maybe Stiles really was psychic, and was about to make a joke about it to break the tension when Stiles leaned over and kissed him.

It was a brief, dry press of lips, but it went through Derek like an electric shock, and he jerked back so hard he almost knocked himself off the curb. The look of disappointed and hurt that raced over Stiles’s face took Derek’s breath away, and before he found enough of it to explain Stiles was on his feet, pacing.

“God, I’m sorry. I’m such an idiot. You just, we were starting to be friends, but you look at me sometimes, and I guess I thought, but then I guess I was wrong because of course I was wrong, I’m me. And you’re you, and god we’re at a banquet for your all-star game and there are scouts here and I’m an idiot, Derek, I’m sorry. You’ve got a game tomorrow and a contract to sign and you can’t be kissing spazzes when you’re trying to get signed, why would you want to kiss a spaz anyway, when you look like you do - “

The rant was gathering steam, Derek could tell, Stiles’s fingers frantic at his throat until the tie was undone, the two ends hanging limp against his shirt, and Derek’s mouth was still tingling from the feel of Stiles’s chapped lips.

Stiles was right about the banquet and the scouts and the game and the contract, but he was wrong about Derek not wanting to kiss him, and at that moment Derek really wanted to correct him. He did it the only way he could think of, by pushing to his feet and grabbing the ends of Stiles’s tie, stopping him in his tracks.

His eyes were still open when he leaned in, and he watched Stiles’s go wide before they fluttered shut, then closed his own as he pressed his mouth to Stiles’s.

Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Epilogue



[M] :: Popfly
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