"Honey, I'm home!" Stiles calls from downstairs, slamming the door behind him. Derek glances up from where he'd been adjusting his tie – goddamnit, how do these things work, anyway? – and quietly swears. He's not ready, not yet, Stiles is too goddamn early, this is already shaping out to be a fucking disaster and –

"Hey, babe," comes the voice from the doorway, and Derek glances up to see Stiles give him a small, soft smile. Jesus Christ, the things that smile does to him even after all these years. "Hot date?" Stiles laughs at his own joke and dumps his bag on the floor, sidling up to Derek and using his long, deft fingers to make quick work of the knot Derek had been hopelessly tugging at. He finishes up and steps back, brushing his hands along the plane of Derek's shoulders and smiling again. "Beautiful," he whispers, blushing a little, but Derek's blushing too, so neither of them call the other out on it.

"Rough day?" Derek asks softly as Stiles buries his face into the crook of the werewolf's neck.

"You have no idea," Stiles mumbles, breathing in deeply, scenting Derek and Jesus Christ, Derek's not going to be able to make it to the restaurant at this rate. "I swear those kids are fucking insane. I was never that bad, was I?" He pulls back slightly and frowns at Derek. "Actually, no, don't answer that." Derek laughs softly and steps back.

"I booked us in at that new place in town," he says, watching the curves of Stiles' muscles beneath his shirt as he stretches. "But if you'd rather stay home –"

"What? No." Stiles turns sharply and gives a small shrug. "Just gimme ten minutes for a shower, I know I smell like hormonal teenager, but I want to go out, okay?" He scrubs a hand through Derek's stubble with a satisfied sigh. "We haven't been out for ages. I don't want a crappy day at work to ruin this, all right? We're going."

"Okay, okay," Derek smiles, pushing Stiles in the direction of the bathroom. "Ten minutes. I'll set my watch."

"You would," Stiles mumbles as he heads down the corridor. Derek waits until he's heard the click of the lock before he heads back into their bedroom and slips on his jacket, trembling hand finding its way into the pocket. Derek feels his fingertips brush against the velvet of the ring box, and he pulls it out, heart in his mouth.

The ring he bought is simple, just a thin gold band more reminiscent of a wedding than an engagement, but it means more to Derek than any other object in the world. He saved up for months for it, had to ninja his way into the jewellery store with Lydia in tow, because in a town as small as Beacon Hills everyone knows everyone, and Derek didn't want to risk some nosy old lady spying on what he was shopping for.

He takes a deep breath and pops the lid, staring down at the ring in its silk lining and hoping, praying, that tonight will go off without a hitch. Their life has been hectic lately – Stiles with his first class of seniors, Derek with the extra shifts at the station to pay off the ring, not to mention those fucking pixies Stiles had had to make extra wards against. Derek just wants tonight to be ordinary – to be normal. No werewolves, no hunters, no magic. Just him and Stiles, on a normal date like normal people, where Derek can propose like a normal guy and nothing bad and/or remotely supernatural can get in the way. Is that too much to ask?

He hears the water shut off and hastily shoves the box back into his jacket pocket. His hands are sweating, he realises, and his heart sounds more like the thrum of a hummingbird's wings than its usual steady thump. Derek thanks God that Stiles isn't a werewolf, because if he was, he would've smelled his mate's anxiety a mile away.

As it is, when Stiles slips back into the bedroom, towel around his waist, all he does is frown a little at Derek and reach over to loosen the knot of his tie. "You all right?" he asks, tilting his head to the side, Bambi eyes wide and nose upturned, and Jesus Christ, what did Derek do to deserve him?

"Yeah." It comes out as a squeak, and he clears his throat pointedly. "M'fine."

Stiles looks at him sceptically but lets the matter drop, turning instead to root around in the wardrobe for a dress shirt. The towel around his waist slips slightly in his loosened grip, and Derek can see the road map of moles that wind their down Stiles' spine and over the swell of his ass – speaking of which, Derek turns away, because as much as he loves naked Stiles, he really doesn't want to be distracted tonight.

About a minute later, Stiles gently spins Derek around with a hand splayed comfortably on his waist. Derek forgets how to breathe, because Stiles is wearing black skinny jeans and a black dress shirt and that ridiculous purple bowtie that Derek always complains about but which secretly turns his insides into giant puddles of goo. "Okay?" Stiles asks innocently, and Derek nods hurriedly, cheeks flushed. "Okay," Stiles repeats, running his hand through his naturally upright hair and making it adorably askew. Derek kind of wants to unwrap him like a present here and now, but –

But the ring is a heavy weight in his pocket, and Stiles is looking at him like he hung the moon, and he wants forever so badly it burns him.

"Let's go," Derek says instead, grabbing his car keys and leading the way downstairs. Stiles is a warm presence behind him, a safety net, always there to catch Derek if (when) he falls.

He pulls up short at the front door, turning to face Stiles who's looking at him confusedly. "I love you," Derek blurts out, feeling like the words are important, even though he's said them countless times before. Stiles' face softens, and he reaches out again to adjust Derek's tie.

"I know," he smiles, slow and sweet and real. "Kocham tylko Ciebie na zawsze." I love only you forever. He kisses Derek close-mouthed, brushes a hand down the nape of his neck, before pulling away with laughing eyes and slipping out the door. Derek follows, the kiss buzzing on his lips like all of Stiles' kisses do. He doesn't think he'll ever get used to the feeling, and he doesn't want to either.

They drive to the restaurant in comfortable silence, Stiles fiddling with the quietly playing radio and not commenting on the fact that Derek was listening to Top 40. It's nearing the end of autumn, so the sky is already dark overhead. Derek turns into the main drag and keeps his eyes peeled for a park.

"There." Derek turns down the side street Stiles is pointing at, squeezing into a space between two SUVs. He and Stiles get out of the car, Stiles grinning like an idiot. "Thought werewolves were supposed to have good eyesight, dude."

Derek bristles good-naturedly at that. "Don't call me dude," he begins, and is so focused on Stiles' blinding smile that he doesn't notice the figures melting from the shadows before it's too late.

One comes up behind Stiles, but before Derek can cry a warning, something heavy is clubbing him in the back of the head, and then he's drifting, drifting, drifting.

He opens his eyes to a familiar kind of pain.

The shackles around his wrists, holding him up against the wall, dig into his skin in the exact way he remembers. His arms ache from supporting his own body weight, and he's vaguely aware of the fact that he's been stripped of his shirt and jacket.

Jacket, Derek thinks with a sudden wild clarity. Ring. And then: Stiles.

He turns his head to the side, following the scent of his mate that's been tainted slightly by blood and dirt. Stiles is shackled to the right of Derek, a cut on his forehead oozing lethargically, his body lolling forward. Derek has a moment of panic, because Stiles isn't moving, but then he catches the steady beat of a heart that isn't his own, and he can breathe again.

"Stiles?" he chokes out, throat dry like sandpaper. He doesn't want to think about why Stiles is bleeding, why they're chained up in what looks like an old bomb shelter, why whoever kidnapped them had to pick tonight of all nights to do it. Derek feels the loss of his jacket, of the ring, like a physical weight in his stomach, dragging him down.

It was supposed to be fucking normal. Tonight was supposed to be ordinary.

"Stiles?" he says again, louder this time, flexing his wrists against the shackles and discovering with a hiss of pain that they've been imbued with mountain ash. "Stiles, can you hear me?"

Stiles stirs at last, murmuring something incoherent before snapping his head up, eyes wide, desperate. "Derek?" he says, turning his neck gingerly. "What – what happened?"

"Some guys jumped us," Derek growls out. "Obviously some guys who know their stuff." He wriggles his wrists slightly, jolting the shackles. "The metal's been infused with some sort of mountain ash. I can't break out."

Stiles nods slowly at the information, rattling his own shackles slightly. "I think I can – hang on," he says, twisting around so he can see how his hands have been bound. "I should be able to slip these, but it might take me a while." He narrows his eyes at the chains before closing them, breathing in deeply and focusing. Derek knows he's drawing on his spark – he's seen Stiles' magic in action countless times, and it never fails to take his breath away. He might be a werewolf, Kira might be a kitsune, they might've seen enough of supernatural creatures to last them a lifetime – but this? What Stiles can do?

It's something different, something raw and electric and volatile. Derek's always been a little more than intimidated by it, by the way the tattoos inked into Stiles' skin that are usually invisible glow when their power is being drawn upon.

Stiles takes another deep breath, and Derek feels the temperature in the room rise by a few notches, but before anything can happen, there's a echoing clash from overhead and Stiles' eyes snap open with a start. Footsteps ricochet against the metal walls, and a pair of heavy boots appears on the top rung of the ladder that's bolted down in the corner of the bunker.

The boots step down, two rungs at a time, and all Derek can smell is sour sweat and metallic anger, emanating off of the stranger in waves. The boots reach the last rung and jump to the ground, their owner turning around and stepping into the dim light.

It's a man, broad-shouldered, young. Derek's never seen him before, but the quiver of arrows looped over his back and the studded leather vest suggest only one thing. Hunter.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

"The hell do you want?" Derek growls at the guy, allowing the electric blue to seep into his eyes and his fangs to elongate.

The hunter stares at him for a long moment, eyebrows bushy and contracted, before flicking a quick once-over at Stiles and dismissing him, turning back to Derek.

Something big and red and furious blooms inside of Derek, because no-one dismisses Stiles like that. No-one who doesn't want their throat ripped out, anyway.

"You're not the alpha," the hunter says, voice husky. It's more a question than a statement, and Derek raises an eyebrow, letting his eyes bleed fully blue.

"Obviously."

"And that one's not a werewolf." He jerks his head at Stiles, who's watching silently and seemingly fearfully – Derek knows better, however, and sees the tell-tale quiet concentration that always precedes an outburst of magic.

"Obviously," Derek says again, wanting to keep the hunter talking so Stiles can do his thing.

"Who is the alpha?" the hunter asks, and wow, how cute, he must be new to the neighbourhood and didn't get the Argent memo about staying the fuck away from Beacon Hills.

"If you're as good a hunter as you think you are, then you should be able to figure it out yourself," Derek says with a grin. "You're a big boy. Come on. Take a guess."

The hunter's eyebrows contract even further. His hand goes to the holster at his hip, where Derek can see the glint of a handgun. Rate this guy's going, the bullets will be fucking silver, but Derek doesn't want to take any chances. He shuts his mouth. "Don't sass me, boy," the hunter says in what is clearly intended to be a menacing tone of voice, but the effect is kind of ruined considering that, at thirty years old, Derek is roughly the same age as him. Boy, indeed.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the tattoo behind Stiles' ear begin to glow. Not long now.

"Sorry," Derek says to the hunter, feigning fear. "Please don't shoot us, I swear, we'll tell you everything about our pack, just don't shoot." He gives his best Scott impression (re: puppy dog eyes) and sees Stiles wriggling out of shackles that have magically grown in size. The hunter, to his credit, doesn't waver under Derek's charm, but nor does he notice Stiles escaping until the latter has a knife pressed up against the guy's throat.

Derek grins viciously, fangs and all.

"Sorry to cut this scintillating conversation short, but he's taken," Stiles says, tattoos on his forearms glowing as he presses two fingers to the hunter's forehead and sends him to sleep. He's at Derek side in no time, breaking through the shackles with another few moments of concentration.

When the chains are off, Stiles steps back, breathing heavily from the spells. He's still in his dress shirt, still has that motherfucking bowtie on that Derek is kind of in love with now. His hair is a mess, dried blood swiped across his brow, but his grin is big and mischievous.

"What should we do with him?" he asks, jerking his head at the now-snoring hunter. Derek stares at the guy, still kind of blown away by his utter ineptitude.

"Give him a taste of his own medicine?" he suggests, nodding at the shackles. Stiles agrees and together they chain the guy up, Stiles using another quick burst of energy to melt the locks shut completely. He grabs Derek's hand, then, and shoves him towards the ladder. They climb up, emerging in the cellar of a creepy old house.

"Come on," Stiles says, pulling at Derek again. "There were two of them. We should go before the other guy gets back." Derek lets himself be dragged along until, with a start, he remembers his jacket and the ring. He stops walking, swearing like a motherfucker internally.

"I need my jacket," he says to Stiles' questioning look. "It should be in here somewhere. We need – I need to find it."

"You have plenty of other jackets at home, Derek," Stiles says slowly. "Come on. We should get out of here before –"

"I need the jacket, Stiles." Derek panics slightly, because Stiles is looking at him with an ugly expression on his face, and this was not how the night was supposed to go.

"What's with the fucking jacket? It's not like it's your only one!"

"I know," Derek grounds out, annoyed. "But – I just need it, okay?" He stares at Stiles in the semi-darkness for a long moment, before the human flails his hands about with an exasperated sigh.

"Fine. Asshole. But we run into the other guy, I'm not saving your sorry werewolf ass again."

They continue up the stairs and emerge in a dimly lit hallway. Derek scents the air, trying to pinpoint the combined leather-velvet-gold smell. He locates it and lets his nose lead him and Stiles up another set of stairs and towards what looks like a bedroom.

He nudges open the half-closed door and is met by the cold barrel of a shotgun pressed against his temple. "You're not the alpha," this hunter says, and Derek rolls his beta blue eyes before wolfing out and tearing the gun away. The hunter backs up into a corner, hands raised in surrender. Derek allows his claws to contract and instead knocks the guy out with a swing from his own Smith & Wesson.

Stiles stares down at the unconscious hunter for a moment before slapping Derek upside the head.

"The hell was that for?"

"For being an idiot," Stiles bites out. "It's a fucking jacket, Derek, my God, not the Second Coming of Christ."

"I feel like that analogy doesn't really make sense."

"Your face doesn't make sense." Stiles steps forward and grabs the jacket from where it's heaped on the hardwood floor. "It's not even your favourite, man, why the hell did we –?" He stops talking as something small and velvety falls from the jacket pocket and lands at his feet.

Stiles stares.

Derek stops breathing.

There's a long moment of nothingness, nothingness in which Derek's heart ratchets up to a thousand miles per hour before stopping dead completely.

"What the fuck is that?" Stiles bursts out, voice high-pitched, eyes bugging wide. He looks at Derek, who still can't fucking breathe. "What the fuck is that? Derek? Is that –" Stiles stops and takes in a great lungful of air. Derek does the same.

"It's…" He falters under Stiles' incredulous gaze. "It was supposed to be normal," he finds himself saying miserably, hanging his head and scuffing his boots against the floorboards. "We were supposed to be normal, tonight, just a normal date with none of this fucking shit and –" Derek swallows around the lump in his throat. "It was supposed to be fucking normal," he says again, glancing up to meet Stiles' whiskey-coloured eyes. "I'm so fucking sorry."

Stiles swallows visibly, bending over to retrieve the box from the ground and running his fingers lightly over the velvet. It's the longest, most agonising moment of Derek's life. "Well, if you're asking for my opinion," Stiles finally says, popping open the lid and staring down at the gold band with owlish, Bambi eyes, "I think normal's overrated." He smiles, then, and Derek has gotten used to reading Stiles' smiles over the years, and he really, really fucking likes this one.

When Derek doesn't say anything, Stiles rolls his eyes. "The answer's yes, by the way, Casanova. In case you were ever gonna get around to actually asking."

"What?" Even with all the signs pointing to the same answer, even with that smile on Stiles' face, Derek still can't bring himself to hope. He stares, dumbfounded, as Stiles grabs his hands, makes Derek pick the ring up from its cushion, and slides it slowly, softly, onto the ring finger of Stiles' left hand.

"I feel like this requires some sort of innuendo," Stiles comments, eyes bright and sparkling as he meets Derek's gaze and, oh yeah, this is real, this is happening, this dream is coming true.

"Shut up, Stiles," Derek says succinctly, staring at the ring on Stiles' finger for a long moment before leaning in for a kiss that is nowhere near close-mouthed and sweet.

And yeah, he's shirtless, and Stiles is bleeding, and there's a guy knocked out in the corner of the room, and another guy shackled in the basement, and it's verging on 2am and shit, they've probably ratcheted up about three parking tickets so far – but really, Derek thinks, as he tastes Stiles on his tongue and on his lips and on his everywhere, as he feels the thrum of his mate's spark beneath his fingertips – normal really isn't all it's cracked up to be.

Author's Note: Dedicated to Lucie (rainbowpanda0) who black mailed me into writing this for her. It was fun, anyways. Title from Bruno Mars' "Marry You", which pretty much has no relation to this fic whatsoever, barring the title. Whatever. I do what I want. *slides sunglasses on*