excelsior65 said: 

Derek worked as a waiter in NYC. No awards for interpersonal skills, but he was competent. He picked up a decent knowledge of wine from the sommelier and boosted tips with recommendations to the clientele. Now he & Stiles are trapped in a wine cellar.

"The thing is that Scott knows where we are, and he’s totally coming to get us," Stiles says breathily. "So there’s really no reason to panic."

"That’s why I’m not," Derek replies, pulling a bottle, turning it over in his hands. He looks at it for a long moment and then replaces it carefully, almost tenderly; Stiles has never before seen him handle anything with that much gentle regard. 

"I might be, a little."

"You don’t say."

Derek.” Stiles bites down hard on his lower lip and tries to keep his breathing even, very even. Don’t make me say it, he thinks, because speaking the words panic attack out loud will make it way too real. Scott does know where they are and he’s probably on his way to them but who the fuck knows, and for now all Stiles has got to go on is is four walls and a million racks of expensive wine, a house full of Alphas standing guard above them. “Mostly I want to know why you didn’t show up in Beacon Hills with a basement of fine boozes,” he says, trying to keep it light.

"It’s not that great a collection," Derek says dismissively. 

"Oh really." 

"Nah," Derek says. "Showy. Lots of expensive stuff but there’s no real depth to it— it’s all ripped from the pages of Wine Enthusiast. You can tell he doesn’t care about it, not personally."

"Deucalion?"

"Presumably."

"So he probably wouldn’t mind if we— sampled some." Derek turns to Stiles and gives him a long, contemplative look. 

"It’s probably high time to educate your palate," he says. "And while this isn’t worth as much as he’s spent on it, it’ll probably do for a beginner."

They pass an hour, maybe two, sipping and sampling, Derek talking about grapes and soils, vintages, vineyard, berries and rot and funk and fruit. Stiles is tipsy but Derek isn’t, when they start kissing: that’s how Scott finds them, surrounded by three-quarter full bottles, kissing frantically into each others’ wine-stained mouths. 

 

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