Derek hurries back to Beacon Hills after spending a day with Cora, because his drunk boyfriend really wants a New Year's kiss.
-
Derek only needs to follow Stiles' directions halfway before the loud music is enough to lead him to the house at the end of the block that is hosting the party. (They were crappy directions anyway; typos and misspellings everywhere. Derek is pretty sure Stiles has had enough to drink for the night.) He's not even sure whose house it is. All he knows is that some kid from school decided to throw a New Year's party and did not only invite Lydia this time, but the whole pack.
It may have something to do with the school dance right before Christmas.
That theory proves to be right when he goes to ringing the doorbell, expecting to have to explain himself and what he's doing there, but the guy who opens the door just beams at him and invites him in, calling him "Stilinski's man" when introducing him to the rest of the room who cheers. Derek blushes and goes to seek out Stiles.
He's barely made it to the second room before Isaac appears, shamelessly throwing himself at him and give him a big hug. Derek let's a chuckle slip out of him as he returns the embrace, patting Isaac on the back like he had when Isaac had thanked him for the backpack on Christmas Day in a similar fashion. It's only been a week, but it feels like ages ago.
If the people around them had been sober they probably would've found the way Isaac sniffed Derek's shoulder as he pulled back just a little bit weird. Fortunately that isn't the case, and the only one noticing is Derek himself. He cocks an eyebrow at him, and Isaac flushes and rubs the back of his neck.
"You smell like Cora," he hurries to explain himself.
Derek smiles. "She could pick up your stench on me too."
Scott appears just as Isaac ducks his head to laugh. Both of them look perfectly sober, which is a relief to Derek. He'd been worried they had started experimenting with wolfs bane just to get wasted, but they seem perfectly happy without it.
"Thank god you're here," Scott says. "Stiles started to think you wouldn't make it in time."
"I know," Derek assures, rolling his eyes. "He's been texting me for the last two hours. Where is he?"
"Upstairs," Isaac says, grinning. "Watch out. He gets very lovable when he's drunk."
"I'm aware," Derek reminds him, smirking.
"Right," Scott scoffs.
The pair retreats to whatever corner of the packed floor they came from, and Derek goes to look for the stairs. He shuts out the way-too-loud music in his ears and focuses on finding Stiles' heartbeat among the dozens others in the house. Seriously, how do they all fit in here? They're practically lining up the walls. People are dancing and drinking and laughing and kissing and grinding everywhere and it makes Derek really eager to find Stiles.
Stiles is sitting on a couch squeezed in between two girls when Derek spots him. He doesn't notice Derek right away, just like he didn't notice him first entering the house like the wolf boys had. Derek's heart flutters when seeing he's wearing Derek's leather jacket, which looks really good on him. Derek crosses the room swiftly, approaching the couch with his eyes fixed on Stiles. When he finally looks up to notice him, his eyes widen as they meet Derek's.
"Derek!" He exclaims.
A big smile lights up his face, and Derek feels his heart swell in his chest at the sight. Stiles smells of happiness and love and it makes Derek want to purr like a freaking kitten. He takes the two last remaining steps forward, expecting Stiles to stand up once he stops in front of the couch – because he looks like he's about to – but then he just leans forward and wraps his arms around Derek's waist, pressing his face against Derek's stomach while still seated on the sofa.
"You're here," he says, nuzzling into Derek's hip. "I was just about to ask Greenberg to be my New Year kiss."
Derek chuckles, too busy appreciating Stiles' warm hold around him to feel embarrassed about the awkward greeting his drunk boyfriend is giving him. The teenagers surrounding them don't seem to care much for them anyway. Derek runs a hand through Stiles' hair before settling it on the back of his neck.
"Haven't seen this in a while," he mumbles, fumbling on the collar or his leather jacket. It's the first time he's seen it since Stiles stole it after one of their rehearsals and damn that really feels like ages ago. "No longer afraid I'll take it off you?"
"That's what I'm hoping for," Stiles replies simply, voice muffled into Derek's shirt.
A snort slips out of Derek before he can stop it, and he drops his own hand to squeeze Stiles' bicep. He tugs gently in an attempt to help Stiles stand up, and the boy only groans in protest for a second before letting himself be pulled up to his feet.
Once they're at the same eye-level, Derek reach out to cup his cheek. Stiles is smiling, eyes drifting a little over Derek's face when he leans into the touch.
"You're kind of adorable when you're drunk," Derek remarks, smile tugging at his lips.
Stiles huffs, and Derek can feel the heat rising to his cheeks under his palm. "Shut up." He drops his gaze, ducking his head as he swallows. "I didn't mean to be," he mumbles. "I want— I want to remember."
Derek tilts Stiles' head back up to let their eyes lock again. "You'll remember," he says reassuringly. He glances around them, spotting a glass door to a balcony. "Come on," he urges, sliding his hand into Stiles' and pulls him over there. "Let's get you some fresh air."
The balcony is small, but it's empty and therefore more than enough for two people who don't mind sharing the same space. It's got a roof and is thankfully clean from snow, but the furniture must've been stored for the winter so there's nothing to sit on.
"It's cold," Stiles says, sucking in a breath and shudders where he's standing.
"At least you can feel the temperature this time," Derek points out, smiling softly as he steps up behind Stiles and wraps his arms around his middle. He presses his front against Stiles' back, locking their bodies together all the way from their ankles to their necks, resting his chin on Stiles' shoulder. "Better?"
Stiles hums, leaning back against him. His hands comes to rest on top of Derek's on his belly.
"A lot."
Derek grins into Stiles' neck, inhaling a deep breath and gets his nose full of Stiles.
They stand like that in silence for a while, just leaning against one another and sharing body heat in the chilly night air. The house is still vibrating with music and chatter but it all turns into a distant blur with the balcony door closed.
"How's Cora?" Stiles asks after a while.
"Good," Derek says, sliding his nose up to the spot behind Stiles' ear. "Pretty sure she's gone for one of the wolf boys. Not that she'd tell me."
Stiles huffs, shuddering a little when Derek's hot breath curls over his sensitive skin.
"Missed you," he sighs then. "You're not allowed to leave again anytime soon."
"It was only for a few days, Stiles," Derek rumbles, closing his eyes tightening the hold around Stiles.
"I know," Stiles whispers. "Still. I even had to run the other night just to be able to sleep."
"Are the nightmares back?" Derek asks, eyes snapping open as he immediately feels bad about leaving.
"No," Stiles assures him quickly, shaking his head. "I just… missed you."
He shrugs lightly, as if trying to brush off the heavy meaning behind it. Derek hums happily, heart pounding with affection as he presses a simple kiss right below the boy's hairline.
"I missed you too," he admits.
Apparently being away from three days to meet up with Cora had been too much for both of them. It's ridiculous. Cora had noticed how unsettled he was and asked what the hell was up with him. He'd played dumb at first, but in the end told her everything that happened since they parted ways.
"You planning on making any confessions tonight?" He asks in murmur.
"Should I?" Stiles wonders.
"Well, you tend to do that when you're intoxicated," Derek remarks with a smirk.
"Won't happen again," Stiles assures.
"I'm kind of glad it did though," Derek says thoughtfully.
"Because we're idiots."
Derek chuckles. "Yes, because we're idiots."
"Idiots who probably would still be dancing around each other tonight if I hadn't let my mouth run," Stiles continues.
"Yeah," Derek agrees, grinning into Stiles' warm skin. "No more dancing."
"Thank god," Stiles sighs. "At least not until our wedding day."
"W-what?" Derek stutters.
"What?" Stiles repeats.
And of course – because their story isn't enough like a movie already – that's the exact moment Scott pulls the door open.
"Guys, the ball's about to drop!" He informs.
Derek sighs, already hearing the people inside starting to count down. He drops his arms from Stiles and takes one step back.
"Give us a minute."
"It'll kind of be too late by then," Scott points out with a sly smile.
"Just— We'll be there in bit," Derek says, impatiently waving his hand at Scott to get lost.
Scott scoffs but disappears back inside.
Turning back to Stiles, Derek can tell he's sobered up a bit. His eyes are still a bit glazed but steadier than before. Derek exhales through his nose and steps up to him again, placing one hand to his waist. Stiles wraps one hand around his bicep in return almost mechanically, because touching each other comes naturally these days, even if they've only been together for little more than a week. Derek loves it.
"You don't wanna see the ball drop?" Stiles asks, his breath curling over Derek's face when he speaks.
"I've seen it," Derek replies with a shrug. "Live, even. Laura dragged me down to Times Square one year."
Stiles grins. "I can only imagine what a nightmare that must've been for you. So many people!"
Derek huffs, tightening his grip on the leather covering Stiles' hip.
"I don't mind people. Well," he adds at Stiles cocked eyebrow, "not anymore."
"Yeah, I've noticed," Stiles says, smiling. "You kissed me for the first time in a room full of people."
"And I'd do it again," Derek shrugs.
"So why don't you?"
Derek pulls him in just a little closer to rest his forehead against Stiles'. He can hear how Stiles' heartbeat speeds up in excitement, and his own doing the exact same thing. The sound of them throbbing together makes him hum. Damn, he's missed that sound. He's missed everything about Stiles, and just the thought of going away again – even if just for a day or two – feels wrong.
"Maybe I wanted you for myself this time," he murmurs.
Stiles hums, eyes falling to Derek's mouth. "I've never had a New Year's kiss," he mumbles.
"Me neither," Derek says.
"You'll be my first everything," Stiles says further, then he looks thoughtful for a second. "And last."
Derek's heart flutters. "Likewise."
The people's countdown inside is getting louder when passing twenty, and Derek reach up to place his other hand on Stiles' cheek. They're both smiling, almost ridiculously so, but Derek wouldn't want it any other way. Stiles clutches at his shoulder a little more, other hand settling on Derek's hip where he hooks his thumb in one of the belt loops. His eagerness makes Derek's wolf nearly shudder in delight.
"Ten… nine… eight… seven…"
"I'm staying at your place tonight," Stiles says, gaze still on Derek's lips.
Derek huffs. "I wasn't aware there was another option, to be honest."
Stiles chuckles, bumping their noses together. "This year is gonna be awesome," he rumbles.
"Three… two… one…"
As the crowd inside the house shouts 'happy New Year', Derek leans in to capture Stiles' lips in a kiss that screams YES.
Christmas is over, and thereby so is our advent calendar.
It's been such an amazing ride and we want to take this opportunity to send out a big THANK YOU to everyone who have supported this project. Your excitement and feedback has been so motivating! Just knowing you've enjoyed what we've done has been the greatest Christmas present!
Our goal was to give the fandom something to look forward to every day while counting down to Christmas, and judging by the comments we've received along the way: we definitely succeeded. We are so happy to have been able to help people deal with final exams, family crises, holiday stress or just a bad day. Many seem sad that it's over, and I can honestly say it feels a bit empty for us to let it go as well...
Thanks to all the amazing artists! Without your help none of this would be possible. You've all been so incredibly sweet and excited to be a part of this, and for that we are deeply grateful. Check them all out here!
If you know of last year's calendar, you may know that we had a bonus chapter for New Year's Eve. We've seen comments and hopes for there to be one this year as well, and while we can't promise anything yet, keep an eye on the blog in case something shows up..!
If someone had told him at the beginning of this month that he'd wake up in bed with Derek Hale on Christmas Day, he would've laughed madly into their faces.
-
Snow is falling when the sun rises.
Stiles can't remember the last time he saw a sunrise as beautiful as this. He watches as the sun travels higher on the orange sky, above the purple clouds, and warmly lands on his face through the big windows. He's sitting up in bed, and with the sheets only covering his feet he would've been freezing if it wasn't for the space heater still sleeping next to him.
Derek is scowling in his sleep, and Stiles can't help but to smile to himself at how silly and adorable it is. He half-expects the guy to start growling and kicking with his feet like a sleeping dog, and Derek would probably call him ridiculous if he ever told him that. Which he might, because he kind of likes when Derek calls him ridiculous, because it sounds like three completely different words.
It takes a while for him to wake up properly, slowly drifting out of sleep and into the world of the living. He rolls onto his back, sighing heavily and stretching. He drags his sleeve across his face before blinking the sleep out of his eyes. Stiles waits patiently, watching him with a soft smile playing on his lips. Once Derek's gaze focuses on him, his eyes widens.
"You're up already?" He rumbles, voice thick. Stiles would only find it sweet if it hadn't been for the unexpected hint of worry in there. Derek pops himself up on his elbows, as if to just get the tiniest bit closer to him. "Did you sleep bad?" He asks. "Did you have another nightmare?"
Suddenly Derek's worry makes sense, and Stiles feels a warmth clench around his heart by just how Derek cares. He shakes his head, still smiling effortlessly down at him.
"No, I was just watching you," he says, reaching out to trace Derek's eyebrow with his thumb. "Did you know you wear your grumpy face in your sleep? Did you have a dream? Were you chasing a rabbit?"
Derek huffs, craning his neck to brush Stiles' finger off his face, but there's nothing harsh in it.
"Don't remember," he sighs leaning back to lay down again. One of his hands absently slides up Stiles' side and settles with his fingers resting in the ups and downs of his ribs. "It's probably just what my face looks like," he defends.
"I like your face," Stiles says, moving his own hand to Derek's stomach. He can feel muscles tensing and reacting beneath his fingertips, and it brings back vivid memories from last night that makes him go hot. "Even if I'm becoming greatly familiar with beard-burn."
"I could shave," Derek suggests casually, stroking the skin under his fingers.
"And go back to your teenager-look?" Stiles asks, cocking an eyebrow. "It was cute, but no." He slides his hand all the way up to Derek's chest, leaning forward, not stopping until his palm is resting over the werewolf's fast beating heart. "I kind of love your scruff," he smiles, hovering above him.
Derek sucks in a breath, gazing up at him.
"I kind of love you."
Stiles shouldn't be surprised, because the look in Derek's eyes whenever their eyes met over the last few days should've been proof enough, but he still stops. He can feel the skip of the heart beneath his hand, and he's pretty sure he's never seen Derek look so exposed before. Even last night, when he'd been under Stiles without a single layer of clothing to cover him up, he hadn't looked this vulnerable. But Stiles figures it's not very strange after all. Derek is not ashamed of his body – he's got no reason to – and taking his clothes off is most likely not even the slightest challenge to him. But opening up to someone, to actually use words – that's probably a pretty big deal, considering his past trust issues.
"Yeah?" Stiles can't help but ask, just wanting to hear it being confirmed again.
"Yeah," Derek says, swallowing, and Stiles watches his Adam's apple bob. "I think I have for a long time now," he continues, and Stiles holds his breath, not wanting to interrupt. "It just took me a while to figure it out."
A short silence falls between them, but Stiles can bet his pounding heart is rather loud in Derek's ears.
"Silver Linings Playbook," he mumbles after a while.
Derek frowns, tilting his head to the side on the pillow. "What?"
"You practically quoted 'Silver Linings Playbook'," Stiles explains with a grin.
"I didn't know," Derek says lowly, as if that's a bad thing.
"Hey, no, that's okay," Stiles hurries to assure, shifting to sit on his knees next to Derek instead. "You should know that quoting good movies when trying to be romantic is not a minus when it comes to me. More like a big plus, actually."
Derek huffs and smiles, sighing softly when reaching up with one hand to slide through Stiles' hair.
"I wasn't trying to be romantic," he states. "I was just being honest."
Stiles smiles back, incapable of doing anything else. Derek's smile is fucking contagious.
"Well, in that case: I hope you'll keep being honest with me."
"I plan to be," Derek replies.
Stiles' heart flutters, and for a second he feels like he's about to burst with all the emotions inside him. If someone had told him at the beginning of this month that he'd wake up in bed with Derek Hale on Christmas Day, he would've laughed madly into their face. It's a strange and overwhelming feeling: to actually have something you never thought you would.
He can't say when he first fell in love with Derek, but he knows it happened.
"I love you," he says out loud, and he doesn't mean to grin like an idiot but he really can't help it.
Derek laughs, all smooth and happy, and the next second Stiles is being pulled down by the firm hand on the back of his neck and Derek is kissing him. It's the best kiss Stiles has ever had, including all the ones from last night, because this is so pure and honest. He sighs into it, sending a vibration down Derek's throat. The werewolf groans in response. It may even be a growl, but Stiles barely bothers with the difference nowadays. Whatever noises Derek makes when they're kissing: he loves all of them.
Stiles yelps when the room spins, and the next second he's staring at the ceiling on his back. Derek is on top of him, standing on his knees and elbow on each side of Stiles' body. He kisses Stiles again, and this time Stiles moans. His body is already hot, burning like a furnace just like every time Derek touches him. When Derek breaks off the kiss to instead drag his nose along his jaw and down to his throat, inhaling deeply, Stiles can't help but chuckle as he loops both arms around Derek's neck.
"Does my hoodie still smells like me?"
"No," Derek murmurs against his skin, placing soft kisses over the vein in Stiles' neck. "You can have it back."
"You could get another one," Stiles offers, breath catching a little at the feel of Derek's hot and wet tongue on his skin.
"Or I'll just keep you here," Derek suggests, moving back up to kiss the corner of Stiles' mouth.
Stiles can feel his face flush, but it's not by embarrassment as much as sheer joy. He grasps the hair in the back of Derek's neck to make him groan, and the body above him lowers to press down on him.
"I actually got a present for you," he says before capturing Derek's mouth in a quick kiss again. "It's at home though, because I was too busy just bringing myself here last night to remember taking it with me."
Derek chuckles against his lips, pushing his hips down and dragging a moan from both of them.
"What is it?" He asks, practically panting in Stiles' face.
"Well, I was gonna give your leather jacket back," Stiles says, equally out of breath. "But then I found something better, and I also kinda wanna keep it because it smells like you." Derek lifts his head up to frown at him, and Stiles can read the silent remark that he's not able to pick up on scents. "Like leather," Stiles clarifies with a light eye roll.
Derek hums, going back to the kissing. He starts to roll his hips, and Stiles gasps into Derek's open mouth at the sparks shooting up his spine. It hits him just how much they have left to do; even if last night was kind of an all-the-way thing, there's still so much he wants to do with Derek. Well, everything.
"So what did you find instead?" Derek wonders, moving down to nip at Stiles' jaw, still with his hips moving.
Stiles doesn't reply right away, too busy moaning and finding the rhythm to rock his own hips with Derek's.
"A coffee mug," he pants out. "That says 'I hope your day is as nice as your butt'."
Derek scoffs and ducks his head down to laugh into the curve of Stiles' throat. It's a wonderful sound, and somehow it only makes Stiles' blood rush south even quicker.
"How did you know? You didn't see my butt until last night," Derek points out, his hot breath ghosting over Stiles' pulse.
"Dude," Stiles breathes. "With those jeans, it didn't exactly leave much to my imagination." Derek huffs, as if that's a good point, and Stiles is pretty sure he can feel his face heating up a little. "I figured it'd cure your grumpiness in the mornings if you had a coffee mug to smile about," he explains further, pausing to moan when Derek thrusts down to rub their hard groins together. "Also you didn't really give me much of a Christmas list to go on," he accuses.
At that Derek pulls back his head, stilling his hips for a moment. Stiles groans at the loss of friction, but looks up to meet Derek's gaze. His pupils are blown, his forehead just starting to get damp with sweat.
"As soon as I got you I forgot about being able to want anything else," he says, and Stiles' swallows at the honesty in his voice. Derek bumps their noses together, smiling. "And you'll be enough reason for me to smile in the morning."
Stiles is quite certain he'll never take this for granted; the way the butterflies dance in his stomach when hearing Derek talk as if he's the best thing that's ever happened to him. The best thing that could happen to him. Stiles is used to being rejected; to be the outcast and watch others from afar. Derek makes him feel wanted, desired, and loved in ways he never thought was possible for anyone. Least of all himself.
"You got me," he promises, and it's barely a whisper. "You got me for as long as you'll want me."
Derek whimpers, like it's shaking him to the core, and then he's claiming Stiles' lips with his own again.
"Forever," he pants out between kisses. "I'll want you forever."
It's just like any other year, apart from the wolves running about.
-
Stiles comes downstairs Christmas Eve morning to find his dad and Derek sitting by the kitchen table. He freezes in the doorway, cold panic washing over him in a sharp heartbeat because this surely means trouble. Derek cranes his neck to look at him over his shoulder before the sheriff even notices he's there. It's his scent, Stiles realizes, and maybe also the sound of his racing heart.
"What's going on?" He asks warily despite his mind going: this is it, the gun will be drawn and shots fired.
"Breakfast," his dad replies, gesturing to the table while giving him a look as if he's being silly.
That doesn't really help much. Derek offers him a small smile, and at least that's comforting enough for Stiles to let out the breath he's been holding and enter the room. He looks curiously between the two, but both of them act like nothing is off. It is though, because Derek Hale is having breakfast in the sheriff's kitchen. Not that Stiles is complaining about his father and boyfriend being in the same room without both looking like they wish to bolt, but there's something seriously odd about that.
He heads for his usual seat, which is the chair next to Derek's, and he can't help but slide his fingertips over Derek's shoulders as he passes by. It's meant to be comforting, even if he doesn't seem to need it as much as yesterday, and Stiles catches the twitch in the corner of Derek's mouth as he sits down.
"I just invited Derek to join us for dinner this evening," his father explains.
"Really?" Stiles asks, because that sounds just a little too good to be true. "Christmas dinner?"
"Unless you mind?" His dad wonders, raising his eyebrows.
"No," Stiles hurries to say, looking at Derek who looks worried for a second. "No," he repeats, sneaking one hand under the table to grab Derek's while meeting his gaze firmly. "That's— I'd love that."
Derek smiles, looking relived as if he hadn't been sure Stiles would approve.
"Great," the sheriff agrees gleefully. "Derek, could you pass me the bread?"
Stiles feels Derek's fingers twitch as if he's about to let go of his hand to oblige, but then he reaches for the bread with his other hand instead, only squeezing Stiles' hand even tighter.
"Did he call you? Does he even have your number? Did you come to see me? How did this even happen?"
Derek just chuckles, shaking his head at all his suggestions. He stops when they reach the front door, and sighs as he properly turns to Stiles.
"If I'd come for you, I would've come through your window," he reminds him, cupping one side of Stiles' face.
That just confuses Stiles further, and if it had been a more serious matter he probably would've slapped Derek's hand away and demand a straight answer, but it isn't. Everything is fine after all, so he actually manages to let it go; just rolls his eyes softly and sighs while leaning into Derek's touch. He puts his own hand on top of Derek's, feeling his hard knuckles against his palm. Derek's smile grows wider, and for a second Stiles thinks he'll be perfectly happy watching this man smile for the rest of his life.
"I'm gonna ask dad to let you spend the night," Stiles mumbles.
Derek hums, brushing his thumb to the corner of Stiles' mouth. His pupils are blown under his half-closed eyelids, and Stiles feels a warmth spread inside his chest just by seeing how he's affecting Derek. It's still mind-blowing, and he doubts it'll ever stop to be. Despite the window in his bedroom still being able to open, they haven't spent the night together since after the dance. Stiles has offered, of course, but Derek has insisted that they shouldn't sneak behind the sheriff's back like that. Thankfully it doesn't seem like Stiles' nightmares care whether they're actually together during the night or not because they haven't returned for over a week now.
"You do that," Derek agrees in a murmur, lifting his eyes from Stiles' mouth to meet his gaze.
Stiles is the one stepping forward to claim Derek's lips in a longing kiss, hard enough for their teeth to clash. It's clear that Stiles isn't the only one who's wanted to do this since he first entered the kitchen. One day they should probably try and kiss in front of his dad, because it's bound to happen sooner or later anyway, but not today. At least not this morning, and Stiles figures that's okay. They've got time.
It's with a soft groan Derek pulls away, one that indicates he doesn't want to but still has to. Stiles doesn't chase him, just rests his forehead on Derek's for a moment before stepping back. Derek's lips are bruised, and Stiles' can't hold back a proud smile upon seeing it.
"See you later then," Derek sighs, thumb brushing over Stiles' cheek one last time before actually letting him go to leave.
Stiles can't say when or how exactly it became a tradition, but Melissa and Scott have joined them on Christmas Eve every year for several years now. He's not even sure they got an invitation; they just show up later that afternoon.
Isaac is with them, of course, but this time he doesn't look as unsure whether he's welcomed or not. Still, just to make sure he's got the memo, Stiles gives him a big hug right after he's done the same to Scott. Isaac doesn't seem to mind, cheeks going as red as Scott's ridiculous Santa sweater for a brief second.
Derek arrives looking far more calm than he's ever looked by their front door. He's wearing one of his loose sweaters, and Stiles decides it's sort of become his new favorite thing. While Derek still is walking sex that Stiles wants to jump about 85% of the time, he also wants to nuzzle into the soft fabric and just feel cooped up in Derek's heat.
He probably makes the embrace Derek greets him with last a little longer than necessary, but Derek isn't complaining. In fact; he smiles against Stiles' cheek and only looks amused once the arms around him finally let him go to greet the others.
Melissa wasn't lying when saying Stiles eats like a wolf, because he does.
Obviously Stiles and his dad didn't do it all; the McCalls contributed nearly half of it. It's delicious, and Stiles can't be bothered by the two adults shaking their heads at him. It's not like it's news to them: he gets stuffed every year.
"Jesus, leave some for the rest of us, would ya?" Scott complains, but he's grinning.
Stiles makes a face at him, not pausing from chewing on his sausages.
"You're gross," Isaac comments, then throwing Derek a glance. "I can't believe you're kissing that."
"Rude," Stiles says once he's swallowed. "I'm perfectly civilized."
"Well, enough," Derek says with a smirk, and everyone around the table chuckles.
Stiles tries to glare at him, but it's impossible when his stupid face is so bright and beautiful.
A knock on the door has everyone pause and look up.(causes everyone to pause and look up.)
"I'll get it," Stiles volunteers, hand slipping off Derek's knee under the table as he stands up.
Derek hums lowly, which could've been just a simple acknowledgement to his announcement, but Stiles is pretty sure it's the sound of disappointment. He can't stop smiling to himself all the way through the hallway to the front door.
He's a little surprised when opening it to find Allison and Chris Argent standing on their porch.
"Who is it?" His dad calls from the kitchen.
Stiles hesitates. "Santa Claus."
Allison chuckles, and Christ reaches up to rub his chin with an amused look.
"I think I'll have to grow some facial hair before passing for Santa," he remarks.
The next second Derek is there, warm and solid by Stiles' side. Chris’ smile falters, and Stiles feels himself swallow hard down his throat. Oh boy. Because despite the two of them fighting alongside each other on more than one occasion during the past year, the relationship between Derek and Chris Argent is still a complicated one, to say the least. Stiles is pretty sure it doesn't have to be though. They may be natural enemies because of what they are, but when it comes down to it; they are both just remains of two broken families they're still desperately trying to protect. The black sheep are to blame, and that's neither of them.
"Derek," Chris greets, but Derek doesn't respond. The hunter lifts his hands in a peaceful manner. "I'm not wearing my gun," he informs, "and you’ve still got your claws, so you've got me at a disadvantage." Derek's arm flexes, so little it probably goes unnoticed by everyone but Stiles who's pressed up against his side, and for a moment Stiles thinks he's going to draw his claws out. "But it's Christmas," Chris continues calmly, "so I'd be happy not to see them anywhere near me anytime soon."
That seems to make Derek relax a little, but he still doesn't look like he's going to move anytime soon. Stiles hears steps approaching as more people join them by the door. He doesn't look over his shoulder to see who exactly, but judging by Allison's small smile Scott or Isaac is probably one of them.
"I'm not here for you, Derek," Chris assures. "Or your mate."
Stiles' jaw drops. "Your—"
"You just knocked on his door," Derek points out sharply.
"We're not here to stay," Allison cuts in, drawing everyone's attention to her rather than her father. She waves with the bag in her hand. "I'm just dropping by to give Scott and Isaac their presents."
"Bad idea," Melissa says somewhere behind Stiles. "You know they'll open them before tomorrow."
"So little faith," Scott mutters.
The tension eases up a little at that, some of them chuckling in an attempt to lighten up the mood. Stiles glances over to Derek who's still got his eyes on Chris, but doesn't look like he's about to attack anymore. Gently Stiles pulls at his arm, and Derek immediately takes his eyes off the hunter to meet his gaze. His face goes soft the second their eyes lock, and Stiles manage to drag him away from the door and back into the house while Scott and Isaac accepts the gifts from their girlfriend.
Stiles throws a glance over his shoulder and catches Chris giving him a small nod before he looks away, heart throbbing at the man's choice of words.
About one hour later, when they've finished dinner and Melissa has shooed them out of the kitchen, the good mood is back. The Argents are gone, leaving two presents behind that Scott and Isaac have added to the pile under the tree. Isaac offers to help with the dishes, but Melissa refuses and orders him to go play video games in the living room. It's something Scott and Stiles do every year, and they're more than happy to introduce more people to the tradition of Mario Cart.
Derek slides up behind Stiles in the middle of one of his races with Isaac, wrapping one arm around him and leans in to rest his chin on his shoulder. Stiles' lips pull up in a smirk but he doesn't lose control of his car. Well, not until a few moments later. Isaac cheers in delight.
"You did that on purpose," Derek whispers into his ear, and the only reason Isaac doesn't hear him is because he's too busy high-fiving Scott.
Stiles shrugs. Maybe he did. Beginner's luck is an awesome feeling, after all.
Derek huffs, nosing Stiles' cheek for a second before scraping his stubble against it. His hand comes to rest on Stiles' chest, right above his heart, which starts throbbing against his palm. Stiles sighs, lowering the controller on his thigh as Scott seems to be coaching Isaac while pointing at the different buttons on the controller. Usually Stiles would be bouncing in his seat by now, impatient and eager to start the next race, but now he doesn't mind waiting.
He sinks back into the couch and Derek's warmth, tilting his head back just a little to rest the back of his head on Derek's shoulder. Derek's heart is pounding against his shoulder blades, and Stiles doubt he'll ever get used to the fact that he's able to speed up the werewolf's heartbeat this way.
Stiles' breath catches when Derek suddenly reaches down with his other hand to slide on his thigh, because they still haven't done much of those kind of touches. It's not that he's upset Derek has made them take things slow – he understands why it's important to him – but naturally his heart jolts in hopeful excitement at this.
"Derek, we're not exactly alone," Stiles reminds him half-heartedly.
"Not yet," Derek murmurs into the corner of his mouth. When Stiles frowns in question, he only huffs, pulling back enough for their eyes to meet properly as Stiles cranes his neck. "I kind of asked your dad if you could spend the night at my place," he confesses.
Stiles stares. "That's why you were here this morning," he realizes.
Derek nods. "I just— I wanna be with you tonight," he goes on, voice so deep it's giving Stiles goose-bumps. "But not without your dad's consent." Then he gets something in his eyes. "But we don't have to—"
"Yes," Stiles cuts him off, not wanting Derek to doubt it for a second that this is what he wants.
Derek lets out a heavy puff of air, as if he'd been holding his breath. "Okay," he says.
"Okay," Stiles agrees, dropping the controller on the couch. "Now?"
"Now," Derek confirms, and the want in his voice nearly makes Stiles' knees give in as he stands.
-
They're out of the car for approximately three seconds when it starts. It's the quick brush of Stiles' hand against the small of Derek's back as they hike up the steps to the entrance. He lets out a huff of surprised air as electricity arcs across his nerves.
"What the hell was my dad thinking agreeing to this?" He asks, to no one in particular.
Derek pulls out his key and unlocks the door, extremely aware of the fact that Stiles' hand is still pressed warmly into the small of his back, rubbing a small, absentminded circle into the skin.
"I don't know," he breathes, pulling open the door. "You wanna go back and ask him?"
Stiles snorts as Derek opens the door, already out of breath. "Do you?"
"I'm good," he answers, as Stiles slips his hand up underneath the hem of his shirt. His palm is on fire, and Derek can feel the frantic beat of his heart through the contact. He chuckles. "You nervous or something?" He asks, as they head for the freight elevator.
"Not as much as I should be, considering," Stiles replies as Derek presses the button.
"Considering what?" Derek cocks an intrigued eyebrow, admiring the way Stiles' face goes instantly pink all the way up to his ears as he's caught off-guard. It's completely adorable.
"Considering, you know, what we're going to be doing once we— Uh, get, you know, upstairs."
"Have high expectations, do we?" Derek asks, pulling Stiles close. He feels the slight drag of his hand as it eases over to curl around the notch of his hip. All the nerves on that side of his body go from ‘off' to ‘high' in a fraction of a second.
"You know what I mean," Stiles chuckles, leaning into Derek as the elevator thrums down toward them from one of the upper floors. "I'm gonna be a little nervous," he shrugs, kicking at the floor. "Because, you know… It's you."
Derek smiles to himself. He can't help it. Because there's something in Stiles' voice that makes him sound like he's everything. Everything he ever wanted and was afraid to ask for. It's too much.
Stiles sighs. "Enh, you've done this before, though. You probably don't understand."
Derek laughs. It's small and broken, and Derek wonders when that started.
"I do though," he shrugs, pulling Stiles closer.
Stiles flicks him a look, and Derek pointedly avoids it. He's probably more nervous than Stiles could ever be, really. He can hear his own heartbeat in his ears, even as Stiles takes a chance and leans in, gently slotting their lips together.
And it's different this time. Derek is very conscious that it's going somewhere. His heart ramps up its sprinting. Stiles sort of turns to step into him, crowding their feet together and pressing their hips deep into each other. There's a pull at Derek's sides where Stiles' hands are resting, and he has no choice but to sink deeper into the kiss as his senses start to black everything out that isn't Stiles' scent, his touch, the taste of his lips, or the sound of his heart.
He doesn't even notice when the elevator comes to noisy stop and the gate eases open, and barely even registers when Stiles pulls him into it and pushes him up against the wall. He does notice when Stiles' fingers begin to dig into his skin, and the breath that filters across his tongue starts to come out in rough, uneven puffs.
They barely make it into the apartment before the clothes start coming off. They stumble toward the bed, locked together at the lips as they make their way across the loft, trodding on each other's feet as they go. When they finally get to the bed, Derek finds himself turned around and pushed down onto the mattress, taken by the fact that it's Stiles who's doing it, standing in front of him, shirt off, pants unbuttoned and slipped low over his hips, almost unfinished, eyes raking down Derek's body in a way that sends shivers down his spine. He smells like arousal, and it makes Derek want.
He kneels, wraps fists around the top of Derek's jeans, and yanks. It's rough, but hesitant. Slow, almost. Like he wants it, but doesn't want to do it wrong. As Derek's cock is about to slip free of his pants, he wraps a gentle hand around Stiles' wrist.
"What're you doing?" He asks.
Stiles kind of freezes. His heart skips a beat.
"Uh, there's something called Christmas blowjobs."
Of course he went right to sarcasm. He was that nervous. Derek smiles to himself.
"How would you know?" He quickly snarks back, and Stiles sighs. In the dim light of the bedroom, Derek can barely make out the color that's crept back into his cheeks.
"Ouch," Stiles says. "S'a low blow, Derek. Like under-the-belt low."
Derek suddenly feels like an ass. He backpedals.
"No, I just— I wasn't trying to—" He sighs softly. "I just don't want to do anything you're not comfortable with."
"I'll be fine," Stiles intones, a note of confidence in his voice that Derek doesn't expect. "At least, I hope I will be. I mean, I better get used to having your dick in my mouth before having it in my ass, right?"
Derek lets his hands trail up Stiles' arms, pads of his thumbs tracing the long cords of muscle thrown into sharp relief by the shadowy light of the room.
"Actually," he ventures, "That's not really what I had in mind for… you know, this."
Stiles' tone slips seamlessly back into snark.
"Wait, you didn't have penetration in mind when coming here tonight?"
"Of course I did," Derek answers, "Just not by me." He watches Stiles freeze and hears the loud skip of his heartbeat. "That is, if you're okay with it," he adds. "I don't want to make you do anything you don't want to."
Stiles swallows, but Derek can tell it's not that he's against the suggestion. Quite the opposite: he's pretty sure he can sense Stiles' arousal just getting even more intense.
"Do you really think that's a good idea?" Stiles eventually asks, sounding hesitant. "With my lack of… experience and all?"
Derek gives him a soft and reassuring smile. "We'll start slow," he says. "We'll talk through it. We'll be fine." He chooses his next words with care. "I trust you—"
He barely finishes his thought before Stiles attacks his mouth again, gripping his jaw with both hands, trying desperately to suck whatever life Derek had left from his lips. Before he knows it, Stiles is back to removing his pants, this time with a tad more confidence. It's still slow, but not hesitant. The drag of his knuckles and the fabric of his jeans down Derek's thighs makes it seem like Stiles means to do that. Like he's trying to savor the moment. The moment when all of Derek is exposed to him. Derek's heart skips several beats. He's ready, but nervous. Stiles makes a quiet, throaty little sound as Derek's cock sort of bounces free. And he's gone.
And then, well, that's it. Stiles' mouth is on his cock, and Derek can't focus on any single one thought. His mind is too busy following the swirl of Stiles' tongue, the almost bruising grip he's got on his hips as he eases his perfect mouth down over the head of it, and it's got Derek's muscles going slack as he leans back onto his elbows, letting his head fall back against the bed as Stiles nearly swallows him whole. It's a feeling unlike any other, and the tug of Stiles' lips, the brush of his tongue. It's got Derek twisting his fingers into the sheets because it's Stiles.
Within seconds, Derek's arching his back, and losing more and more of himself to the obscenely perfect sounds Stiles is making around his cock. He sits up, and his fingers go from the sheets to Stiles' hair, to his jaw, and back again. He's close to the edge, and all he wants, hell all he needs, is to come, with Stiles' lips wrapped securely around his cock, making those wonderful, perfect, needy sounds like this is all he ever wanted and more. Derek has to say his name over and over again to keep from slipping over the edge, to keep him grounded, anchored to himself, and eventually, as Stiles sinks into a rhythm, it's less of a litany and more of a prayer, a constant, repeated plea for Stiles to take everything he has, to tear him apart and consume him, swallow him whole and never, ever stop.
"Stiles," he groans, his throat dry, "Fuck, Stiles— Stiles, you— Stop."
The deep slurping sound Stiles makes as his mouth pulls free of Derek's cock is almost enough to make him come right there, untouched. He has to hold it back when Stiles takes a breath, lips wet and swollen, small string of saliva hanging between them and the crown of his cock.
"Why?" He asks, suddenly confused. "Did I— Was I that bad?"
Derek lets out a pent-up breath and shakes his head.
"Absolutely not. ‘Was good. Very good. Fucking perfect, actually. I just— I need—"
Stiles slips his hand around the base of Derek's cock and slid it up, thumb dabbing at a small pool of pre-come forming at the tip.
"What? What do you need?" He asks, voice utterly ruined.
"I need you to fuck me," Derek sighs, before leaning down to press his lips into Stiles' mouth. He can taste himself on his tongue, and it was all he could do not to sink his teeth in right then and there.
As they kiss, Derek eases his hands down past the waist of Stiles' jeans, letting his hands follow the curve of his ass until he was gripping it securely in his palms. Stiles moans. Derek worries at his bottom lip and lies back, pulling Stiles down on top of him, feeling the mattress pull away from his shoulders where the human posts up his weight, arms hemming Derek in as they kiss. He tries to finish pulling Stiles' pants down over his thighs, grunting awkwardly as he tries to do it without releasing the boy's lips. Stiles pulls back to help him out, a slight smile curved into his mouth. He pulls back completely to kick off his shoes and socks and slip the pants off over his ankles, and Derek drinks him in, watching as random cords of muscle stand out as he flicks the jeans off and tosses them aside, before climbing back on top of him. He leans in for another kiss, and surprises Derek by pulling away after a second, pressing his soft, parted lips down over the edge of his jaw to the sensitive skin underneath, tracking his vein down the side of his neck.
Derek laces his fingers into Stiles' hair and tugs, high, undignified sounds slipping up his throat as Stiles explores his body. After a few seconds of him sucking bruises into the dip just behind Derek's collarbone, he can't take it any longer.
"Lube," Derek breathes, nodding toward the nightstand. He needs it. Stiles flicks him a questioning look.
"Wha—?" He asks, pulling his lips from Derek's skin.
"The lube," Derek repeats. "It's in the nightstand, and condoms too."
Stiles pulls himself away to reach for them.
"Do werewolves actually need condoms?" He asks curiously.
"Well, no, not really," he admits. "I just didn't think it'd be a good idea to introduce you to unsafe sex," he points out, reaching up to take the small bottle from Stiles' hand.
"What am I—" Stiles sort of hovers, unsure of where to go.
Derek kind of chuckles, because it's probably the most adorable thing he'd ever seen. But he really didn't have any idea either.
"Just… come back," Derek pleads. "I need to touch you."
Stiles obeys, as Derek pulls him by his hips in between his legs and flicks open the cap on the lube.
"Have— Have you ever done this before?" Stiles asks, as Derek draws a small line up two fingers with the lube and reaches down to slick up Stiles' cock. His whole body shudders and he lets out a moan. Derek growls. His cock twitches.
"No, I haven't," he finally answers, stroking the lube on to Stiles' cock.
"Are you sure that—" His question is cut off when Derek's hand slides back up under the head of his cock, and he has to lean forward, bracing himself on one arm. "Are you sure that this is— holyshit that feels good." Derek grins to himself. Seeing Stiles unravel is making him yearn. He can feel a dab of moisture as pre-come begins to leak out of his upturned cock onto his abdomen. "I just— Aren't you nervous?"
"Of course I am," Derek replies.
Stiles pulls back, settling onto his knees. In the half-light, he's absolutely glorious. Everything he owns was thrown into sharp relief, and Derek's nerves surge with a whole new sensation that cancels out any nervousness.
"Then why the hell—"
Derek cuts him off, by reaching up and settling his clean hand around the curve of Stiles' neck.
"It's our first time," he assures him, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the ridge of his windpipe. "We're both inexperienced here."
"That's not exactly true, though," Stiles shrugs darkly, reaching a hand up to grip Derek's wrist.
Derek sighs.
"Stiles, listen to me," he begs. "None of them— They don't matter, okay? I trust you more than I've ever trusted anyone before. You're different. This is different. It'll take some time to get used to."
Stiles stays quiet for a moment, just the sound of their heavy breathing to be heard.
"I may be bad at it," he finally mumbles.
"You won't be," Derek says firmly, pulling him down to try and kiss away any doubt that was gnawing at his mind.
It takes a few tries to finally get it. They have to figure out the angle, how fast Stiles can actually push into him, what position works best, et cetera, but Derek figured that would happen. Stiles learns very quickly that it's best just to ask what feels good, or if he was going too fast or too slow. Derek too, learns what it's like to feel Stiles' cock press against his hole, feel it ease in, fill him up completely, and force the breath from his lungs as he bottoms out. He finds that he'll never get tired of this, the way they actually fit together perfectly, the way it feels to have Stiles' hips pressed up against his ass as he leans over and presses in, inch by inch and torturously slow.
"How's that?" Stiles asks, when he slips fully inside that last time.
Derek can't speak. His cock is throbbing. He nods. It's all he can manage. Then he starts thrusting. He's leaned over Derek, heat radiating from his body as his scent, tinged with sweat and lube and Derek's own practically oozes off of him, and Derek can feel himself begin to melt into the bed as he groans. Each pushscrapepull of Stiles' cock breaks the noise, the roll of his hips just— Fuck, everything. Derek can feel every vein and ridge of Stiles' cock as he fucks into him, each thrust pushing the breath from his lungs and all extraneous thoughts from his brain, until his world narrows to the connection between them, and it's all Stiles, Stiles, Stiles.
As his rhythm intensifies, each thrust pounding into Derek, the werewolf can feel himself begin to come apart at the seams.
"Stiles," he moans, "I can't— Can't hold on for much longer."
He's not even touching himself, but with each push of Stiles inside him, he could feel the pulse of his orgasm in the base of his pelvis. He just wants to come, he wants Stiles to keep fucking him, to never stop, and he wants. He wants it all.
"Me neither," Stiles rasps.
He speeds up the tiniest bit, and Derek wants more.
And he gets it.
Stiles leans down, bracing his elbows against the crook of Derek's shoulders, fingers lacing into his sweat-matted hair as he breathes out short, jagged breaths, swearing softly and murmuring Derek's name like a goddamn prayer. Derek can feel him, feel his hips right up against his ass, feel the way his skin is slick with sweat and their mingled DerekandStiles scent. He reaches up and grips the back of Stiles' neck and pulls their lips together, licking into his mouth and dragging from it a perfect, sobbing, utterly ruined moan that makes him want to fucking howl. He reaches down, and begins to stroke his cock, aching and sore from waiting.
There's a sharp, high sound, and fingers tightening in Derek's hair as Stiles gives in and comes inside him. His hips are pressed right up against Derek's ass and their mouths are locked together as tight as possible. And it's good, fantastic even, and Derek can't get enough of it as he fucks up into the circle of his hand and back onto Stiles' cock. With each stroke he can feel the come begin to slide out of his ass but fuck it he's so close, and Stiles is there, all warm heat and breathing into his collarbone and—
Derek can't suppress a snarl as he comes into the small space between them, hips bucking and thrusting as Stiles presses soft, open-mouthed kisses into the crook of his neck. When he finishes, Stiles kind of sags into him, not caring at all about the mess across Derek's abs, and Derek loves it.
He loves how Stiles is still breathing heavily, like he just ran a marathon, how he's just sitting there, lips half-parted, his cock still inside his ass, like he doesn't want to break the connection, like he wants to stay inside Derek forever. Derek lets his aftershocks course across his body, sending already overwrought nerves into a frenzy.
As soon as Stiles starts to display discomfort and pull out, however, Derek reaches for his shirt where it landed earlier and uses it to clean them up. It feels cold and empty all of a sudden, and Derek pulls Stiles close again as soon as they've gotten rid of most of the mess.
When it's all said and done, neither of them wants to move. Derek's arms are looped lazily around Stiles' back, enjoying the warm press of his body on top of him as he hums contently. Stiles' breathing slowly turns steady and even, curling warm patterns into the side of Derek's neck.
After a long moment, Derek nudges Stiles lightly.
"Well? How was it?" He asks.
Stiles shrugs. "Eh, I've had better."
Derek snorts. "I'm quite certain you haven't, actually."
"What, had better sex with someone else or had sex at all?"
"Either?" Derek ventures, cocking a quizzical eyebrow up at the ceiling.
Stiles huffs out a laugh and nuzzles closer. "Fair point," he intones matter-of-factly. "But if you want my overall assessment, I'd say we need to do it again. Several times. In several different positions. It's best to have an average for these sorts of things."
Derek hums. "Okay," he agrees.
The silence roams for a while; long enough for Derek starting to expect Stiles to have fallen asleep. It'd make sense, even Derek himself can feel the sleepy afterglow of the orgasm starting to overtake him. But then Stiles speaks.
"Chris called me your mate," he murmurs against Derek's skin.
Derek tilts his head to bury his nose in Stiles' damp hair. "Yeah, he did."
"What exactly does that mean?"
"What do you think it means?" Derek wonders curiously.
"How am I supposed to know?" Stiles asks. "Google is pretty much useless when it comes to the real stuff about werewolves."
Derek chuckles, hand sliding up to grab a handful of Stiles' hair and pull just enough for Stiles to lift his head to look at him. There's not much light, but enough for Derek to make out his eyes in the dim darkness.
"It means you're mine," he says, and his voice comes out deeper than he'd expected, "but you can use any word you want. Mate, partner, lover—"
"Boyfriend?" Stiles suggests.
"Yeah," Derek agrees, running his fingers through Stiles' hair. "That works too."
Stiles' eyes flutter shut at the touch. "I don't care what anyone calls it," he mumbles. "As long as I'm yours."
Derek's heart jolts in euphoria, and the second time tonight he feels like howling. He moves his hand to cup Stiles' face, thumb lazily stroking his cheekbone.
"And you are," he assures. "You smell like mine. Every wolf can sense it and every hunter can see it."
Stiles' face cracks into a smile, and it's one of the most beautiful things Derek has ever seen. His hair and face is damp with sweat, and his eyelids looks heavy, but the honest grin is almost enough to light up the whole room.
Then he leaps forward, claiming Derek's lips in a hard kiss, and Derek moans down his throat while returning it for all he's worth.
Melissa gathers the teen wolves for a big gingerbread baking session.
-
On Monday, 23rd of December, Melissa decides that it's just not acceptable for a household not to have any homemade gingerbread – referring to the sheriff's house – and gathers the pack for a big baking session at the McCalls. No matter how much Stiles' dad keeps insisting that the bought kind is perfectly fine, and tastes exactly the same – lies – she won't budge.
Stiles loves her.
Allison comes over to help them out, and Melissa is delighted not to be the only woman in the company.
"I'm surrounded by teen wolves," she complains.
"Excuse me," Stiles says, pretending to sound offended.
"You eat like one," Melissa remarks, waving her hand at him.
Derek shows up too, and unfortunately Stiles doesn't make it to the door before Scott and his dad do. He can't remember ever seeing Derek looking as scared as he does when standing face to face with the sheriff for the first time since the night of the dance – before disobeying orders and taking his son home with him. There's a stare-off, but eventually Stiles' dad sighs heavily and moves aside to let him in, mumbling something about Derek being lucky he seems to be the only cure for his son's nightmares.
Stiles barely lets his boyfriend get through the door before leaping forward to shamelessly embrace him. Boyfriend. He repeats the word inside his head as the stiffness in Derek's shoulders slowly wears off and he hugs him back just as tight, pressing his nose to the side of Stiles' neck and breathes him in. Stiles feels his heart flutter by the way Derek relaxes against him, hands grasping the fabric of his thick Christmas sweater.
"I almost thought you wouldn't wanna come," Stiles says into Derek's shoulder.
"This is not gonna work out if I have to hide from your father," Derek replies, lips brushing over the vein in Stiles' neck.
Stiles shudders, smiling. "Good point."
They turn the living room into a baking factory because the kitchen isn't big enough, all of them not fitting around the table. Melissa disappears into the kitchen every now and then to put the next pan of gingerbread in the oven as soon as they've filled a new one with dough in funny forms. They don't work very fast, because Melissa and Scott seem to be the only ones who know how it's done. Stiles is horrible, because he's got no patience with it, and Derek spends most of the time chuckling at him – which is what makes the whole thing worth it.
Lydia drops by to show them the pictures from the dance that she's printed out from the high school's website. She doesn't plan on staying but Melissa insists that they need some professional help and Lydia shrugs and says she can't argue with that, and parks her bag by the table in the living room.
Isaac blushes over the trio's photo, but Melissa snatches it out of his hand and says she'll have it framed and put on the wall. Scott and Allison don't seem to mind, which is good because Stiles fails to see the point. The picture is adorable; Isaac in the center with Scott behind him and Allison against his front. Their faces may be a bit funny but their eyes are shining with pure happiness, and that's what counts.
Danny and Ethan are pretty cute too, Stiles has to admit, but sadly Danny isn't around to lay his opinion. Lydia stows it back into her bag and states that he probably hacked into the school's database and got the picture Saturday morning already. Then she starts adoring her own dress.
"Stiles," Melissa says a while later. "Could you go check the oven?"
"Gladly," Stiles replies, dropping the dough back on the table as he gets up.
He sees Derek watching him in the corner of his eye, and he meets his gaze. His dad must've noticed because he sighs heavily.
"You too, Derek," he says casually, lowering his gaze back to what he's working on. "Make sure he doesn't burn himself."
Stiles suppresses a grin and heads for the kitchen with Derek following him.
"You're the one who can't handle a stove, dad."
The sheriff just hums in response, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Stiles crouches down in front of the oven to look through the foggy glass. The heat hits him in the face, and it smells wonderful, but the gingerbreads still look more like dough than solid cookies. He straightens back up, turning to Derek who's standing next to him.
"They're not ready yet," he shrugs.
Derek just nods. "Guess we'll have to wait then," he suggests.
Stiles looks around impatiently, wanting to sit down because he'll start bouncing if he has to stand. There are no chairs left in the kitchen, however, as all of them are being put to use in the living room. Two of the counters are covered with already browned gingerbreads, but one is clean. Stiles walks over there and hops on it, steadying himself with his hands flat on the surface.
Derek is watching him when he looks back to where he's still standing in the middle of the room, and Stiles' heart skips a beat when realizing they're alone. He swallows, butterflies stirring in his stomach as he spreads his legs a little and pats on the edge of the counter.
"Come here, boy," he calls with a goofy grin.
Derek snorts, and Stiles expects him to roll his eyes and say something snarky in return, but he doesn't. He just arches one of his ridiculously attractive eyebrows at his joke and obliges; steps up to the counter and positions himself between Stiles' knees. It's a surprise, but exactly what Stiles wanted, so he doesn't hesitate to reach for him; hands immediately sliding into Derek's hair. Derek hums contently, gripping the edge of the counter and leans into Stiles' space. Their noses bump together, and Stiles scoffs at how silly and perfect it is.
"You're kind of like a puppy," he sighs softly.
"I don't see you complaining," Derek counters.
"Nope," Stiles agrees, still smiling wide. "I always wanted a puppy."
Derek huffs, shaking his head just a little before his eyelids drop half-closed. It takes a moment before Stiles realizes that Derek is looking at his mouth, but once he does, that's all he needs before pulling him in for a kiss.
It's slow and tender at first; Derek's hands still on the counter and letting Stiles tilt his head for a better angle as they part their lips. Stiles doesn't even try to stop the happy hum slipping out of him when Derek's gently sucks his bottom lip, which only seems to be appreciated because Derek makes the exact same noise in return. He leans further forward, the warmth from his body reaching through the thin layer of air between them that just keeps decreasing.
Eventually Stiles can't take it anymore and tries to shuffle closer to the edge, hands sliding down the werewolf's neck and to his shoulders for support. He almost expects Derek to pull away or keep his hands from roaming too much, because he's still got his rules for how far is too far, but he doesn't. If anything; he seems to be just as lost in it as Stiles is.
A dull growl vibrates in Derek's throat, and then his hands are leaving their safe place on the counter and instead slide up Stiles' thighs. Stiles groans happily, his tongue colliding with Derek's in a wet and hot battle. Derek lets his hands linger on Stiles' thighs for a while before moving them further up again, reaching back to grab his butt and swiftly pull him all the way to the edge of the counter where he collides with Derek's front.
Stiles moans in surprise as well as approval, feeling his blood rushing south and straight to his privates the way they are flushed together now. His mouth falls open, and Derek takes the opportunity to thrust his tongue inside and make Stiles repeat the same sound again, now muffled against Derek's mouth. The hands on his butt keep roaming; one of them clutching at the hem of his sweater in a half-heartedly attempt to lift it up. It doesn't go very well, because of how they are pressed together, and Stiles can't make himself pull away enough quick enough to let Derek slip his hand inside his shirt.
"Oh my god!" Scott shouts from the doorway, and Stiles is so startled he's pretty sure he lifts from the counter. "Guys, please, this is my house!"
Derek growls lowly, hands retreating to the edge of the counter but ducks his head down to hide his face in the curve of Stiles' neck. He can feel the heat from Derek's cheek against his skin, and they are both breathing heavily with their hearts still pounding against their ribcages.
"You and Isaac slept in my bed," Stiles counters, sending his best friend a glare while grasping the hair in the back of Derek's neck, keeping him in place.
Scott's cheeks flush a little, but his determination won't budge. "You weren't present!" He points out.
Derek doesn’t like ice-skating. Failwolf-y things ensue.
-
Derek's first thought is simply no.
Absolutely not. No to Stiles, no to the two pairs of ice-skates that he's currently walking back from the checkout desk with, no to the rest of the damn pack already out on the outdoor ice rink in the dead of winter, no to all of it.
“Derek!” Comes Stiles’ happy yell when he sees the werewolf walking over. The sound threatens to undo all of Derek’s stubbornness in one fell swoop. “You made it!”
He drops the skates on a nearby bench and bounds over to wrap Derek in his arms. One would think they hadn't just spent the entire day together in bed yesterday the way Stiles is squeezing him as tight as he is. He is, as always, a ball of simmering heat, even in the frigid winter air.
“How could I not?” Derek asks into Stiles’ neck, trying to hold on to his stubborn denial and failing miserably, “You threatened grievous bodily harm to my leather jacket if I didn’t show up.”
“I did no such thing.”
“Right,” Derek says with a glower along with a suspicious raise of an eyebrow. Admittedly, he still got Stiles’ hoodie, so two could play at that game, if necessary. “So we’re ice-skating?”
“Yup,” Stiles grins as they walk back to the bench where it looked like the rest of the pack had deposited their shoes, the very same one where Stiles had dropped the skates a few seconds ago. “Figured it’d be fun.” Derek rolls his eyes. “What?”
“Nothing, I just can't skate for shit.”
“I’m sure you’re better than you think you are,” Stiles replies, patting his back as they sit down to change out their shoes for skates. “Plus you’re a werewolf. You've got all your werewolf-ish skills and whatnot. S’gotta count for something.”
“You’d think,” Derek snorts as he slips the used skates on over his socks. Stiles nudges him.
“Well, then it’s a good thing you got me around.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I have it on pretty good authority that I’m a great ice-skater.” Derek shoots him a sidelong glance as he laces up his skates. “What? I can help you!”
Derek scoffs. “Yeah, by dragging my limp, unconscious body from the ice when I’ve brained myself on it for the tenth time just trying to stand up.”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “You are such a drama-wolf.”
He finishes lacing up his skates and stands up, testing the feel of them against the floor. Once satisfied, he steps in front of Derek, who is checking the laces of his left skate one final time, and gives him an expectant look.
He sighs because apparently Derek is just oozing light and positivity at this point. “Tell you what, dude, if you’re really as bad as you say you are," Stiles sighs, "and aren’t having any fun whatsoever, we can leave and go get some hot chocolate or something.” Now that did sound good. Derek looks up. “Deal?” Stiles offers him a hand and Derek takes it without a second thought.
Of course, as soon as they get out onto the ice, Derek wonders just how soon he can cash in their little bargain. Within thirty seconds, he’s already tripped and flailing because his stupid skate got caught in one of the ridges someone else had left when they did some kind of sliding stop, before he caught himself on the wall. But he didn’t fall. Progress, he thinks.
Maybe he wasn’t as bad as he remembered being. That thought lasted only until he trips the second time, and nearly takes out some lady and her little girl. This conveniently happens while Stiles has gone to do a lap and catch up with the rest of the pack, before returning to where Derek is currently splayed out on the ice, hating himself and everything around him.
“Remind me again how you are a functioning werewolf?” He asks, his stupid voice ripe with sarcasm as he skids to a stop right next to where Derek had fallen.
“Do you need to see fangs, or…?” Derek snarks as he pushes himself up, trying to regain his footing on the slippery ice and failing.
Stiles chuckles, shaking his head. “Want some help?” He offers a gloved hand.
Derek glares up at him, stubborn wolf in denial that he is anything but perfectly fine. Even though his last two attempts at moving on the ridiculous skates had ended with him face-planting into the slippery-wet hard ice of the skating rink. He reaches up and takes the proffered hand, letting Stiles finish pulling him to his feet.
“If I’d have known," he staggers, nearly falling again, but keeps his balance by gripping Stiles’ forearm, “that your vague-as-hell text message that you ‘had a surprise for me’ was this,” he falters again and almost takes Stiles down in the process. “I’d have told you to nip off and fuck yourself.”
“Even after all the fun we had yesterday?” Stiles asks wryly, waggling his eyebrows like the little shit that he is.
Yesterday was fun. There's no way Derek is going to deny that. Not that they had done much else than proceeded with Stiles' aggressive cuddle-plan, barely leaving the bed at all, but it had been perfect. Derek had still made sure things didn't get too heated, but had still allowed Stiles to pull his hoodie over Derek's head to explore his body. Derek had let him do that too; let him slide his cold fingers over his warm skin and had watched the awe in Stiles' big eyes as he did.
It had been the most lazy and perfect day Derek's ever had. Eventually Stiles had to turn on his phone back on, however, and the sheriff called to order him home almost immediately. He'd sounded more tired than mad over the phone, and Derek just hoped he wouldn't get greeted with an ordinary bullet next time he came for a visit.
Derek grumbles as he finally settles into a position where he isn't liable to eat it. He's hunched slightly forward, arms and fingers splayed like there was an invisible, solid force he's clinging to for support in case he starts to fall again. Not that it’d matter anyway. His ankles are already trembling in anticipation.
“You’re a work of art, Hale.”
“Shut up,” Derek growls, gripping Stiles’ arm that much tighter, hating how he seems to be infinitely more at home in this particular situation than he was. “I hate ice-skating.”
“You’re doing better than me, my first time,” Stiles shrugs, gingerly pulling Derek forward on the ice.
“This isn’t my first time,” Derek growls.
Stiles suppresses a chuckle as they skid along the ice. They make a ridiculous sight, Derek knows; him frozen in his awkward position, trying not to move too much to prevent another makeout session with the ice, gripping Stiles’ arm like it's the only thing keeping him alive. Which, in this case, it is.
“Then do you want some advice?”
“No.”
“Well I’m gonna give it to you anyway,” Stiles grins, before skidding to a halt. “Relax.”
“How can I relax when I’m standing on thin metal blades on ice, with about zero traction?”
Stiles rolls his eyes and pries himself out of Derek’s grip.
“What’re you—” Derek tries to grab him again, but Stiles shirks out of the way. He nudges up underneath the crook of the werewolf’s arm, settling a hand across his back to his opposite hip.
“Better?” Stiles asks as Derek settles against him.
It is, actually, but mostly because he's wrapped in Stiles’ layers permeating warmth, which was sapping the ice's chilly bite from his skin.
“Yeah, I guess,” Derek shrugs, as he tries to ease forward.
Stiles mirrors the gesture. They get exactly three feet before Derek knocks one of his skates against Stiles’, loses it, and goes tumbling into the ground once more. There's a muted shriek, accompanied by a flail, as Stiles follows suit, landing squarely on Derek’s chest and effectively crushing the air from it.
“Sorry,” he croaks.
“I told you I was hopeless,” Derek mumbles into the mop of Stiles’ hair, as if to bookend the experience.
“Eh,” he shrugs. “You could be worse.”
“How’s that?” Derek asks, unconvinced.
He’d been here all of fifteen minutes and spent less than five of them actually standing. He nearly took out a mother and her daughter. He’d managed to eat it even with Stiles trying to support him, and somehow took him down too when he fell. How could it possibly get any worse? He looks at the top of Stiles’ head expectantly and predictably, he's silent.
“Thought so,” Derek snorts derisively. Despite the cold of the ice against his back, Stiles, being the usual human space-heater that he was, is warming Derek’s body quite nicely.
“Don’t be a dick, dude. Now c’mon, lemme help you up.” He pushes himself off of Derek’s torso, but Derek catches his wrist before he stands up completely. “What?” He asks, furrowing his brow in a moment of seriousness.
“Come here for a sec,” Derek answers, suddenly wanting Stiles’ lips on his own. Might be the only thing that would turn this awful experience around.
“Wha—? No. There are people around. They’re starting to stare already.”
“Let ‘em,” Derek intones with a shrug, just like he had done two nights ago. They’d been staring at his flailing, falling ass since he got here, anyway.
Before Stiles can protest further, he reaches a hand around the back of his neck to fit their mouths together.
Stiles’ lips are chapped slightly from the cold, but his heat is intoxicating. It washes over Derek’s nerves like water over rocks, and suddenly, he doesn't care that he’d spent more time lying on the ice than he had been standing on it.
That is, until Scott skates to a halt right next to them.
“Leave it to you two to wind up making out in the middle of the rink,” he jokes, eyeing them both warily. “You guys need some help?”
Stiles answers for the both of them. “Nah, we’re fine. We were just about to head out anyway, go get some hot chocolate or something.”
Derek notices how perfect his cheeks look flushed that ruddy shade of red. Whether from either the cold or the kiss, he couldn't tell.
“I could stay,” Derek ventures and Stiles shoots him a surprised look.
“Really?”
“Yeah, I’m… I’m having fun,” he shrugs even as he struggles to brace himself up on the ice as a grin curls at the corners of Stiles' mouth.
“Even with all the falling you've been doing?” Stiles asks through a laugh, before leaning back in to press a quick kiss against Derek's lips.
Scott groans. Derek hears him say something about coming to find the rest of the group once they finish playing tonsil hockey, and Stiles flips him off as he skates away.
Especially with all the falling. But that had been going on since well before they went ice-skating.
Two words: aggressive cuddling. It's definitely a thing.
-
Derek wakes first.
He's pleasantly greeted by the warm mass of human that's sprawled awkwardly across his chest, breathing soft, steady puffs of warm air against his skin. Unlike the first morning when he woke up with Stiles, this time he doesn't panic and tries to come up with an escape plan.
He sighs, and for a second he thinks maybe last night was a dream. One of those hyper-realistic ones that leaves you disappointed with reality when you finally wake up. But the steady thrum of Stiles' heartbeat against his own ribs tells him otherwise, and he's far from disappointed.
Stiles is here. It had happened. It was real.
Derek smiles at the thought. Despite the drafty, winter chill of the loft, and the fact that the covers are kind of uselessly tangled around their legs, there isn't a single part of him that isn't permeated by Stiles' sleepy warmth. Even his wolf can feel it, somewhere deep down inside his chest, humming contently like a freaking puppy.
Is this what happiness feels like? He wonders as Stiles nuzzles his face against him in a drowsy state. He can still pick up the faint aroma of his cologne and hair gel mingled throughout the teen's usual scent, still taste the residue of his mouth on his lips. With his free hand, he runs a finger across them, letting his mind drift through the memory of the night before.
Despite how much both of them had longed to get on their own, away from all the prying eyes, they had stayed at the dance for hours more after their kiss on the dance floor. It had not been Stiles' idea. They would've been at the loft before ten if he'd gotten his way. But Derek insisted that he shouldn't run off and miss out on the rest of the night with his friends just because he wanted to go home with Derek.
We got time, he had said to convince him to stay. We got all night.
And they had have all night, but they hadn't done much else than sleeping. By the time they got back to the loft it was way past midnight and Stiles had almost been too tired to drive. He'd turned off his phone and pulled Derek down with him on the bed, cutting off Derek's concerns with sleepy kisses and saying his dad could probably figure out where he was. Perhaps Derek would try and convince Stiles to at least call his dad and tell him where he is if it hadn't been for the fact that he'd never seen Stiles so ready to pass out before.
Derek had half expected the sheriff to burst through the doors any second during the night. He hadn't, and Derek can't decide if that's a good or bad sign.
He wants to stay there and let Stiles slowly wake up on top of him, watch his eyelids ease open, and kiss the sleep from each of them as he yawns and stretches himself awake. But if he doesn't get up now, he knows he never will.
Gently, Derek eases out from underneath Stiles' comfortable warmth, taking extra care not to wake him. The teen lets out a muffled, sleep-addled groan as he squirms adorably against the sheets to find a new position. Derek freezes.
It isn't until Stiles settles into his warm, vacated spot and begin to snore that he dares to move. And even then, it isn't voluntary. The chilly morning air that'd crept into the loft makes him shiver, so he reaches for the closest article of clothing he can find to lessen its bite. Amidst the tangled heaps of dress clothes he'd exhaustedly cast aside last night when they got back, including the ones Stiles had discarded, he finds the sleeve of the teen's red hoodie; the one that he'd left at the loft after practice earlier that month.
Chuckling, he shrugs it on, happy that he doesn't have to leave Stiles' scent behind in bed while he makes them breakfast. Quietly, he makes his way to the kitchen and sets about it, nuzzling at the collar of the touch-worn jacket absentmindedly.
After a few minutes, one cup of coffee, and the brewing of a second, Derek has everything just about ready. Fried eggs are simmering on low heat in one pan, while a few strips of bacon sizzle and pop in another. As if on cue, Derek hears the quick uptick of Stiles' sleepy heartbeat, and the rustle of sheets as he stretches across the bed with a yawn.
"Derek?" He asks the empty indentation where the werewolf had been lying. "Where're you at?"
"Over here," Derek calls, cracking another egg on the rim of the frying pan he was already using to cook the bacon.
Slowly, Stiles groans and sits up, his hair wild from sleep. Derek suppresses a laugh. Somehow, in just a simple undershirt and boxers, with heavy eyelids and wild, sleep-mussed hair, he manages to be more appealing than he was last night, when he'd been dressed to the nines in his suit and dancing at a near-professional level.
Derek actually stops to watch as he yawns wide and stretches again, arching his back in just the right way so the small strip of hair that connects his navel to his waistband peaks out from underneath his shirt. Stiles reaches back to gather the comforter over his shoulders and wraps it around himself securely before trudging slowly across the loft.
"Morning, beautiful," Derek intones with a laugh. He means it, too.
"Shut up," Stiles yawns again, rubbing at the corner of his eye with a knuckle still curled around the edge of the comforter. "Why'd you get outta bed?"
Derek shrugs. "Breakfast. Figured you'd be hungry after all the circles you danced around me last night."
Stiles chuckles. "I thought I smelled bacon," he grins sleepily, fidgeting with his comforter as he pads into the kitchen. "And I am hungry. Starving, actually."
"Well, I made the works, so there's plenty. And everything's just about do—" He reaches up to click off the burners and stops mid-sentence as Stiles comes up behind him, and proceeds to wind his blanketed hands tightly around Derek's waist. "...Can I help you, Sleeping beauty?" He asks as Stiles settles his chin over the top of his shoulder. He nods adorably.
"Coffee?" He asks, without looking up.
"Brewing," Derek answers. "Want some?"
"Sure, bring it on," he replies. "But not without a sugar."
"You're the worst," Derek scoffs, rolling his eyes in typical Hale fashion.
"You love it," Stiles murmurs, and Derek's heart fluttered happily at the word to prove it.
He tilts his head to the side and lets Stiles place a quick kiss against his lips. It's nothing compared to the one they'd shared the night before, sure, but it's still perfect. Just a different kind of perfect. A kind that Derek had never really let himself want before. And suddenly, all he does want to do is get ahead of himself. Instead he reaches over to pour a cup of coffee for Stiles, and passes him the steaming mug, ignoring the flush of heat that's suddenly spreading across his cheeks. Stiles accepts it happily, cradling it in two hands in front of Derek's chest. He doesn't notice.
"Thanks."
Stiles takes an awkward sip and seems to perk up a bit, nestling deeper into his co-opted comforter and Derek's shoulder in a way that Derek can't help but smile at. He deposits the eggs and bacon onto a pair of plates and drops the dirty frying pan into the sink. He'd wash it later.
"So what do you want to do today?" He asks, about to mention calling his dad up but doesn't want to ruin the mood.
Stiles sighs peacefully as he sets down his coffee cup on the edge of the counter.
"This."
He gives Derek a little squeeze for emphasis, nuzzling back against his neck. Derek smiles. Well, smiles wider. He'd pretty much had a big, stupid grin scrawled across his lips since he woke up.
Derek huffs out a small laugh. "I'm not entirely sure what this is," he intones, tossing the spatula into the sink alongside the frying pan. He cocked a look at the Stiles that was attached to him.
"Aggressive cuddling," Stiles remarks, as if Derek should know what the hell that is.
"Aggressive cuddli— I'm not sure that's even a thing," he replies, eyeing Stiles with a skeptical eyebrow-raise.
"Totally a thing. You just gotta let it happen."
"I would, if I could actually move, Stiles."
"S'not a problem. Y'don't need to move."
"You know, this'd work better if we were in bed," Derek offers.
"Yeah?" Stiles flicks him an expectant look.
"Yeah."
"Well then what are you waiting for?" Stiles asks, releasing Derek from his grip before flying back to their vacated bed, comforter swirling in his wake.
Derek rolls his eyes, and gathers the plates as the muted fwump of Stiles diving back into bed reaches his ears. Making sure to stuff a few napkins and forks into the pocket of the hoodie, Derek follows him because he did not want to be the one to have to get back up to get them later. He laughs when he sees Stiles buried up to his neck under the covers.
"A little too cold for you?" He asks playfully before settling on top of the comforter.
"N-no," Stiles answers, as a quick shiver betrays the lie. Derek gives him a skeptical look. "...Yes."
He hands him a plate. Stiles scoots back, still keeping the covers pulled up as high as he can get them while still making functional use of his hands.
"Aren't you cold, too?" He asks.
Derek isn't, hasn't been all morning, aside from right after he'd gotten out of bed for the first time. Despite the chill in the apartment, he was oddly comfortable. But that was probably because he could still feel the ghost of Stiles' warm embrace around him.
"Eh, I'm good," he shrugs, easing under the covers next to Stiles. "I got your jacket."
"It typically works better if you wear a shirt underneath it," Stiles responds with a note of sarcasm in his tone. "And, you know, pants. Not that I'm complaining or anything."
"Of course not," Derek remarks, making himself comfortable.
"Fork?"
"In the pocket." He nods down at his side. Stiles cocks an intrigued eyebrow. "Don't get any ideas," he growls playfully.
"I am innocent of your dirty thoughts."
"Uh-huh," Derek intones as Stiles reaches under the covers to grab the utensils and napkins from the pocket of the hoodie. "Just shut up and eat your food."
"Glad to see all of last night's romance is still hanging around," Stiles says with a laugh, nestling himself up against Derek's shoulder as he starts eating.
"Hey, I made you breakfast," Derek retorts as he starts to eat as well. "That's gotta count for something."
"You'd think," Stiles shrugs through a mouthful of fried egg. "But no. I'm gonna need some more convincing." He swallows, and Derek watches the bob of his throat needfully.
"Oh really?" He asks, conscious of Stiles' warmth soaking into his skin. "And how, pray tell, am I supposed to do that?" He chews on a strip of bacon.
"I'm gonna need more aggressive cuddling." Derek shoots him a look. "What?" Stiles shrugs as he finishes wolfing down his breakfast and sets the plate aside. "Stiles wants to have a good time. Many, many times, actually. In several different positions."
"Why do I get the feeling that you're not talking about just cuddling anymore?" Derek asks on a groan, finishing off the food from his own plate and setting it aside, too.
"Because I'm not," Stiles admits before wrapping himself back around Derek and settling his head against his chest.
"That doesn't surprise me," Derek responds. He noses into Stiles' mop of sleep-mussed hair and takes a deep whiff of his scent, suddenly heady with want. "Subtlety was never your strong suit."
"Hey now, I've been pretty good since you've been back," Stiles replies defensively. "I haven't tried to jump your bones once."
"I distinctly remember there being an attempt when you got drunk the other week."
"You're misremembering."
"And now?" Derek asks, vaguely aware of something hard beginning to press into his leg.
Stiles shrugs. "Distinct possibility."
"You're ridiculous," Derek replies, smiling as he pulls the point of Stiles' chin up so that their lips meet once more.
There had been plenty of kissing last night, to the point where Stiles even fell asleep with his lips still on Derek's cheek, but Derek can't imagine ever getting tired of it. Even if Stiles is far from an experienced kisser, and had to catch his breath several times last night before learning how to breathe through his nose, Derek thinks it's perfect. He loves how much Stiles gets into it, the push and the pull of his eager tongue. It's a beautiful mess.
Also: Stiles' hands. They're nearly just as eager as his mouth when they're kissing. Derek hadn't even known they were able to affect him as much as they do, but those long slender fingers sliding over his skin now are giving him goose bumps. Stiles can't stop touching him, exploring his body with tenderness, and the whole thing makes Derek's heart nearly ache with emotion.
He's been drawn to people before, but not emotionally drawn to. He's never wanted anyone the way he wants Stiles.
When Stiles bucks his hips, a low moan vibrating in his throat, it takes all Derek's willpower to put a firm hand on his waist and keep him still. He pulls away, and the kiss is interrupted. Stiles whines, clearly disappointed, and Derek can't help but feel just a little proud of being able to make him sound like that.
"You're not gonna make me wait till I'm eighteen, are you?" He groans, out of breath.
"Believe me," Derek breathes, "I won't be able to wait that long."
Stiles scoffs shakily, breath still coming out in short pants from the heated kiss. Derek reach up to run his fingers through Stiles' tousled hair, all the way to the back of his neck, and settles it there.
"I just don't want to mess this up," he says seriously.
Stiles' expressions softens, sighing as he cups Derek's cheek.
"Trust me," he says firmly. "You won't be the one to mess this up."
Derek smiles at him, heart pounding in sync with Stiles'. Somewhere in the back of his mind there's a little voice telling him they should turn Stiles' phone back on, but he pushes it further back just for a moment longer. He want to keep Stiles for a little longer.
Stiles can't believe it. It's Friday night and he's in his room getting ready for the dance and waiting for Derek to pick him up and he still can't believe it.
-
Stiles can't believe it.
It's Friday night and he's in his room getting ready for the dance and waiting for Derek to pick him up and he still can't believe it.
At first he didn't know if it was a sign of him getting better or not, but recently on their dance lessons Derek had grabbed him and pulled him in whenever he was to demonstrate a new move to the others. At first he'd told himself that's it; he's the right height, light enough for Derek to drag along, and at least good enough for Derek to use when rehearsing the steps for the whole group. But there's always been a tiny voice in the back of his head telling him there was more to it than that; telling him that Derek picked him because he wanted to dance with him specifically.
It was weird enough for him when discovering his crush on Derek, but even weirder to find out that the thing is mutual. He wasn't sure if that's what it was at first, the other night of the full moon. He'd figured that he could be Derek's anchor without it meaning anything else than that he simply kept Derek human, grounded, because he's the only human around. But from what he'd overheard from Derek and Scott talking that morning, he'd jumped a gun and asked Derek to be his date to the dance. (Well, that depends on how you define asking…)
He had said yes. Derek Hale is going as his date to the school Christmas dance.
And maybe it isn't weird. Maybe this is where they've been headed all along, he just didn't realize until recently. It's all so new.
Not the fact that he's attractive. Stiles had noticed that when he and Scott first met Derek in the woods nearly one year ago already – he's got eyes, thank you very much – but the guy has kind of evolved like a freaking Pokémon since then. Stiles had no clue it was even possible for a person to get better-looking by simply growing a beard.
But that's not all there is. There are plenty of hot men in beards but none have reached all the way into his heart like Derek has. Stiles can't even tell when exactly he stopped hating Derek's guts and started loving them instead, but now he knows that's the case. Sometime during his run with werewolves he'd fallen in love with one of them.
There's a knock on the door and Stiles groans loudly when jolting forward to open it.
"Dad, I told you I'm—" He cuts himself off, because it's not his dad standing in the hallway outside his bedroom. "Derek?"
And not just any Derek, but a very formal-looking one. Stiles can't help but let his jaw drop because he never even stopped to consider what Derek might look like in suit jacket and tie. Incredibly handsome, as it turns out, even if Stiles has never complained about his torn v-necks.
"Hi," he greets vaguely, looking horribly out of place.
"Derek," Stiles repeats, now with more panic than shock. Heat is rising to his cheeks and he's suddenly feeling the urge to cover up what the three top buttons on his shirt left undone don't. "You said you'd be here at seven. It's 6:50," he says. "I'm not ready!"
"I didn't want to be late," Derek says, shifting on the spot. His eyes darts over Stiles' exposed chest and Stiles' heart jumps at the way his eyes seem to darken. "I can wait downstairs," he offers.
"And leave you with my dad?" Stiles points out, opening the door enough to push Derek inside. "No way. I'm not that cruel."
Derek huffs, not complaining about being shoved. Once inside, however, he puts both hands in the pockets on his pants and just awkwardly stands there. It's funny how a guy who's invited himself through Stiles' window on more than one occasion suddenly looks uncertain if he should be here. Stiles returns to stand in front of the mirror and quickly buttons up the shirt.
"Did you run here?" He asks, looking at Derek standing behind him in the mirror while adjusting his collar. Derek's reflection is already watching him, but ducks his head as soon as their eyes meet. Stiles knows the skip of his heart is obvious.
"Shouldn't I be a little more drenched if I ran? It's snowing."
"You could've worn a jacket," Stiles shrugs, reaching for the tie hanging over the back of his chair.
"Someone stole my jacket," Derek says casually, eyes wandering around the room. "I took a cab."
That's a surprise, but Stiles can't feel anything but flattered over the fact that Derek cared enough to keep his clothes dry and clean to pay for a cab to come and accompany him to the dance. (Stiles would love to use the phrase 'pick him up' but since Derek doesn't have a car that's not gonna happen. Not that he needs it. His reality is already close enough to a teenager chick flick.)
He fumbles with the tie, wrapping it around his neck and folds up the collar. It's not the first time he's wearing one, but it really isn't often. He doesn't even own one of his own – it's one of his dad's. So is the shirt, though it's been a few years since the sheriff has fit into it. Stiles remembers when he was a lot smaller and swore he'd never fit into his dad's clothes. It's strange sometimes; to look into the mirror and see his own reflection all grown up now.
Apparently not grown enough to tie a tie with a hot guy in the same room though because his hands are unsteady and he just can't get it right.
"Let me," Derek eventually says, voice soft, and Stiles swallows.
He turns around to face him, dropping both hands to his sides in defeat. Derek's got a small smile on his lips as he steps forward, hands reaching up to adjust his collar and work on the tie. Stiles keeps his gaze lowered, not sure he'll be able to handle it if he looks up to meet Derek's eyes. They're so close, and even if they've been closer during dance practice, this is still different. Whatever cologne Derek is wearing it's all up in Stiles' nose now and he's inhaling it like it's all he needs to breathe.
"You're nervous," Derek points out.
Stiles swallows again, his Adam's apple bobbing against Derek's knuckle.
"Yeah," he admits.
"Me too."
He can't help but to look up then; eyebrow raised in wonder. Derek looks straight at him, but he actually looks nervous. It makes everything a little easier, and at the same time a lot harder.
"We don't have to go, you know," Derek starts carefully. "Not if you don't want to, I mean. We could just stay in. Watch a movie."
Stiles cocks an eyebrow and gives him a sly smile. "Watch a movie?" He asks.
"You have a TV," Derek shrugs, focusing his gaze on his hands again.
A chuckle slips out of Stiles, and Derek smiles widely. He folds down the shirt's collar and gives the tie a final tug before seeming satisfied. Stiles expects him to remove his hands and step back but he doesn't; he just remains there with one hand loosely holding the tie and one palm flat on Stiles' chest. It takes a moment before Stiles realizes his heart is going wild just underneath it.
"You didn't teach me how to dance only for me to bail," he finally says. "Come on."
"I taught you to dance because I wanted to," Derek protests, looking up again. "You don't owe me anything."
Stiles considers it; staying home with Derek and forgetting all about the school dance. They could pop some popcorn and keep his dad out of the living room, sprawl out on the couch and watch a movie, shed their ties and loosen up their buttons. With all that's been said and done the last few days it's tempting to see where such a night would lead, but deep down Stiles knows he'd regret it later. Also he's not convinced his dad would leave them alone even if they took claim of the TV.
"We're going," he says concluding. "I want to dance with you tonight, and not just on our own."
Derek's face lights up with a smile, as if he'd been hoping for Stiles to say just that. It's a bit unexpected, considering how Derek doesn't usually involve himself in social activities, but Stiles is happy and relieved that he doesn't seem to want to do this just for his sake.
"Okay," Derek sighs, hands finally sliding off Stiles' chest. It's cold where his warm palm had been resting. "You're driving."
"Obviously," Stiles scoffs, swaying a little when turning away to reach for his tuxedo jacket. He's pretty sure he'll take it off within the first hour, but he still wants to wear it. Firstly because he's finally grown into it, and now secondly because it'll go well together with Derek's own jacket. "I'm not letting you drive Roscoe."
"I already have," Derek points out, then frowns. "Wait, did you name your car?"
"Let's go," Stiles decides, heading for the door and brushes past Derek who softly huffs.
As expected; the sheriff is standing in the living room when they come downstairs. He's got his arms crossed over his chest, looking as if he's watching a suspect enter the interrogation room. Stiles is almost surprised he's not wearing the badge and gun to scare Derek even further.
"We're taking the Jeep," Stiles announces, trying to sound casual and as if that's all there is to it.
Of course it isn't.
"Hold your horses, young man," his dad orders, holding up a hand to stop them. Stiles groans, feeling heat rise to his cheeks in embarrassment already. "I expect you to be home by midnight." He turns his steady gaze to Derek. "Did you hear that, Derek?"
"Yes, sir," Derek confirms, and Stiles wants to sink through the floor. This is not happening!
"Good," the sheriff says with a nod. "You do well in remembering my title," he continues, eyes watching Derek steadily, and Stiles bites his tongue. "But you should call me John."
What? Stiles thinks so loud he's surprised neither of them can hear it. Derek looks baffled as well, not doing anything for a moment before nodding curtly.
"Okay."
Stiles' dad smiles then, and it's warm and relaxed; in other words anything but what Stiles had expected.
"Alright," he sighs, stepping aside to shoo them toward the front door instead. "Away with you."
"Thanks, dad," Stiles says honestly.
His dad just smiles even wider, gently clapping Stiles' shoulder as he walk past him. "You look good," he compliments. "Now go have fun."
"We will," Stiles promises, sighing happily with a glance at Derek.
Arriving at school with Lydia Martin in the passenger seat of his Jeep to the formal had been a pretty glorious moment for Stiles last year, but that's nothing compared to arriving with Derek Hale.
Most of his classmates probably don't know who he is, but that doesn't matter. He's obviously older, and ridiculously handsome, so naturally everyone is staring as he climbs out of the Jeep. Stiles is pretty sure he's never received this level of attention before, and while it makes his cheeks flush and stomach to twist, it's still flattering and makes his heart throb with pride.
"Perhaps I should've shaved," Derek mumbles when falling into steps beside him when they head for the entrance.
"No, you really shouldn't," Stiles averts, shoving both hands into his pockets and lifting his shoulders in an attempt to shut out the cold.
"I would've looked younger," Derek points out.
"I don't care," Stiles says shortly.
Derek hums. They're not really touching, just their arms brushing against each other every now and then as they walk because they're walking just a little too close. Stiles doesn't mind one bit. In fact, every time Derek's elbows bumps against him a wave of warmth runs through him and makes him forget to freeze.
Isaac, Scott and Allison are standing just inside the doors waiting for them. Neither of them look surprised by who he shows up with, and at this point Stiles has simply given up. Apparently the only person not seeing the two of them ever happening had been himself. Typical.
Lydia barely even looks at Derek when she arrives, clearly not finding his presence surprising either. She's got a dress which looks far too cold to be wearing in winter and her boyfriend on her arm. Stiles still isn't quite sure why she keeps him around. Sure: he's hot, and the sex is probably amazing, and he may be just a little less dumb than Jackson, but Aiden is still an asshole.
The less-of-an-asshole brother shows up with Danny shortly thereafter, and at least they are nice enough to give Stiles and Derek a proper look when spotting them standing together. Stiles is pretty sure he receives the mental high-five all over again.
"Well, let's go then," Scott urges once they're all gathered. "Or are we waiting for someone else?"
"Yeah, I thought we were waiting for Greenberg," Stiles jokes as they head for the gym.
Danny grabs Ethan's hand as they walk through the school's corridors, and Stiles – who just happens to walk right behind them – can't keep his heart from skipping a beat. Derek is at his side, close and warm against his arm, and Stiles feels the strong urge to intertwine their fingers as well. He's quite certain it wouldn't be too weird, because they're each other's date after all, but in the end he's just not bold enough. He tells himself he'll do it later when people have stopped staring – if they ever do.
At the entrance of the gym there's a set up with a camera, and couples are posing for pictures with drawn Christmas trees in the background.
"What is this – prom?" Stiles asks as they all come to a stop.
"Relax," Lydia says, rolling her eyes. "It's nothing mandatory. They must've figured some of us would want our picture taken tonight."
"I'm not posing for a picture," Stiles says firmly.
"Shame," Lydia shrugs as she drags Aiden with her toward the line. "You've never looked better."
"She's right," Danny comments simply as he and Ethan follow.
Stiles just scoffs at both of them, shaking his head. Allison seems to have convinced Scott and Isaac to go for a picture too, and they join in. Derek and Stiles stand by and wait for them to finish, as the photographer seems to be very quick in his work and the line moves forward pretty fast.
"I disagree," Derek says, confusing Stiles who looks up at him with a frown. "You've always looked good," he clarifies.
Stiles blushes violently, trying to laugh it off. "Even with the buzz cut and the round face?"
"Yep," Derek nods, smiling. "Even then."
"You're aware that it would've done wonders for my self-esteem if you'd ever actually told me that, right?" Stiles remarks.
"Do you even remember what we were like back then?" Derek ventures, cocking an eyebrow. "You drove me crazy."
"Don't I still?" Stiles jokes, not catching the pun until it's too late.
"You do," Derek agrees, voice deep just like his eyes. "But in a completely different way."
To everyone's surprise: Isaac is the first one to enter the dance floor during the first waltz song. He drags Allison with her while Scott sinks down next to Stiles with a happy sigh, watching them with a big smile. Danny takes the spot on Stiles' other side, all three of them just sitting in silence for a moment whilst watching the dancing couples in front of them.
"Where's your boyfriend?" Danny asks eventually, turning to Stiles with a sly smile.
Stiles rolls his eyes softly, heart thumping away in his chest. "I don't know. I think he went to get something to drink. Where's yours?"
Danny huffs, pulling a touché-face. "Yeah, I think he went for the drinks too."
"I'm not sure we should leave those two dogs alone," Stiles deadpans thoughtfully.
"They'll be fine," Scott says, eyes somewhere in the crowd.
Stiles hums with a shrug. He's not really worried; the two of them have kept themselves from killing each other for the past two weeks, so hopefully tonight would be no different. He can't help but to curiously turn to Danny though.
"Does Ethan still wanna bite you?" He asks.
Both Scott and Danny turns to him, and a lot of the people around them probably would have done the same – if the music hadn't been so loud and they could actually hear what he's saying.
"I mean," Stiles attempts to explain himself, "you don't seem as upset with him as you were a while back. I just figured you guys agreed on something."
"We did," Danny nods. "He doesn't want me to turn anymore."
"Thank God," Stiles breathes out, and Scott looks relieved too. "What happened?"
"Nothing," Danny shrugs. "I think he just finally understood that I'm not totally useless or fragile just because I'm human. Despite the fact that werewolves are freaking awesome," he huffs, "I like being the way I am. I don't want anything above that. I guess he gets it now."
Stiles punches him gently on the shoulder.
"Good, because I'm so done dealing with newborn were-pups."
All three of them chuckle, and eventually return their attention to the dance floor. Couples are still waltzing, and Stiles realizes that most of them are no better than him and the others who've been practicing. Obviously there had been no need for Isaac to panic, but he looks happy and confident on the floor right now, so at least it wasn't all for nothing.
Definitely not all for nothing, Stiles decides firmly.
He stands up. "I'll go find my dance partner," he excuses.
"You do that," Scott beams.
Derek is standing by the table with drinks when Stiles finds him, a red paper cup in his hand that probably doesn't contain anything but soda. It takes a while for Stiles to spot him in the crowded gym, but once his eyes land on him, he finds Derek's gaze already on him. It makes him blush, and no doubt his heart race like a rabbit's again, but he tries to ignore it while making his way to him.
"Aren't you gonna ask me to dance?" He breathes out as soon as he reaches him, before losing his nerve.
People around them turn their heads to look, and Stiles wants to slap himself because he totally forgot about him and Derek being of such interest tonight. Making a fool out of himself had been okay before because no one had paid him any mind, but now they were staring. The fear of being rejected in front of so many people adds to the fear of Derek changing his mind and fleeing the scene.
But Derek just smiles, his pointy canines peeking through.
"Wanted to," he says, putting down the cup without taking his eyes off Stiles. "Just thought maybe you got cold feet and wanted you to make the call."
"My feet are anything but cold," Stiles assures, reaching out to wrap around Derek's wrist. "C'mon."
Derek obliges, only turning his wrist to instead hold Stiles' hand, fingers interlacing as they move to the dance floor. They almost bump into one of the couples moving around, because Stiles is a little too focused on them actually holding hands, and once they reach a free spot he goes to put his hand on Derek's shoulder without hesitation; giving him the lead. Derek smiles again, which is a look on him that isn't as foreign as it used to be these days, and steps forward to place his free hand on Stiles' waist before they start dancing, too.
It's nothing like practice. Even with the few others present during rehearsal at the loft, and that one night in the park, it still feels like the first time he's dancing with an audience. All the sound and movement around him makes the butterflies go crazy in his stomach, and he does his best to just focus on Derek and relax. He doesn't fall or screw up, which is a freaking miracle because he's not even sure if he's breathing properly the whole time.
"You don't want to dance on my feet?" Derek suddenly asks, eyes bright and beautiful.
Stiles laughs, louder than he intends but that's okay. He doesn't mind people hearing it.
Less than an hour after their first dance Stiles takes off his jacket, because it's getting hot in here.
He also changes his mind about the photo and drags Derek back out of the gym to pose for a picture. Once it's their turn he gets nervous about which pose to ask for exactly, but Derek nudges him for them to stand beside each other, and puts a warm and heavy hand on his shoulder. Right before the camera flashes, however, his hand drops down to settle on his waist. Stiles bets he's got an idiotic expression on the photo but he doesn't care.
Stiles kisses Derek for the first time after their third dance.
The song is dying out, and they're just stepping back from each other when a ballad comes on. Derek's hand tightens on Stiles', not letting go just yet. Stiles' heart jumps madly when meeting Derek's gaze. His eyes are dark, and Stiles can tell it's not all thanks to the low lighting in the gym. He doesn't even need to say anything; doesn't need to ask or say what he wants. Stiles just desperately tries to swallow the heart in his throat and steps forward again to wrap both arms around Derek's neck and bring them close again.
He knows how to slow dance even if it's a dance they never practiced. It doesn't take much, which is good, because Stiles practically melts against Derek. He closes his eyes, shutting out all the people in the room, and buries his face in the side of Derek's neck. The skin there is hot and soft and smells like pure Derek, and Stiles can't help but hum into it. It's not loud enough to be heard over the music, but he knows Derek caught the vibration going down his throat the way they are pressed together. Derek is nuzzling into him in return, seeming to breathe him in with his nose inside Stiles' hair.
It feels like much longer than a song, because Stiles is aware of every rise and fall of Derek's chest against him. Just like he used to shut out the music and just focus on counting his steps at rehearsal he's now shutting out the music and everything else to only focus on Derek.
When Derek tilt his head back before the song ends, Stiles feels his heart jolt in anxiety. But Derek doesn't let him go; doesn't pull away. His arms remain around Stiles' body, holding him firmly. Stiles lifts his own head, meaning to cock an eyebrow at him in wonder, but the look on Derek's face steals his breath right out of his chest. Somewhere in the back of his mind he's registered that they've stopped moving.
Derek's hot breath curls over Stiles' face, and it's sending chills down his spine. His heart is racing, and he's pretty sure he can hear and feel Derek's going just as wild. They're so close and it's making Stiles' head spin as he suddenly remembers that they're not alone. Derek's eyes flutter close for a second before leaning in to brush their noses together.
"Derek," Stiles whispers, throat dry. "Everyone is staring."
"Let them," he simply murmurs before closing the final distance between them to press his mouth on Stiles'.
A soft moan slips out of Stiles, and he can't even be bothered to be ashamed by it. He kisses Derek back, first only by pressing their mouths together but soon parts his lips. Derek makes a small sound that sends a vibration down Stiles' throat. It makes him smile as well as shudder, because he's never heard Derek sound like that before, but he's loving it already. He pulls Derek in even closer with his arms still wrapped around his neck, and Derek slides one of his hands up to cup Stiles' cheek while the other holds onto his hip.
It's slow and careful and incredibly overwhelming. Stiles has to break apart eventually to catch his breath, doesn't want to pull away and put more space between them. Derek rests his forehead against Stiles', both of them breathing heavily into each other's face. Somewhere in the distance Stiles can hear his name being mumbled, but it doesn't matter.
"I don't want to be home by midnight," he breathes out.
Derek scoffs, still sounding out of breath. He drags his thumb along Stiles' jaw in a way that makes Stiles shiver.
"Your dad is gonna kill me."
"He doesn't have the bullets for it," Stiles insists, bumping their noses together again.
"That's not exactly what I'm afraid of," Derek mumbles.
Stiles chuckles, heart throbbing against his ribs. He moves one hand to the back of Derek's neck, grasping the hair there and watching Derek's eyes flutter at his touch. It makes him want to touch more; makes him want to learn exactly how Derek reacts to it all.
"I'll take the blame," he persists. "I just— There's no way I'm just gonna let you kiss me goodnight and spend the rest of the night without you."
Derek lets out a heavy breath at that, dark eyes watching him intensely. Stiles can feel the hand on his hip tighten his hold; thumb tracing his hipbone through the shirt and he has to bite his lip not to make an embarrassing sound.
Eventually Derek just groans in defeat. "You'll be the death of me," he murmurs before kissing him again.
Derek catches Stiles practicing for the dance the night before, because shut up, he wants everything to be perfect for tomorrow, and Derek, because… well, Stiles has a question for him. As usual, nothing ever goes according to plan.
-
I am never going to let him forget this, Derek thinks as he fights down the smile threatening to curl at his lips.
He’s perched on the roof outside of Stiles’ window, watching him waltz around his room. Well, not really. He’s attempting to waltz. It’s difficult to tell with him glancing back at his computer and trying to piece together the dance that the partners on the screen were doing. Derek thought it odd, given how good he had gotten in their last practice, even managing to lead and sink Derek into a low dip that left him a little more hot and bothered than he cared to admit.
Against his better judgment, he reaches up and taps a knuckle against the cool glass. Little did he know, it was probably the best decision he had made all day.
The flail from Stiles is as immediate as it is spastic. Somehow he manages to jump two feet into the air at the sound, trip backwards over his desk chair, then, in a vain attempt to keep himself from toppling to the ground, he tries to grab hold of the mess of tangled comforter sprawled across his bed. The end result has Stiles laid out haphazardly on the floor, appearing through the window as only a pair of awkwardly flopped legs poking out from behind the bed. The entire situation is made even more glorious by the highly undignified squeak he'd uttered as he'd toppled to the floor. Seriously, Derek could hear it from outside it was that loud.
Derek tries the window and unsurprisingly, it's unlocked. He pulls himself through and does his best to suppress a snicker.
“Stiles?” The only response is a muffled groan. “You okay?”
“No,” Stiles hisses from where he lay, “I’m dead.”
Derek bites down on the inside of his cheek to stifle the laugh building in his throat.
“You don’t sound dead,” Derek ventures, closing the sash of the window against the chilly air and leaning up against the wall next to it.
Stiles still doesn't move. “You can’t prove anything, Hale.”
“Well, I can hear your stupid heart thumping away in your chest,” Derek answers, as he quietly strides around to where Stiles is lying. He's hiding his face underneath the comforter, making it entirely too easy for Derek. “And you’re talking to me right now…” Derek reasons, his logic unassailable as he edges closer until he's right next to Stiles, hovering over him silently.
He bends down slowly, careful to keep the fabric of his jacket from creaking, until he’s mere inches from the teenager’s face. Then, with as much wolf as he can put into it, he takes the deepest, loudest intake of breath.
Stiles screeches and yanks the blanket back from over his head with a franticness Derek has only seen in the eyes of would-be prey.
“What the— Holy shi— Goddammit. You can’t keep doing that to people!” He yells, trying to kick away from Derek violently before he remembers that he isn't actually going to die at the hands of the werewolf. “Why the— What the hell was that for, anyway?” He asks, breath heaving in his chest.
Derek stands back up and shrugs in response. “What? You didn't smell dead. I just had to make sure.”
Stiles shoots him a glare that could have murdered kittens, but he takes Derek’s hand anyway as the werewolf pulls him to his feet.
“So I see you've been practicing,” Derek intones, nodding toward the disheveled looking computer screen, frozen on two random celebrities whose names he can't remember midway through a mediocre waltz.
Stiles shrugs, a hint of color rising to his cheeks as he straightens his customary flannel. Now that it was actually getting chilly out, he seems to be more comfortable in it.
“It’s well documented that I have two left feet and am completely arrhythmic,” Stiles protests halfheartedly, his voice taking on a tinge of sarcasm.
“Bullshit,” Derek responds. “You were dancing circles around me only yesterday.”
Stiles shrugs. “Regardless, I need all the help I can get if I—” He stops short. Derek hears the faintest uptick of his rabbit heart in his chest and cocks an eyebrow.
“If you… What?” he asks, crossing his arms against his chest as Stiles balls up his comforter to throw back onto his bed.
“Nothing. Just forget it.”
“What?” Derek persists.
“Nope,” Stiles answers, stoic in his trademark Stilinski stubbornness.
“C’mon, tell me,” Derek complains, as Stiles moves to the computer to minimize the video.
There’s a pause, followed by a sigh, and Derek knows he’s broken whatever will Stiles had to keep his little secret… well, secret.
“Okay,” he pauses and turns around to face Derek, face blotchy again with color. Derek searches his big, amber-brown eyes for a hint, any clue of as to what is happening behind them. “I wanted to make sure I had it absolutely perfect, but seeing as how the dance is tomorrow and that is definitely not gonna happen…” He drops his eyes to the floor, kicking a foot at the carpet in a way that Derek's never really realized being as adorable as it is. “And there’s no way that I could like, dance on your feet or anything—”
Derek snaps back. “Wait, what? Why would you need to do that?”
Stiles slaps a palm to his own face, white skin of his hand a stark contrast to the lobster-red skin underneath.
“I’m an idiot. Oh, god I can’t believe I— I’m just gonna go flush myself down the toilet now.”
He turns, and Derek catches his shirt and yanks the teen back with a little more strength than he had intended to use.
Stiles staggers as he’s whirled backward, sort of falling against Derek with a small, strangled noise and a clatter of flailing limbs. For a moment he kind of rests there, caught by Derek’s solid form, and despite the frantic beating of a heart (Derek isn't sure whose it was), doesn't move.
He doesn't try to pull away or step back. It's just like the awkward morning after the pack sleepover they had last week, when they had woken up wrapped around each other. Stiles is just kind of standing there, with Derek holding on to him, arms bracketing him in, uncertain scent tingling in Derek’s nose.
“Stiles?” He asks, not wanting to dislodge the human from against him. He doesn't really expect an answer of course, but Derek had a hunch as to what Stiles was getting at. He sighs into the small space between them. “My answer is yes, by the way.”
Stiles makes no attempt to move, his voice coming out muffled from where he had sort of face-planted into his shoulder.
“Yes to what?” He asks.
Derek shakes his head. “To the dance, to you asking me. That is what you were getting at, wasn’t it?” The sudden flush of doubt in his mind forces a cold touch of panic into Derek’s veins.
Stiles still says nothing, and Derek is about three second away from aborting the whole thing and hiding under the bed, until he feels the bob of his throat as Stiles swallows against Derek’s chest. The quiet, almost whispered answer comes as he lifts his head off of Derek’s shoulder, decidedly not looking the werewolf in the face.
“Uh, yeah. I mean, if you want… I just… I’m pretty much hopeless when it comes to any of the actual dancing itself, though.”
Derek chuckles before tilting his head to brush his nose against Stiles' cheek. The boy smells happy and relieved, even if he's obviously still oozing of anxiety. Derek breathes it all in; still overwhelmed that he can be so close without Stiles ordering him away.
“First of all, you don’t give yourself enough credit.” He pauses. “Second of all, if you really think you suck that bad, which you don’t, you can always just dance on my feet.”
The feeling of Stiles smiling into his neck is warm and, now that Derek thinks about it, kind of perfect.
“You sure?” Stiles asks.
“Of course,” Derek answers, a smile pulling at his lips. He’s suddenly conscious of the fact that Stiles hasn’t pulled away yet. “Now get some rest, fool. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
When slowly stepping back, Derek's lips brush against Stiles’ cheek, now flushed and hot with color, There's a loud skip of a heartbeat, but once again Derek can't tell who it belongs to because theirs are beating in sync. But that's fine; he doesn't need to know. He slips back out the window.
And despite the fog forming on his breath, and the cold bite of the chilly, nighttime air of late December, Derek can't help but feel like he's anything but warm.
It’s their last dance lesson before Friday, and Derek knew Stiles was good, but not this good.
-
It's the second time Derek wakes up all wrapped up in Stiles' strong scent and presence, but this time he's not the first one to open his eyes.
A hand settling on his shoulder is enough for him to snap his eyes open, his heart stopping dead in his chest when he finds Stiles' face only inches in front of his own. He's smiling, face lit up from the daylight streaming in though the windows, and maybe he's said something Derek didn't catch. Waiting for him to repeat it, Derek's heart starts throbbing in a steady pace as he takes in their surroundings.
Stiles is crouching in front of Derek's couch, his own a mess with wrinkled sheets. There's a Christmas tree in the corner which Derek hadn't noticed last night due to the lights being out, but the power must be back on because the tree's beautiful lighting makes it feel like the center of the room.
Well, not entirely, Derek decides as he swallows and returns his focus to Stiles.
The hand on his shoulder loses its weight, as if Stiles is about to withdraw it now that he doesn't need to shake Derek awake, but it lingers there for a moment longer.
"I thought you'd be gone when I woke up, to be honest," Stiles eventually confesses with a soft scoff.
Derek hesitates.
"That was the plan," he admits.
Stiles blinks. "Oh," he says, seeming unsure whether or not he should be disappointed.
Derek hadn't meant to stay because he feared he would handle this morning awfully. He'd meant to just wait for Stiles to fall asleep and then he'd leave before dawn arrived, but he'd been so tired, so exhausted after struggling with both fighting and accepting what anchored him last night and Stiles had lulled him to sleep. His sweet scent, his warm presence and his soft breaths. It had been hypnotizing, and eventually he'd just given up and let his wolf drift off to sleep.
"I can't remember last time I did that," he mumbles, still with one cheek on the pillow. "Fell asleep during a fullmoon."
Stiles just smiles widely, and Derek's heart flutters as he smiles back.
The boy's hair is a mess again, and Derek only spends a short moment keeping himself from reaching out to stroke it back in place before realizing that maybe he's actually allowed to. Carefully and ready to be rejected, he lifts the arm he's not currently lying on and reaches up to run his fingers through Stiles' tousled hair. Stiles doesn't protest. In fact, his eyes flutter a little at the touch and Derek can hear both their heartbeats speeding up at the contact.
"You guys up?" Comes Scott's voice from the other room, along with the sound of him tumbling down the stairs.
Derek jerks his hand back by pure reflex, and Stiles sighs a little as he finally slides his hand off Derek's shoulder. He smells of disappointment, and it makes Derek feel oddly content.
"We're up," Stiles confirms just as Scott appears in the doorway, getting up from the floor. "And starving."
"Good thing I'm here then," Melissa comments, who is also coming downstairs with the sheriff and Isaac judging by the horde of footsteps. "I'm in the mood for making pancakes."
Derek hurries to sit up on the couch, not very keen on remaining in a horizontal position when the others join them in the living room. He's still wearing the clothes from yesterday; the ones he'd worn while cowering in the loft before fleeing out in the storm. Being a warm-blooded werewolf, he usually sleeps with much less clothing and he runs even hotter on full moons. The fabric is clinging to his hot skin in an uncomfortable and nearly damp way, but he does his best to ignore it.
"Don't you two have to get to work?" Stiles asks.
"Not before breakfast," the sheriff decides firmly. "And by the way; school's out today. We just got the call upstairs."
"Oh thank god," Scott breathes out.
"We'll still have dance rehearsal this afternoon though, right?" Isaac wonders.
"Do you think we need to?" Scott asks, seemingly directing the question to both Isaac and Derek.
"Of course we do," Isaac answers before Derek has a chance. "The dance is in two days!"
"And you're more than prepared," Derek assures as he comes to a stand, straightening his shirt. "Trust me, you'll dance way better than most of your classmates."
Isaac looks a little overwhelmed by that, and Derek offers a small smile for added reassurance.
"I'd actually want a rehearsal today, too, though," Stiles admits. "It could be the last one."
Scott shrugs. "Sounds good to me."
"Terrific," the sheriff agrees. "Now can we please move our asses to the kitchen?"
They all huff in agreement and start moving toward the kitchen. Derek feels a twist in his gut, suddenly reminded by the reality of the whole situation. He wants to join them. He wants to sit down next to Stiles by the table and remain. He wants to stay close to Stiles. He wants to keep touching him.
"Actually," he croaks out. "I think I should go."
They all stop to look at him in surprise, but it's only one of them Derek looks to meet. Stiles' expression makes Derek's heart ache because it's practically screaming 'please don't fall into denial'.
I won't, Derek tries to tell him without having to say the words out loud. He's done denying. He's been denying; all those weeks he was out of town when Cora and the other pack had gotten to see his eyes change blue on more than one occasion because he'd refused to accept the fact that his anchor had changed. He'd refused to admit that what reminded him of his humanity, and kept his wolf in control, is no longer anger, but this kid he'd left behind in Beacon Hills.
He won't deny what was said and done last night, but he needs to give them both some time; needs to put some distance between them before he takes more than Stiles is willing to give.
Stiles' dad gives him an understanding nod. "Okay, Derek. Thanks for last night."
Derek opens his mouth to protest that he should be the one saying that, but then the man claps his son on the shoulder and it's nearly ridiculous how much he obviously understands.
"Thanks for having me," he still says, nodding to all of them. "See you guys later."
He heads for the door, but there are steps following all the way there. It's not Stiles – which Derek can't decide is a relief or the opposite – but Scott. He doesn't look mad but there's a sharp vibe oozing from him. Derek stops by the door to turn and face him.
"What," he asks flatly, his voice sounding just like he feels: defeated.
"I hope you're not running away," Scott says.
"I'm not running away," Derek promises, hesitates, then adds, "Especially not from him."
Scott actually looks relieved by that, his shoulders sinking as he breathes out.
"Then what are you doing?" He demands, voice hushed.
Derek exhales deeply, hanging his head for a bit before meeting Scott's steady gaze again.
"I'm giving him space," he explains. "Time to think. I don't want to— I don't think he realizes just how much this means to me."
What he means to me, he corrects himself inside his head.
As soon as he's gotten the words out, it hits him that Scott was never part of the anchor confession last night, but he doesn't look either confused nor surprised. There's not even the hint of a skip in his pulse.
"Derek, he's been around from the start," he reminds him. "He was there when I first started to turn. He knows what Allison meant to me, and how important she was. Hell, he was the one figuring out she was my anchor before I even did! Trust me; Stiles knows what it means."
"Maybe the importance of it," Derek argues. "Not how much I—"
"Derek—"
"No, Scott, you don't get it," Derek interrupts, feeling a small panic grow within him.
"I do though," Scott insists firmly. "Honestly, if you don't think you and Stiles are aiming for the same thing here you must be blind." The butterflies in Derek's stomach go wild from hearing someone say it out loud. "You two have been dancing around each other all month; literally and metaphorically."
"There's nothing that—"
"Everything," Scott protests with a simple nod. "Seriously, don't make me write you a list."
Derek sighs in defeat. He wants to believe it; wants to believe that Stiles actually wants the same thing he does. There's a warm tingle of hope in his stomach at hearing Scott insisting on it, but he can't let it take over.
"I won't be the one to take the last step," he says quietly. "I'm not gonna risk what I have with him now. He's okay with it. He's okay with… me." He swallows at the lump in his throat. "If he doesn't want to go further than this, I'm okay with that."
"Well, I'm not okay with that," Scott groans. "And I really need to shut up right now because I shouldn't be the one to tell you this," he adds. "He should. Just—" He flops with his arms helplessly. "Trust me, okay? Trust him, too."
"I do trust you," Derek says warmly, meaning it. "Both of you."
Scott smiles, bright and wide, and Derek huffs in response. Underneath the strong leader there's still a young pup who probably could run a pack on his cuteness alone. Derek never thought the kid he saved from the Argent's arrows on his first full moon would turn into what's now standing in front of him.
Derek claps him on the shoulder as he finally opens the door. "See you this afternoon, Scott."
When the teens arrive at the loft a few hours later, things don't feel too different from yesterday's lesson. Lydia casually informs that her boy toy won't be showing up because they're both more than good enough. She only came to be of assistance to the others and because she's out of homework to do. (Derek can't argue with that.) The rest of them are there, and despite the fact that he saw three of them this morning, Derek still figures it'll be like any other rehearsal.
He couldn't be more wrong.
Since Isaac appears to be more in distress than any of them, Derek grabs him as soon as the music starts. Usually he'd pair himself up with Stiles without a second thought – as if on some kind of instinct – and he notices the surprised look he receives in the corner of his eyes. He pretends not to, but he's pretty sure Isaac can tell how his heart sinks when Lydia puts Stiles' hand on her side.
Part of him is aggressively refusing to call it avoidance, but that's definitely what it is.
He spends most of the hour dancing with Isaac, and using him when reminding the group of certain steps. Scott suggests they switch partners – using Derek's own words against him – and Derek silently agrees only to take Allison from him.
It's not that he doesn't want to touch Stiles. Fuck, all he wants to do is touch him. It's nothing new; the way he reacts to the boys scent. Derek can't tell when it started happening, when he really started noticing, but he's pretty sure it's been there for a long time. Now it's different because now he's got permission to touch, which is why he keeps himself from doing it because he doubt he'll be able to stop.
He wants to dance with Stiles only to drop his hand to the dip of Stiles' waist, thumb tracing his hipbone through his thin shirt. He wants to slip his other hand out of Stiles' and slide it into his soft hair, watch his eyes flutter shut in sensation like they had this morning. He wants to feel Stiles' heart hammer against his chest as they press together, Derek leaning into the curve of Stiles' neck to inhale him.
But Stiles may not approve of that, so he stays away altogether.
When there's only a few minutes left of the hour, however, Stiles surprises him by suggesting another switch and this time heads straight for Derek, leaving him no choice but to either accept his outstretched hand or turn it down. And he may have been avoiding taking Stiles' hand all lesson but he can't turn him down. He hadn't one week ago in the park and it's hardly gone backwards from there.
He takes Stiles' hand, stepping forward into his personal space and gets a lungful of his intoxicating scent.
"Can I lead?" Stiles asks just as Derek's about to place his hand on Stiles' side.
Derek blinks in surprise; not once during these past two weeks of dancing has Stiles ever asked that.
"Sure," he says, attempting to shrug carelessly, but it probably looks more like a chill running down his spine – which isn't too far from the truth.
His hand lands on Stiles' shoulder instead, and when a firm palm is spread over his ribs, Derek knows he's screwed.
They start to move on Stiles' count, and Derek half expect to bump into one of the other couples dancing around them, but they don't. Stiles has his gaze locked with Derek's, not glancing down at their feet even once, and Derek feels hypnotized by his intense stare. He knew Stiles had gotten good, but not this good. He moves in nearly perfect rhythm to the music, each step confident and steady. Derek just follows, relaxing in Stiles' grip and letting him take complete control. Stiles' face is twisted in concentration, but there's also a smile resting on his lips, and Derek's heart jumps at all of it.
He loses track of time, lost his Stiles' eyes, but is pulled out of his haze by Stiles suddenly stopping dead in his tracks and dipping him. Derek sucks in a sharp breath in shock, thankfully not letting out more embarrassing sounds than that. For a second he's certain he's gonna fall to the floor, but Stiles has his hand spread out across his shoulder blades, right above his tattoo, steadying him on one arm. The fact that Stiles is strong enough to hold him like that is enough for Derek to catch his breath all over again.
Stiles leans down over him, pride shining all over his face.
"Gotcha," he says lowly, sounding a little out of breath himself.
Derek blushes, and is only a second from wriggling himself free before Stiles pulls him back up. When they've straightened, Derek notices the others have stopped moving around them and are watching the two of them with impressed stares. Derek can feel the heat rise to his face even further, and he steps back from Stiles as soon as he's regained his balance.
"We're done here," he informs, going to turn the music off.
"So, what about tomorrow?" Isaac wonders. "It's the last day before the dance."
"I've nothing more to teach you," Derek says.
He's still got his back turned to them, but he can tell they're exchanging looks. The room is full of different emotions: mostly amusement, but tinged with a stench of anxiety. Derek knows who it's coming from.
The teenagers start to clear out and Derek watches them leave. Scott catches his eye and gives him a significant raise with his eyebrows. Derek has no clue what it means, but judging by the twitch of his mouth it's probably something like positive reinforcement.
Unsurprisingly, Stiles stops in the doorway after the others have already left. Derek meets his eyes from all across the room and every fiber in his body is screaming at him to run to him and stop him from leaving – like some freaking romantic comedy. But since it isn't, and he's a coward, he stands frozen.
"I have two things to say to you," Stiles says after a while, and it occurs to Derek he might have waited in silence for so long on purpose until the other wolves were out of hearing range. He doesn't sound upset, thank god, but determined. "First: you're an asshole."
Derek doesn't disagree.
"Second: I don't need super hearing to eavesdrop in my own house."
Then he turns on his heel and is gone, leaving Derek with only the matching sound of two racing hearts – one in his chest and the other fleeing down the stairs.
It's the first full moon since the lunar eclipse that Stiles has reason to acknowledge.
-
It's just a Tuesday, but it's the first night in a long time Melissa is off the night shift, so Stiles' dad invites the McCalls over for dinner. Stiles knows he's wanted to for some time now; has eavesdropped on him asking her on the phone several times last week, but their different work schedules never wanted to cooperate.
Scott is the first one through the door, opening it the moment Melissa rings the doorbell. She lands a punch on her son's bicep and reminds him to show manners, but they all know Stiles and Scott are a lost cause. Stiles even got a key to their front door, so Scott barging in like he lives there isn't a big deal.
Isaac appears looking as if he's not sure he's even invited, but the sheriff puts a hand on his shoulder and pulls him inside without any hesitation.
"It's a full moon tonight," Scott reminds them while taking off his jacket. "I figured we shouldn't be separated," he explains, looking over at Isaac who's unwrapping the scarf around his neck. "Just in case."
But the sheriff just waves it off. "No excuses needed," he assures. "Isaac, you are always welcome here," he says, giving Isaac a light smile. Funny; Stiles always thought of Isaac as a puppy, but this time he looks more like a kitten. "But I do agree that sounds safest."
"Me too," Melissa agrees. "And wherever the other wolves in town are, I hope they'll hold hard onto their anchors as well because I really need this night off."
A chuckle surges among them, and Stiles' dad starts herding them toward the kitchen.
Stiles had actually forgotten about the full moon, and for a moment he feels really bad about it. Since the last two full moons had passed by without any chaos, he's simply stopped paying attention to the moon cycle. All werewolves in the area are in control, have their anchors, so there hasn't really been a reason to count down or dread the full moon nights.
He thinks about the twins for a moment, wondering if their anchors would've changed after the showdown with the Darach. Scott's hadn't changed, just extended. As long as it works, Stiles isn't gonna question it. He just hopes that Lydia and Danny are smart enough – which he knows they are – to deal with their werewolf boyfriends in whatever way that keeps them from going on a rampage. They've been fine for the past two times, after all.
"Alright, let's eat," the sheriff declares and none of them hesitate to obey.
The weather had been bad when the teens went to Derek's loft earlier in the afternoon, but by the time they finish dinner it's blown up to a full snow storm. The wind is whistling and the snow tumbling around outside, and Stiles feels genuinely pleased to be inside right now because he'd probably blow away in the harsh wind.
Melissa suggests she and the boys better head home before it gets worse, but the sheriff protests that it's already worse and insists on them staying for dessert. He's always wanted to try his hand at cheesecake anyway. Stiles signals quickly to Melissa to hurry after him to help – AKA save the cheesecake.
Stiles goes to look out through the window, and the first thing that catches his eye is the big circle in the night sky. He would call it beautiful if it hadn't been for all the trouble it's cost, so he just glares.
He sees Isaac sneaking his hand to Scott's thigh under the table in the corner of his eye, but he pretends to be oblivious.
The cheesecake is done only minutes before the power goes out.
"Bring more candles!" Stiles yells after his dad when he heads back into the kitchen with the empty sauce pan to prepare to make another round of hot chocolate over the fire.
"Stiles, I think this is enough," Melissa remarks, gesturing to the dozen of candles on practically every even surface in the room, glowing like stars in the dark.
"There can never be enough candles," Stiles argues even though he's pretty sure these are all candles they own, so he'll let it slide for now.
Melissa scoffs and wraps her blanket righter around herself, shifting to sit just a little bit closer to Scott next to her on the floor to make up for the cold spot the sheriff had left. She's not even trying to be subtle about it; not ashamed to take advantage of her son's abilities, which in this case is the fact that he works like a heater.
Stiles, however, still has some pride left and therefore only scoots closer to the fireplace rather than his best friend or his boyfriend. He's put on a hoodie and has a blanket of his own wrapped around him, but it's still cold as hell. Scott and Isaac are still in their t-shirts, those hot bastards.
"What time is it?" Isaac asks.
"A little past ten," Stiles' dad calls from the kitchen before either of them have a chance to reach for their phones.
"Damn," Scott breathes. "I have an assignment due tomorrow."
"They'll probably close the school if this keeps going much longer," Melissa says, "So don't worry about that, honey."
"You'll stay in my room if it goes past bedtime," Stiles decides.
"This is past bedtime," Melissa remarks, but the boys don't pay her any mind.
"What about me?" Isaac wonders, coking his eyebrow and somehow managing to look both offended and threatening at the same time.
"I was talking about both of you," Stiles declares. "Oh my god, I'm not so stupid I'd cockblock you on a full moon night."
"Stiles!" Both mother and son sighs in unison. Isaac looks plainly embarrassed.
Their following accusations are interrupted by the sound of someone knocking loudly on the front door. They all freeze, listening to the raging storm outside and looks uncertainty at each other.
"Was that actually a knock or just a tree that fell on our door?" Stiles asks because who the hell would even be outside right now?
"Pretty sure that's a knock," Melissa says. "Like, 85% sure."
"Stiles, can you get that?" His dad calls from the kitchen, clearly not picking up on just how creepy it is.
"This is like a horror story," Stiles complains as he has to release himself from the cozy blanket to stand up.
"Which one?" Scott asks.
"I don't know," Stiles admits. "But I'm positive there's one that goes very much like this."
The hallway is pitch black, and if he didn't know this house as well as he does, he probably would've tripped more than once while making his way to the door. There's nothing but the storm blowing outside to be heard, and Stiles wishes they had one of those peepholes so he could see if there's actually someone out there before unlocking the front door. Clearly the town's sheriff should have one, and not just for his son's entertainment.
His plan is to only crack the door open enough to peek out, but just like most plans lately it all goes to hell when the strong wind slams the door wide open the second he presses down on the handle, and the loud bang as it collides against the wall makes Stiles fear it'll fall off its hinges. At least it's open, he figures, and it turns out it was a knock because standing on the porch with a bewildered expression is Derek.
Then his eyes flash blue, and Stiles gets a vivid déjà vu from that one time when the werewolf had showed up dying in the school's parking lot and ended up spending most of the day in his Jeep.
"Derek? Oh my god." Stiles instinctively grabs him by the arm and yanks him inside before struggling to shut the door. "Are you crazy? What are you doing outside in this weather?"
Derek doesn't even get a chance to answer before Isaac and Scott appear, their eyes glowing like lanterns in the dark.
"Derek?" Scott echoes. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Derek says, but sounds like he's talking through gritted teeth.
Stiles can hear muffled voices from the kitchen, figuring Melissa has gone to join his dad to make sure none of the sacred ingredients for the cocoa is forgotten (it has happened) or perhaps she heard who was at the door and left the living room to give them some space. Either way, she's awesome.
"Well, you can't just stand here like a wet dog," he says, nodding down the corridor where a warm light can be seen at the end. "Come on."
Derek doesn't even try to object, just lets himself be lead back to the living room where the candles are still burning and the flames are still dancing in the fireplace. Blankets are thrown everywhere, pillows in disarray on the two couches and empty, dirty mugs spread out all over the place. Stiles realizes it looks like a slumber party.
He pushes Derek to sit on the closest couch and wraps a blanket around his damp shoulders, debating whether he should go fetch a towel instead.
"You know I can't really get sick, right?" Derek wonders in a light tone, meeting Stiles' gaze over his shoulder, and his eyes are back to normal now.
"For the sake of my sanity, let's pretend that you do," Stiles says firmly before reaching for his own blanket.
Scott and Isaac have returned to their spots on the floor, so their supernatural heat is out of Stiles' reach. Luckily he's got another hot werewolf (pun intended) next to him on the couch, and he shamelessly snuggles into his side. Derek doesn't protest.
The grown-ups reappear a while later, and Stiles is a little curious of what took them so long, but he doesn't call them out on it. The new mug in his father's hand speaks for him both acknowledging and accepting the addition to the group, which is a relief. Still, this is a golden opportunity.
"Dad, I found a wet dog on our porch," he announces, and the wolves on the floor snicker. "Can I keep him?"
He's not sure, but he thinks he can feel Derek stir next to him.
"Sure," his dad replies with a shrug. "He's allowed on the couch but not in bed."
Stiles blushes too hard that for a moment he feels like opening up a window.
Around midnight it's been decided that the McCalls will spend the night, and one by one they leave the living room to prepare themselves for the night. They still don't have electricity, but the fireplace has at least helped spread some warmth throughout the house. Stiles' dad even found their little battery driven heater they usually bring on camping trips and has let it run in his bedroom for the past hour, saying Melissa should stay there with him instead of taking the cold guest room. Isaac and Scott promise to keep Stiles from freezing to death in his room, and that's good enough for the sheriff.
Stiles isn't even surprised when he and Derek end up on their own on the couch after the others have run off because it's been happening a lot lately. There had been a time when he'd considered being left alone with Derek a punishment, but now it feels like the complete opposite.
Derek has barely moved since he got there, just remained where Stiles put him. He appears to be relaxed, but Stiles can feel him tense up against his side now and then, and his eyes have changed color more than once since he entered the house. If it hadn't been for the obvious fact that he's unharmed, Stiles would assume he's been shot by one of those wolfs bane bullets again because that's the only time he's seen Derek without total control.
A heavy silence hovers between them for a long time because Stiles isn't sure if he should ask or not, but then Derek flinches at nothing again, sending a small vibration through Stiles' arm that's pressed to his side.
"I thought you didn't get affected by the full moon," he says carefully, tilting his head to look at him.
"All werewolves are affected," Derek replies, eyes absently watching the fire. "I feel the blood lust just like everyone else. I've just been able to shut it out, to stay in control."
"Well, no offense, dude," Stiles says. "But you don't look like you're in control right now."
Derek swallows so hard Stiles can hear it travel down his throat. He stays quiet for such a long time Stiles thinks he won't answer at all.
"It's… my anchor," he finally says, voice low. "Just like Isaac and Scott should be together and ground each other tonight, I—" His eyes flicker to meet Stiles' gaze. "I came here."
Stiles blinks, trying to process and understand just what it means; that Derek came here to anchor himself on a full moon's night.
"I don't get it," he admits. He's frustrated because he wants to understand, but he also doesn't want to push Derek too hard since he's not a man of many words in the first place. "Your anchor..?"
Derek averts his eyes from Stiles again, hanging his head.
"It's not the same anymore," he mumbles.
And that's a lot for Stiles to take in because he realizes so much about Derek has changed since he was just the grumpy older werewolf he and Scott sought lessons in lycanthropy from. The born werewolf who'd seemed to know exactly who he was and how to deal with his powers. He who used his anger not to lose grip on humanity. None of that applies anymore.
"Is that why you came back?" He asks. "To be anchored?"
"I came back for you," Derek says, looking back to lock their gazes again. Stiles' heart stops. Then Derek must've realized his mistake. "All of you," he clarifies, but his voice is unsteady. "We may not be pack anymore – if we ever were – but with Cora gone, you guys are the closest thing to a pack I have left. You, Scott and Isaac."
Stiles blinks, amazed by how he can tell Derek isn't perfectly honest despite his lack of superpowers.
"I'm your anchor," he breathes, and it's not really a question.
Derek shifts in his seat, avoiding Stiles's eyes.
Holy fuck, Stiles thinks as with his heart jolts violently. Maybe it's not as big of a deal as he thinks it is because him being what keeps Derek grounded and human would only be logical as he is human, and no doubt the closest one to him – but that doesn't keep Stiles from being overwhelmed.
"I should go," Derek suddenly says, standing up abruptly.
Stiles bounces to his feet as well, wrapping his fingers around one of Derek's wrists in a firm grip because the guy looks like he's about to bolt. The werewolf could easily escape if he wants to, because despite Stiles' new muscles he's still nothing compared to Derek, but he just stops dead in his tracks the second their skin make contact.
"I think we both know that wouldn't be a good idea," Stiles says pointedly, cocking a significant eyebrow.
Derek looks at him then, face so open and chest heaving. For a second he looks like he wants to deny it, shrug it off with a snort like Derek Hale used to do. Before they got to know each other. Before he learned that Stiles isn't someone he can push away. Before he learned that Stiles will always stay and never run or hide, like he had.
"You should sleep," he mumbles.
Stiles releases his grip on Derek's arm since he no longer looks like he's about to flee with his tail between his legs.
"I can still sleep with you in the house," he points out.
"No, I— I don't want to be a bother," Derek protests. "You already have Scott and Isaac to spend the night."
"Yeah, and those two are probably rutting against each other in my bed at this point," Stiles scoffs. He gestures to the couch. "I'm gonna take the couch, because this room is warm. And, you know, if it helps…" He swallows, butterflies swirling in his belly as he nods to the other couch. "You could take that one. I mean, you don't have to sleep," he hurries to add. "But I'd prefer that over you standing above me watching me sleep. It'd give me the Twilight-creeps."
Thankfully there's a smile tugging at the corner of Derek's mouth because Stiles' face is burning again, and even if his flush can't be seen in the warm light of the fire, he knows Derek can still sniff out his embarrassment.
"I'll sleep," Derek says. "But only if it's okay with your father."
Stiles' heart is just about to sink but is interrupted by the voice from the dark doorway.
"I'm okay with it," his dad informs calmly. "It's the couch, isn't it?" Before Stiles has the time to say anything, the man continues. "Stiles, you know where the sheets are. Goodnight."
And he's gone.
Stiles slowly blinks at the empty hallway before turning back to Derek who looks just as surprised as he feels.
"Well," he says, voice a little tight. "That wasn't awkward at all."
Derek huffs, ducking his head, and Stiles lets out a breath of relief. He's happy that even though Derek's shoulders still look tense, he does seem to relax a little. The butterflies in Stiles' stomach go crazy at the thought of it being because he'll be close to Stiles tonight.
"I'm gonna go fetch the sheets," he excuses, already halfway out of the room when he adds "Stay!" in what's supposed to be another dog joke, but the word comes out a little heavier than intended and causes his stomach to knot.
The fire has nearly died by the time Stiles returns because he freaked out a little about only having Marvel hero covers and had tried to find something else for Derek, but in the end he'd given up and decided Wolverine would do.
Derek is still standing up, which is ridiculous because it's been minutes. He looks up as soon as Stiles reappears, and his face looks like a big sign reading I'm sorry.
"Alright," Stiles says, dumping the pile of sheets on the closest couch with a sigh. "Stop looking like you've kicked a puppy. You haven't done anything wrong."
His voice is almost sharp because he needs Derek to understand. He looks like he thinks he's a burden and Stiles hates it.
"Haven't I?" He asks flatly.
"No," Stiles replies easily, taking one step closer but still leaving a few feet between them. "And if your little light show tonight was because you feeling guilty about bothering me, then let it go."
Derek stays quiet for a moment.
"You're really okay with it?"
"Am I okay with keeping you human and preventing you from going on a killing spree? Yeah, I believe I am." Then he pauses. "I mean... I don't really have to do anything, do I?"
He feels a bit awkward for asking, but he has no clue how this thing works.
"No," Derek says hurriedly, shaking his head. "Nothing."
"I mean, I could," Stiles clarifies, heart pounding. "If I just, you know, knew what."
He remember Allison holding Scott's hand on more than on occasion to calm his wolf, and the thought of doing the same to Derek has his heart hammer like crazy against his ribs.
"Stiles," Derek says, voice so deep it sends a chill down Stiles' spine. His eyes flash blue again, but it doesn't last for more than a second, and it doesn't look as strained as the previous times. "You don't have to do anything. You— You're enough. You've always been enough," he breathes, eyes still meeting his steadily. "You didn't need to do anything for the past two full moons and you won't have to this time."
Stiles blinks, letting it all sink in while Derek's still standing only a few feet in front of him, chest heaving. How long as he been Derek's anchor exactly? Since he left? Before that?
"You missed me," he finally says, and it's barely a murmur.
"Of course I missed you!" Derek hisses, gritting his teeth as if half of him doesn't approve of the secret spilling from his lips. "Fuck, I've missed you so much it's been driving me insane!"
It's only a sharp inhale of breath later that Stiles steps forward, closing the final distance between them and does what he'd done when he first saw Derek again in the woods that night, only this time he's actually aware what he's doing. And this time Derek doesn't hesitate to hug him back.
He nuzzles into Derek's shoulder, feels the arms around his waist tighten as Derek does the same. Stiles breathes out, letting his eyes fall shut and relax against Derek's solid heat. He can feel Derek relax into the embrace as well; can feel the hot breath through the fabric of his shirt as Derek exhales deeply. His shoulders gradually drop and soon his head goes heavy on Stiles' shoulder.
"You're an idiot," Stiles sighs.
It's just a whisper, with his face half buried in Derek's shirt, but the werewolf must've picked it up because he hums in agreement.
Later, after they've awkwardly stepped out of each other's personal space and put out the fire in the room, Stiles lies wide awake under the covers. His gaze is on the other couch, and the two glowing blue eyes meet his in the dark. They don't say anything, but Stiles is pretty sure his racing heart speaks more than enough.
And that's when Stiles realize: he doesn't want to find a date for the dance on Friday. He doesn't want to dance with anyone else. He wants to dance with Derek.
Stiles forgets his sweater after practice. Derek doesn’t really mind, until he comes back to get it.
-
They just finished that afternoon’s practice, and Derek is already busy straightening and sliding the furniture of his loft into their rightful places. Thankfully, there isn't that much to move, so the process doesn't take too long. Usually that wouldn’t bother him so much, but it does today because his mind keeps returning to Stiles.
His dancing is improving, to say the least, but Derek still thinks he need work. There was a point during practice when he even had to break Lydia away from him, and take her place, to talk Stiles through the footwork he’d just shown the rest of the group. The instant he’d placed the teen’s hand around his own waist, Derek was struck by his scent. Normally strong, and constantly ebbing and flowing with Stiles’ thoughts, it filled his nose, filtered in through his pores, and made him want to breathe deep, while making him feel like the wind had been knocked out of him at the same time. It made him want. It took everything he had to concentrate.
Derek’s mind keeps jumping back to Stiles’ sweet, heady scent, laden with the thick tinge of arousal. He figured it had to be from Lydia, the residual effect of her proximity to the normally flail-tastic teenager. Derek is no stranger to Stiles’ ‘ten-year plan’ with the near-genius-level girl who didn’t give him the time of day. Inexplicably.
Whatever, Derek can't get his scent out of his nose all afternoon.
Derek resumes straightening his furniture and suddenly realizes that it's still there. It actually smells like Stiles is still in the room. His heart jumps at the notion, as he glares around his apartment, and sniffs, trying to satisfy himself that Stiles is not, in fact, hiding in a corner waiting to jump his bones, which is admittedly, a prospect he wouldn't mind. Derek shoves the couch back to its normal location with a final, heavy push, and surprises himself as he see Stiles’ red hoodie peaking out from where it seemed to have fallen next to it.
That's it. The source of the lingering scent. The citrus-and-cinnamon, sweat-and-flannel, goddamn perfect scent of Stiles Stilinski. It's an odd aroma, sure, but for Stiles, it kind of works. Okay, it definitely do more than that. Even when tinged with exertion, or stale exhaustion, or the odd subtleties of arousal, or happiness, or even anger, or an overabundance of adderall, it seems as though his scent always sort of fit, whenever Derek’s nose caught a whiff of it.
He finds himself picking the worn red hoodie up off of the floor, and running the old fabric of it through his fingers. The lining is rough and touch-worn, comfortable in it’s own way, Derek supposes, considering how much Stiles wears the thing. He can almost feel where Stiles’ skin had pressed into parts of it. Derek runs his fingers over where Stiles’ neck had been grazed by the seam of the hood on blustery days, where the sleeves sat against his perfect, articulate wrists, or high on his elbows, or where the hem of it had rested at his hips, pulling any other shirt over with it as he moved. From each spot, there were warm, strong, almost untamed scents literally pouring out of the fabric, like those particular points were where the pheremonal eux de Stiles leaked constantly; the points that always drew Derek’s eye, the perk of his ears, the sniff of his nose, or the internal lick of his tongue.
Derek wants to bury his face in it, to drink in Stiles’ scent-heavy jacket until he could taste it. So that’s what he does, making sure each and every breath he takes is soaked in the warm, perfect aroma, until everything is drowned out around him. Even his wolf is starting to enjoy it, letting a deep, unconscious hum of contentment slip up from the depths of Derek’s chest as he press the sweater to his nose.
“Derek what're you--" says a familiar voice.
Derek freezes as his senses return to him. He can literally hear his heart stop in his chest as panic begins to overtake every nerve he owns.
"What? Nothing!" He answers the unfinished question, aggressively dropping Stiles’ jacket back to where he found it and standing up, probably making it more obvious than anything else that he was, in fact, burying his nose into the worn outerwear. How the hell did Stiles slip back into the loft without him hearing?
"Uh-huh," Stiles intones, narrowing his eyes at the werewolf suspiciously. "Well, if you're done sniffing it--” Derek feels his ears heat up because of course Stiles seeing it. He wonders how long he’d been standing there before he’d said something. Stiles continues. “Mind if i get it back? You know, because it's all winter and stuff outside?"
"I wasn't sniffing it,” Derek argues, trying desperately to sound incredulous at the suggestion.
"Right," comes Stiles' totally unconvinced response.
"I was just trying to figure out why the apartment still smelled from practice," Derek shrugs, in what looks like a very deliberate attempt to pass off the entire thing. Smoothe. Derek thanks the powers that be that Stiles isn't a werewolf. “Now I know.”
He bends down to retrieve the garment, corner of his eye catching what looks like something like hurt, or even disappointment flash across Stiles’ face. Derek almost did a double-take. Almost.
"Oh, I thought that you were-- You know what, never mind."
"What?" Derek asks, That I was nose-raping your jacket? That I really missed the fact that nothing has smelled like you during the time I was away? That your scent does things to me that I can’t even explain? That-- He had to stop himself; his heart was skipping several beats in the awkward silence.
"Nothing, don’t worry about it,” Stiles dismisses, backing toward the half-open door. “On second thought, it's really not that chilly. I'll be fine. Keep it."
His ears are a shade of pink that Derek hadn't noticed before. So are his cheeks. The werewolf cocks an appreciative eyebrow before he starts to protest.
“Stiles, it’s like forty degrees outside,” he reasons.
The human waves him off. “I’ll be fine. I’m pretty resilient.”
Derek scoffs. “I highly doubt that.” And cue the guilt. Be nicer, damnit.
Stiles doesn't seem to notice. “Please, I’ve been running around with werewolves for the past year and a half. Some of your… wolf-magic was bound to rub off on me eventually.” Derek’s mind immediately latched on to the thought of rubbing up against Stiles. He shook it off as he felt heat begin to slip to his face… among other things. Wolf-magic?
“I don’t think it works like that,” Derek replies with a soft chuckle, still vaguely aware that he was holding Stiles’ hoodie tightly in his hands. He had to remind himself to loosen them.
“Whatever dude, I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?” Derek asks, hoping silently that Stiles would say yes.
“Yeah.”
Stiles pulls open the door a little wider, and Derek opens his mouth to say something, anything, to let him know how he feels, how he really had missed Stiles and his scent for those two months. But the words catch in his throat. He sighs. Coward.
“Derek?”
Derek’s ears perk up. “Yeah?”
“Today was… It was fun. I’m-- Thanks for helping me out. You know, with the dancing.”
“Don’t mention it,” Derek answers, his mind screaming for him to say anything else. But he didn’t. All he got out was a spineless, “See you tomorrow, Stiles.”
“See ya, wolfie.”
Derek’s heart flutters as he turns away, unable to watch Stiles leave. He can't. There's a soft rustling, and the sliding of the door closing on its track as Stiles leaves. Just like that, Stiles is gone, leaving Derek standing there, holding his hoodie in his hands, the scent in his nose still so strong that it seemed like the human had never really left in the first place.
He looks down at the faded red hoodie in his hands, and whispers quietly, “I missed you too, you know.” It kind of feel like he's saying it to Stiles himself. For now, that is all he can do. He presses the sweater to his face one last time before turning to hang it on the hook next to his own--
He stops, looking at the empty hook where his leather jacket normally hung next to the door, and realizes that Stiles had taken it. Figures, he thinks with a snort. It's freezing outside, and no matter what Stiles said, he isn't as resilient as he’d made himself out to be.
But then again, neither is Derek. That’s why he smiles, and shrugs Stiles’ hoodie on over his own shoulders, and spend the rest of the night pretending that Stiles is wrapped around him.
Derek wakes up to find Stiles sleeping soundly on his arm.
-
Derek isn't a morning person. He never was.
When he'd been younger, he had once shared a room with Laura and he'd wake every morning to her jumping on his bed. Usually this followed with the two of them wrestling and eventually ended up in a mess on the floor, and Laura praised herself for successfully getting him out of bed.
These days he can manage getting out of bed on his own, and there's no one around to get on his nerves or tease him for his morning-mood. He can take his time because he's alone.
Only this morning he isn't.
Slowly, he becomes aware of the scents and sounds of movement around him, still not fully awake and his eyelids heavy with sleep. There's a warm presence somewhere nearby, and that would've had him jolt wide awake if it hadn't been obvious that there's no threat. Derek let's a humming sound slip out of him as he becomes more conscious, and the responding mumble coming only inches away from him is what finally makes him snap his eyes open.
The first thing his eyes land on is Stiles' face because it's right in front of him. Derek blinks the sleep out of his eyes, feeling how his heart jolts a little in surprise. They're lying on their sides facing each other, and Stiles is using Derek's outstretched arm as a pillow. His warm cheek is resting on Derek's underarm, and Derek can feel a chill run down his spine as the boy softly breathes hot air that curls delicately over his skin.
Derek angles his head as much as he dares without disturbing Stiles, making sure there's no one around to hear the way his heart rate escalates. He can't see much, but the sounds and collection of heartbeats coming from the kitchen speaks for all of them being gathered there already. There's a twist in Derek's stomach by the thought of them getting up earlier to see the position he and Stiles are in. Heat rises to his cheeks, but he aggressively ignores it.
His gaze is drawn back to Stiles' face, once again holding the same peaceful expression he'd had in the ER waiting room the other day. His pink lips are slightly parted, his eyelids closed, but muscles moving behind them. Stiles is dreaming, Derek realizes, but when he tries to pick up any negative vibes, he finds nothing. It isn't a bad dream and the moment Derek comes to that conclusion it also hits him that Stiles is actually sleeping.
His first thought is that it'll be a relief to be able to tell the sheriff that, and the next is the fact that he hadn't gone to sleep in his own bed last night. He doesn't remember his own reasons – if there had even been any. Stiles had pulled him down with him on the mattresses and Derek hadn't even tried to protest. Not even when Stiles had shuffled closer to press his back against Derek's chest. They must have moved quite a lot during the night to end up as they are now, and the flush returns to Derek's face as he wonders just in which positions they had channeled through.
Stiles' body rises and falls with his heavy breathing, and Derek can't help but let his gaze wander. He notices how the worn-out t-shirt Stiles is sleeping in is too big for him, despite his newly gained muscles. It's hanging loose on his torso, folding in layers around his hips. Derek thinks they're close enough for him to reach out and put his hand there, right in the dip of Stiles' waist. It wouldn't be the first time.
But then someone drops a plate in the kitchen, and the clashing sound echoing through the loft as it breaks on the floor has Derek gritting his teeth and Stiles sucking in a sharp breath as he starts to move, clearly pulled out of his heavy sleep.
For a second Derek panics, not sure whether he should stay where he is and let Stiles deal with the situation like he had or flee. He'd make it to the door before Stiles is awake enough to notice he'd ever been there in the first place. Or maybe he should just run over to his own bed and pretend he'd moved there as soon as Stiles was out last night?
You're being ridiculous, he angrily tells himself, but that doesn't change the fact that having a sleeping Stiles on his arm will be nothing compared to having an awake Stiles on his arm.
Right before Stiles blinks his eyes open, Derek yanks his arm away. Stiles doesn't seem to notice, just lets out another one of those soft sighs that makes something tug at Derek's gut and stretches out on the mattress before his eyes slowly open. Derek knows it changes little because they're still in the same space in the corner of a field of mattresses, and he's still watching Stiles' face when he looks up. Stiles frowns, reaching up to rub his eyes with the back of his hand, seeming confused as to why he's waking up to Derek's face. Then the confusion is replaced with flushed cheeks and a skipping heartbeat.
"Um," he says, voice thick with sleep. "Morning."
Derek drags his eyes off him, responding with a wordless mumble. He tries to act casual as he rolls onto his back before shifting into a seated position, ignoring the way his heart is starting to speed up. Stiles sits up as well, still smelling tired but now also faintly embarrassed. He glances around them in an obvious attempt to cover it up.
"The others are up already?" He asks, and Derek can see him glance his way in the corner of his eye.
"Yeah," Derek replies in a murmur.
"Well, you're obviously not a morning wolf," Stiles sighs. "I suddenly remember why I used to call you Sourwolf."
And that actually makes Derek feel a little bad. He doesn't want to push Stiles away. Not really. He just... He was not prepared for this. Obviously, he hadn't thought through this whole thing before agreeing to have a sleepover with a bunch of teenagers. Especially since one of them is far under his skin.
"I just need my coffee," he excuses, throwing Stiles a quick glance. His hair is a tousled mess, standing in all directions. Derek can feel his fingers itch with the sudden urge to slide through it. He's still close enough to reach.
"Ah," Stiles says, sounding a lot lighter than just now. "So once you've gotten your dose of caffeine you'll go back to being the joyful ray of sunshine as you always are, huh?"
Derek actually huffs at that, and immediately the tension is gone. "Right," he agrees with a soft sigh, standing up. Then he hesitates for a second or two before reaching out his open hand for Stiles. "They're in the kitchen," he says. "And I'm pretty sure someone broke one of my plates."
Stiles scoffs as he accepts Derek's hand, allows himself to be pulled up to his feet. Them holding hands is far from foreign at this point, but it's usually for dancing purposes. (And earlier saving-each-other's-life purposes, of course.) Once Stiles is standing upright Derek lets his hand fall heavy and slip free from Stiles' fingers.
"At least you have plates to break," Stiles points out. "I mean, you're really moving up in the world." Derek rolls his eyes and starts to look for the shirt he'd shed somewhere last night. Stiles glances around them once again. "I can't believe I'm the last one up," he says, sounding almost amazed.
Derek smiles to himself as he finds his shirt under someone's pillow and yanks it down over his head. Judging by the scent, it's Isaac's sleeping spot, and the thought of his first beta snuggling up to his scent-marked clothing – possibly intentionally – warms his heart.
"Yeah, well," he says, turning back to Stiles. "Looks like you got a good night's sleep."
Stiles smiles. "Yeah," he agrees. "Tell my dad that when he calls for your report."
"You don't think that was just a bluff?" Derek asks, stepping off the mattress and onto the cold floor.
"My dad doesn't bluff," Stiles assures, falling into steps behind him as they head for the kitchen. "He'll call."
Derek tilts his neck carelessly. "I'll answer."
He can't see Stiles' face, but he can hear the steady heartbeat and the smell of delight from behind him.
The pack having a sleepover at Derek’s loft where they share snuggles and horror stories.
-
"'Sleeping With Wolves'? Really?"
"Oh, come on, it's a joke," Stiles says, rolling his eyes at his dad who sighs and leans back in his chair. Stiles doesn't move from where he's still standing in the doorway where he'd stopped as soon as his dad's head had shot up from the newspaper to ask what the hell he meant by asking for permission to 'SWW' before he'd even entered the kitchen. "And I meant sleeping – as in laying my weary head to rest, dad, so don't you cry no more."
Stiles hadn't expected him to like the idea of a sleepover, so he's not surprised by the concerned look on his dad's face.
"That's not really how it works for you though, is it?" He points out quietly, giving Stiles a soft look.
And Stiles had prepared to have to fight his dad for this, but he hadn't expected that. His shoulders drop, as does his heart.
"Dad... I'm better," he says, which isn't a lie. The dreams aren't as frequent, nor as bad, these days and every now and then he even gets a night without any disturbance at all. "Haven't you noticed?"
"Of course I've noticed, Stiles," his dad says, voice firm but not really harsh. "That's why I'm not exactly leaping with joy about you spending the night somewhere other than your own bed. What if it gets worse again?"
"Why would it?" Stiles wonders, leaning against the door frame with his hands in his pockets.
"I don't know," his dad says in a tone much lighter. "How am I supposed to know? You're asking to have a sleepover with a pack of werewolves, Stiles. You gotta understand I'm a little worried."
"Scott will be there," he offers.
"And?"
"And he's the Alpha now," Stiles says, quirking a smile as he imitates Derek from several months ago. It's one of those things he'll probably never forget. Hell, he'll probably never let Derek forget either.
The sheriff just raises his eyebrows. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
Stiles sighs dramatically and finally leaves his spot in the doorway, entering the kitchen to flop down on the chair across from his dad.
"It's not in some haunted mansion in the middle of nowhere," he points out. "It's at Derek's."
At that his dad looks thoughtful for a moment and the silence makes Stiles feel the butterflies stir in his belly. He knows his dad doesn't really hate Derek. Other than being responsible for the wet shoe marks in Stiles' room by the window, he's got no real reason to. Besides, what happened yesterday at the hospital must have some impact in his father's view on the werewolf.
"You've been better since he got back," his dad finally states, giving him a look.
Stiles swallows just in time with his heart skipping a beat, sending a silent but very, very sincere thank you to Nayru, Farore and Din for the fact that his father doesn't have super hearing.
What even is his life that he has to worry about super hearing.
"Yeah," he croaks out.
It's taken him time to even dare admit that fact to himself, but he knows it's the truth. Just like staying in touch with Derek and texting him when he was out of town had helped him sleep at night, his return has pretty much doubled the effect. He's got no clue how it works. He just knows it does.
His dad nods, and Stiles wonders how and for how long he's known it, too.
Maybe his dad's been a bit more blessed by the goddesses than Stiles has, which is so totally unfair because Stiles has been praying to video game divinities since he was like four.
"Alright," the sheriff says with a final nod. "Then tell him I'll ask him tomorrow how you slept."
"Wha--" Stiles gapes. "Why can't you just ask me? Your beloved son?"
"Because unlike you and Scott," his dad says, giving Stiles a wholly unimpressed look, "He won't actually dare to say anything but the truth."
His dad huffs, grabbing the newspaper from the table again.
"That's not what I think he's afraid of."
Then he simply returns his attention to the newspaper, leaving Stiles blinking in surprise over how little convincing it took as well as confusion as to what the hell that's supposed to mean.
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nope,” Stiles says, popping the 'p'.
Neither Lydia nor Danny, both of them having arrived together with one half of the freaky and not at all gross and pseudo-incestuous werewolf transformer-duo were apparently feeling very merciful, choosing to leave a seriously constipated looking Ethan with Stiles and Scott at the entrance of the loft.
Stiles wonders what Ethan could possibly have done to anger Danny so much that he’d leave his boyfriend alone with him and Scott.
The two share an evil grin (Scott, who has yet to master that particular skill, looks completely demented) before turning back to the other werewolf, ready to start up the Stilinski/McCall torture fest.
“Scott, Ethan; they need help piling up all the mattresses, pillows and blankets on the living room floor. Lydia’s decided that’s where we’re going to sleep because that doesn’t have the potential to become awkward at all.”
Stiles groans and turns around angrily to face Derek, knowing without looking that the temptation of mattress jumping would be too much for his friend.
“Go,” Stiles finally says with a sigh.
“You’ll join me after though, right?” Scott asks after barely a moment's pause.
Stiles is insulted. This is a disgrace. He makes sure to look seriously affronted as he turns to Scott.
“Would I turn down the lure of bouncy mattresses and millions of pillows?” he asks solemnly, receiving a smile in reply; he approves of how it takes on an edge as he turns to (what has to be a seriously confused) Ethan, eyes flashing red as he says, “Let’s go.”
“Ah,” Stiles says fondly as the other two leave. “He’s almost worse than you were.”
Derek pinches the bridge of his nose. “He’s an idiot. You’re an idiot. I honestly cannot believe how the two of you are this idiotic,” he says, gesturing for Stiles to follow him. Apparently putting distance between Scott and Stiles was all that Derek the Traitor wanted to do, because he’s pretty sure he’s just being kept away from Scott.
“It’s because watching the two of you talk to each other literally hurts,” Derek supplies because he is an actual mind reader.
Rude.
“Well, at least that one managed to land not one, but two smoking hotties,” Stiles points out with a nod to where Scott is enthusiastically jumping up and down on one of the feathered mattresses while pummeling a miserable looking Isaac with a pillow, Allison grinning in delight a safe distance away.
“No television.”
“Yes, Scott,” Derek answers dryly. Scott seems at a loss, so Stiles takes over. He can do this. He hopes to god that he can do this.
“Ah, but…” he says, looking from his friend’s huge eyes to Derek’s amused (rude!) ones.
“No television.” Stiles thinks he can hear Danny and Ethan laugh from their corner of tears and misery, but whatever.
“Yes, Stiles,” and Derek sounds even more amused now. He’s parked himself right next to Derek on the unfairly comfortable couch. He doesn’t care to know where the traitors Danny and Ethan are, and Scott, Allison and Isaac are taking up a ridiculous amount of space by the large windows. All of them (bar Lydia, who is, as always, lovely, and Derek, who is, as always, shirtless, which is also lovely) are wearing the stupidest looking pajamas they own, apparently.
Stiles wears his Grassman t-shirt with pride, though.
“You know, we could do something else,” Lydia says. Scott makes a pained noise and Stiles wholeheartedly agrees.
“But how does he play video games if he has no television?” Stiles asks in an attempt to make her understand, not even bothering to mask the distress in his voice, as Scott nods enthusiastically in agreement.
Lydia looks from one to the other and in the flickering candlelight, it looks even more menacing than usual.
“How about this,” she says pleasantly. Oh no. Oh no. “Either you two come up with another suggestion and stop filling the room with stupid ideas or I’ll make sure you won’t be able to do it anymore.”
And she must have well and truly reached her limit; Stiles can actually see her perfect composure crumbling because that is definitely a jaw clench.
“Right! How about--” Stiles scrambles for something to say, throwing Scott a look. Think, good man, think. And thank god and all that is holy because Scott’s eyes widen as he understands the urgency of the situation and together, they start spewing ideas in the form of word-vomit.
Ah, friendship. It warms the cockles of Stiles’ heart, it truly does. And this, this is routine.
Some of these people have never witnessed this good old Stiles’n’Scott method of… solving… boredom…before…?
Anyway. Some have (these people, like Isaac, Allison and Lydia, can be identified by their pained expressions) and some have not (also easily identified by the looks of horror on their faces as they look from one to the other and back again).
“Jenga!”
“Baking!”
“Jogging!”
It doesn’t matter how stupid a suggestion is. If you think of it, you’ve gotta say it. Those are the rules.
“Jogging?” he hears Ethan ask in disbelief and okay, seeing as Derek’s huge windows make the fact that it’s snowing pretty impossible to ignore, he’ll let it slide this once. Gotta keep going anyway. They’re obviously on a roll here.
“Gardening!”
“Cleaning!”
“Nay!” Stiles vetoes enthusiastically as he sees Derek’s eyebrows shoot up in interest at that suggestion.
“How about ghost stories?” Intones an amused voice. And okay; it’s okay, Stiles. Allison doesn’t know the rules. You've just gotta tell her so that next time, she knows better than to interrupt brainstorming time without following proper protocol.
“Sounds good,” Isaac agrees, looking up at his girlfriend from where he’s pillowed on her thigh as people murmur their agreement.
“I vote yes,” Stiles says gleefully because…
“I vote no,” Scott groans, burying his face in Allison’s other thigh. She just pats him on the head with a fond look as Scott attempts to speak again.
“Last time I ever help you out, Stiles.”
“Filth and lies,” Stiles says with a grin as he flops down on the couch, burying his toes under Derek’s thighs. (Stiles doesn’t notice the sharp inhale or the surprised look thrown his way, and he misses the smirk Lydia sends Derek and the glare he gives her in return.)
“Can I start? I read so much creepypasta on the internet man, you guys have no idea,” he says instead, grinning down at Scott from the couch. Scott looks seriously constipated. Stiles loves it.
...Which makes the description used a bit awkward.
“Go for it, man,” Isaac says curiously, settling in and drawing the blankets more comfortably around himself and Allison, making sure that Scott does the same on his side.
Stiles kind of wants to punch a wall to feel manly again. He clears his throat.
“Right, okay. Let’s go then...
“There was this hunter in the woods who, after a long day of hunting, found himself in the middle of a huge forest. It was getting dark and he was a bit lost, so he decided to just pick a direction and stick to it until he got out of the thick of it.
"He walked for what seemed like hours before coming across a small clearing, in which there was a tiny little cabin. Since it had grown quite dark, he decided to try to see if he could stay there for the night, but as he approached the door to knock he found it already slightly ajar.”
Stiles pauses to glance at the people around him. He can see Scott’s lips turn down unhappily at the corners and Isaac’s body tense. Allison and, surprisingly, Lydia, look interested, Derek and Danny sharing looks of boredom while Ethan looks completely skeptical.
“He entered to find there was nobody inside; the single room of the cabin was tiny and he didn’t have to look around for long to see that. The hunter flopped down on the bed and decided that he would explain himself to the owner in the morning.
“As he looked around, he was surprised to see that the walls were adorned by rows and rows of portraits, all painted in such incredible detail; and without exception, they all appeared to be staring down at him, their faces twisted into expressions of absolute, pure hatred.
“As he stared back, he grew more and more uncomfortable, until finally he turned to face the wall, tried to ignore the faces, and eventually fell into a restless sleep.
“Waking up face down in the unfamiliar bed, he turned around, blinking the sunlight out of his eyes only to discover that the cabin had no portraits. Only windows.”
Scott looks like the grumpiest puppy on earth.
“I liked it.” Allison says with an exaggerated shiver.
“It’ll do,” Lydia says sounding bored, but Stiles doesn’t miss the way she pulls the covers a bit tighter around herself. “Next.”
“Ah, well,” Allison taps her lips thoughtfully “I don’t know any ghost stories or stuff like that, but my dad told me about this police case where we used to live, when he sold arms to the police. There wasn’t anything supernatural about it that he could tell, it was just really strange. Neither he nor the police ever managed to figure it out. It’s kind of freaky?”
“Sure,” Isaac, Danny and Lydia say at the same time, one trying to mask his horror, the second sounding like it’s not scary at all, and the last one sounding interested. Ethan, apparently, has no opinion at all.
“Let’s not,” Scott suggests instead.
Allison, however, is glancing at Derek, hesitation evident in her eyes.
Stiles only feels Derek’s muscles tense because he’s literally planted his feet under them, but Derek still gives Allison a small nod.
“Sure.”
“I honestly can’t remember exactly when or where he said it was. It was before I was even born, that’s how long ago it was. What I do know is this: it started out as any other murder case. The body of a woman was found in the kitchen stove of a small farmhouse. The police also found a video camera using VHS tapes in the kitchen, standing on a tripod and pointing at the oven, but there was no tape inside.”
Scott’s giving Allison a truly betrayed look while Isaac’s completely white in the face, reaching up and gripping Scott’s arm. Allison the Unmerciful Queen continues.
“It was labelled a homicide and that was it, until-- and this is where my dad became interested-- an unmarked VHS tape was discovered at the bottom of the farm’s well, which had apparently dried up earlier that year.
“I remember this bit because my dad said it was one of the few times the hunters within the police actually take outside help-- one of the guys on the force was one and apparently they’re really stubborn, but they needed all the help they could get at that point, because he really couldn’t figure out if there was anything supernatural involved.
“The tape they found was a bit banged up and there was no audio, but you could still see what was on it; a woman recording herself with a video camera, seemingly using the same camera the police found in the kitchen.
"After positioning the camera so that you could see both her and the kitchen stove in the image, the tape then showed the woman opening the door, crawling inside, and then closing the door behind her.
"Eight minutes into the video the oven could be seen shaking violently, after which point it started emanating thick black smoke. The camera then continued to point at the oven for another 45 minutes until the batteries apparently died.
“To avoid disturbing their little community the police never released any information about the tape, or even the fact that they’d found one. Neither police nor hunters ever managed to determine who put the tape in the well.
“Or why the physical stature of the woman on the tape did not in any way resemble the stature of the woman found in the oven.”
What the hell. Stiles doesn't really know what to say, choosing instead to bury his toes deeper under Derek’s thigh, staring at Allison who simply shrugs.
The silence is broken by Scott groaning loudly, drawing everyone’s attention away from his girlfriend, before mashing his face into Allison’s thigh, muttering what sounds like a very muffled 'but how' and pulling a tiny, floral patterned blanket over himself.
A snort of laughter escapes Allison before she manages to control herself, biting her lip before patting the curls of a no-I’m-cool-I-always-look-a-little-twitchy-I-swear looking Isaac occupying her other thigh.
Stiles doesn’t have any such reservations however, and doesn’t feel bad at all for the laughter bubbling up. Jesus Christ, what an awesome alpha.
When the laughter finally dies down, he looks at Derek to seek solidarity because Allison’s glare is saying both ”I feel you, but I have to be a good girlfriend” and ”Stop that right now or I’ll start laughing, too” and Stiles knows that neither Danny nor Lydia will come to his rescue.
When he looks at Derek, however, he sees such fond exasperation as the man glances from Allison to Stiles, setting his eyes on the latter when he notices him looking. Stiles can’t believe how far he’s come that, after a story like that, he’s still able to look this happy. He can feel his grin turn stupid. Fuuuuuuuck.
“Now it’s Derek’s turn,” Danny interrupts. Stiles gives him a grateful smile because if whatever the hell that’d been doing had gone on for just a bit longer, it would have just been embarrassing, Scott-levels of schmoopy.
Danny grins back at Stiles, giving him a wink.
“What?” Derek snaps angrily out of nowhere.
What the hell? Lydia rolls her eyes, and whoa, did she just punch Derek’s leg?
“Well, I’m not going to, and do you honestly expect one of those two to tell a story?” she asks with a nod in the direction of the boyfriends currently looking one horror story away from a nervous breakdown.
“I resent that,” Isaac says, but it’s not very convincing since he's crawled around and is now hiding under the flowery blanket with Scott, who doesn’t even try to defend his honor.
“Or wait,” she continues, ignoring Isaac, instead gesturing to the other two boyfriends. “Maybe you meant Mr. and Mr. Enthusiasm over there.”
“Damn,” Danny deadpans.
“She got us there,” Ethan drawls.
Derek frowns, looking to Stiles for help. He’s not getting any. “Come on,” Stiles says.
“You gotta have some scary werewolf story, right?”
The look Derek then proceeds to give him is practically screaming ’are you fucking kidding me’ and okay, Stiles has to admit, if he were to follow that description he could probably just pick any day of his life.
“Okay, yeah, okay I get it, just... you know what I mean, stupid werewolf,” Stiles says, withdrawing a foot and kicking Derek’s unfairly, totally, what the hell how is he even real solid thigh, seriously, the only thing soft about it is the sweatpants oh my god?
There’s a tiny huff of laughter from Derek before he places a warm, large hand around Stiles’ ankle, pulling it into his lap. Stiles’ heart flutters. He should seek help.
“Well, there was this one story that Peter told me and my sisters when we were out camping one night because according to him that’s a rite of passage everyone has to go through…”
Derek then seems to realize something. His eyes widen a fraction and he glances to the side.
“Oh, just go on,” Lydia huffs. Derek hesitates for a second before picking up where he left off.
“He said that it really happened to one of the Hales that’d died a couple of years previous, that he’d told him and my mom himself, that the experience drove him insane for a long time and when he came back he still wasn’t put together quite right.
"We all called bullshit, of course. Even after we’d heard the story we weren’t scared. We were used to being underestimated, after all.”
Stiles is practically holding his breath. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Derek speak this much at once before, and about his past at that?
“But then we came home, and mom found out… she was furious with him. We asked her what she was so mad about and she told us it was nothing. We got nervous and asked her if it was true, but she wouldn’t say anything about it, and that freaked us out more than anything. I think that was the first time we actually felt fear."
Stiles can feel the tension in the room kick up a notch.
“Peter claimed he told us the same way he himself had been told, so I’ll just do the same because I’m not good at telling stories. I just remember this one.
“I’d been lying down for hours. It was 5:35 AM and there wasn’t anything I could do. Do you know what the worst part was? That I was in the same room as my parents. They kept looking at me, and I couldn’t help but look back and try not to cry or scream. Their eyes were focused on me, their mouths wide open. The scent of blood was strong in the air and I was paralyzed with fear.
“Here’s the thing. The second I made any hint that I wasn’t asleep anymore, I knew that I was completely fucked. I would die and there would be nobody around to save me. I’d been trying to think of a way out, but the only idea I’d had so far was to rush for the door, then the front door, and then scream for help. It was a stupid plan but if I stayed there, I didn’t know what would happen. Surely, I’d die, right? He was waiting for me to wake up and see his masterpiece.
“This was the last peaceful moment that I would have for a long, long time, so let me wind back a bit.
“About three hours earlier is when I heard screaming from the other side of the house. I got up to check on the noise, but when I opened my bedroom door I found the hall outside stained with blood.
“I stumbled back to bed, hid under the covers and tried to convince myself to go back to sleep, that this was just a very vivid dream.
“But then I heard my bedroom door open. Like the terrified child I was, I peeked from under my blanket to see what was going on. I could see something dragging my dead parents into the room. It wasn’t human, I can tell you that. It was hairless, with no eyes and no clothes. It walked like a caveman, its back slouched as it dragged my paremts. But this thing was much smarter than a caveman; this thing was aware of what it was doing.
“It took my dad first and propped him up on the edge of my bed, and made him face me. Then it sat my mother down in my desk chair, dragging it over and positioning her toward me as well. Then it started rubbing its hands upon the walls, drawing a symbol I have never seen again, never been able to find, to this day. It had made what it would probably call its masterpiece and to finish it off, it scribbled a message onto the wall that I couldn’t read in the darkness at the time.
“Then it dragged itself in under my bed, positioning itself, waiting to strike.
“That was three hours ago. The scariest thing now was that my eyes had adjusted to the darkness since then and that I could read the message. I didn’t want to because it was absolutely terrifying; but I felt that I had to, I needed to see, before I was killed.
“So I opened my eyes and peeked at the smeared letters by the creature’s masterpiece:
‘’I know you’re awake.’”
…How about no.
Stiles doesn’t have to look around to know that he’s not the only one with an expression of pure horror on his face as he looks at Derek.
“Dude, what the hell?” Stiles asks, because, really, he thought Derek had said something about Peter only becoming fucked up after the fire.
“Allison, is that a real thing?” Isaac whines, finally having given up all pretense of bravery in favor of clinging to Scott like a lifeline.
“And if it is, please hunt that instead?” Scott says, clinging back just as much. Allison’s got her hands in both of their hair and for the first time, even she seems affected. Lydia is wide eyed and- hell, even Danny seems a bit uncomfortable, squirming against Ethan’s (he- is he fucking sleeping? He is! He’s fallen asleep!) side.
Derek shrugs. “You guys wanted a story, I just told you the only one I know.”
“Danny,” Lydia says.
“Aye aye,” the other instantly replies, squirming away from the werewolf he’s attached to and making his way to the redhead, crawling under her covers instead. “That’s enough ghost stories for today.”
“It was enough before Stiles even started,” Scott wails, prompting Allison to lie down on his other side to comfort him. Ah, big bad alpha strikes again.
“Oh, come on, if you really didn’t want to listen, you could have left,” she says fondly as she hugs him.
As all the others become immersed in their own conversations, Stiles turns to Derek.
“Okay, spit it out. Was all of that true?” Stiles questions.
Derek raises an eyebrow. “Would I lie to you, Stiles? Of course it was. We were scared for weeks after. Cora and I kept sneaking into Laura’s bed, and all three of us would braid each other’s hair and cry about how we were too scared to howl and run freely under the moon now.”
Stiles is left gaping. Derek smirks.
“You!” Stiles says accusingly. “You sit on a throne of lies! I’m not talking to you anymore, I’m gonna sleep now on the count of you suck.”
That’s when Stiles notices how everyone’s fallen quiet around them. Apparently, in a matter of seconds, everyone save for Stiles and Derek somehow manages to fall half asleep. The problem with that is that no one seems to be sticking to just one mattress, everyone choosing instead to lie all over the fucking place.
“Uh,” Stiles says eloquently. Derek seems to understand what he means, judging by the roll of his eyes.
“I’m not a blushing 16th century maiden, Stiles,” he says before pushing a yelping Stiles off the couch.
“Man down, man down!”
“Ha ha,” Derek says and Stiles is impressed because he has never actually heard someone sound that unamused before.
Stiles grins, tugging a couple of pillows out from under Isaac’s arm.
“Okay then, manly man, get down here. Just remember if you wake up with a Stiles-shaped octopus in the middle of the night, you brought this upon yourself.”
“I’ll live,” Derek says, sounding bored, but there’s a small blush spreading high on his cheeks. Stiles isn’t even going to point out the irony.
Trying to make place is a bit hard since everyone’s already grabbed theirs, plus the fact that they are lying like fallen dominoes.
As they have to lie a bit closer than they would have perhaps otherwise gotten opportunity to, though (and maybe Stiles shuffles backwards and plasters his back against Derek’s front, he’s not even ashamed to admit it because look at that impressive front) he's willing to admit that it all works out in his favor.
Especially when he and Danny, who apparently wasn’t as asleep as he thought, share another grin he’s pretty sure he receives a mental high five to boot.
Disclaimer: the creepypaste was written by anonymous, I only rewrote them to fit the story.
Stiles’ dad has a heart attack and Derek is the only one not held up in school to keep Stiles company in the ER waiting room.
-
Derek hates how familiar it feels to go through those glass doors and just looking at the pristine white walls is giving him a headache. The smell is awful; all pain and agony mixed in with bleach and antiseptic. He clenches his jaw as he brushes the snow off his shoulders, reminding himself that he's not here to see one of his own family members. None of them are withering away in a hospital bed. Sadly that's only a small comfort.
He shuts out the noises of rattling wheels, beeping machines and the great amount of hearts beating throughout the building. Instead, he only focuses on one of them; a young and strong one whose sound is familiar to his ears and unlike the rest, it doesn't stress him out. Quite the opposite. Despite knowing the way, he follows the steady rhythm of that heart up to the second floor to the ER waiting room.
Stiles isn't sitting in one of the chairs with his head in his hands like Derek had feared. He's standing in the middle of the room, hands on his hips and eyes lost somewhere on the ground. His backpack is lying in a corner, looking as if it's been tossed there. Derek can't decide if that's any better.
His head shoots up when Derek walks through the door, and his scent changes from anxiety to surprise as their eyes lock.
"What are you doing here?" Stiles asks, voice weak as if his throat has gone dry.
Derek waits to answer until he reaches him, fingers itching with the uncertainty of whether he should touch Stiles or not.
"Scott told me you got pulled out of class," he explains. "He wanted to come, as did the others, but they weren't allowed to leave school."
He shrugs lightly, as if to state that at least he could be there. Stiles swallows, his Adam's apple bobbling.
"You didn't have to come," he mumbles, almost sounding apologetic.
"Well, I am here," Derek points out and then hesitates. "But I'll leave if you want me to."
Stiles' eyes are a little too shiny as he looks between Derek's eyes, considering. He doesn't smell of surprise anymore, but only weakness and worry. Derek hates it. Eventually Stiles shakes his head slowly, dropping his gaze back to the floor. He walks over to the row of chairs and sinks down in one of them, arms hanging limp on his thighs. Derek follows.
"Is Melissa with him?" He asks as he sits down next to the slouching boy.
Stiles nods, pulling at loose threads on his jeans while staring absently in front of him.
"Yeah. She promised me she wouldn't leave his side."
Derek nods, even if Stiles can't see it. He's not sure if Melissa will be able to keep that promise, but he figures she told Stiles what he wanted to hear. No one can blame her for that.
"Are you okay?" He asks further, once again considering reaching out a hand, but closes it to a fist instead.
"Yes," Stiles says with a heavy breath. Derek waits him out. Stiles bites his bottom lip when it starts to quiver. "No," he then mutters, sounding defeated. He stands up again, hands back on his hips. "No, I'm not okay, Derek!" He looks down at him, eyes glazed and Derek sees as well as smells the panic. "I almost had a freaking panic attack on my way here. This was not supposed to happen. Especially not now. It's ruining everything."
He's practically spitting out the words, a wrinkle on his forehead and Derek knows it isn't directed toward him but it still hurts. Stiles tries to laugh, but it's hollow and only makes Derek's stomach twist in discomfort.
"It's Christmas and we–" He shakes his head in denial, fury turning into sadness once again. His voice loses its volume, too. "I can't lose him just before Christmas," he mumbles.
Derek gets out of the chair as well, not taking his eyes off Stiles for even a second when stepping up to him. This time, he doesn't hesitate to put his hand on Stiles' shoulder, holding it firmly.
"You're not going to lose him," he says steadily, hoping that it's not a lie. "He'll be okay."
Stiles stares at him, looking like he either wants to punch Derek in the face or break down crying. Whichever it is, Derek will take it; Stiles has already punched him in the face and Derek knows how that goes. He's seen Stiles like this before, has seen him in tears over his dad. It's one of the worst feelings Derek has ever sensed from another person.
In the end, Stiles just purses his lips and ducks his head. Derek lets his hand linger before squeezing lightly and sliding it off Stiles' shoulder. He's got no idea what Stiles needs, but he should at least try to stay calm. The last thing they need is him getting a panic attack.
Derek looks around the small and abandoned waiting room, spotting a coffee machine in a corner.
"You want coffee?" He asks carefully.
Stiles drags his sleeve across his face before looking up, avoiding to meet Derek's gaze, but still unable to hide his red, swollen eyes.
"That one is broken," he says, lazily gesturing toward the machine.
"I can go and get you some from the cafeteria," Derek offers.
Stiles blinks, still not looking at him. "You don't have to," he mumbles.
"No, but I'm going to anyway," Derek sighs, giving up on trying to catch Stiles' eye and heads for the door he came from.
"It's down the hall–" Stiles starts behind him.
"I know where it is," Derek assures, hating the fact that he does, and leaves the room.
It's exhausting being able to hear and smell and sense so many people while walking down the hallways. Derek forces himself not to frown at it all; the sickness and the pain, the sound of too slow or too quick heartbeats echoing throughout the building.
Even with this much distance between them, he manages to pick out Stiles' pulse among it all. He stays with it, listening to his breathing and the rhythm of his heart. It's not even, but it's the only thing Derek cares to hear in this place.
He doesn't realize he knows Stiles' coffee order until he's on his way back to the ER floor with two paper cups in his hands; one plain black and the other with two sugars.
Stiles is sitting again when Derek returns, looking up when the door opens. His eyes are still a bit swollen, but there are no tears to be seen. The corners of his mouth twitch in an attempted smile when Derek hands him the cup. He doesn't say anything, but that's okay. At least he's not yelling.
Derek sits back down by Stiles' side, and they both remain quiet as they drink from their cups.
"I hate hospitals," Stiles says after a long silence, voice broken.
Derek swallows a big sip of hot coffee. "Me too," he agrees with a soft sigh.
Coffee, as it turns out, doesn't have the save affect on Stiles as most people. About half an hour later, he's on the brink of nodding off. Derek figures it's not all that strange, considering he's been here for a few hours already, and he's all worked up because of his worry.
Stiles is slumped back in his chair, the back of his head against the wall and sleeves resting on his spread thighs. Derek can only see him in the corner of his eyes because he's looking at the big clock on the opposite wall. He's not even sure whether Stiles' eyes are open or not, but he can sense the tiredness on him. His breathing is slow and heavy and it's strangely calming.
"They'll get off school soon," Stiles murmurs.
"I know," Derek replies, sounding drowsy himself. Scott and the others always finish school at half past three and usually show up at the loft about ten minutes later.
There's a pause.
"You're gonna be late for practice."
His voice is even lower now and Derek isn't even sure he would've heard Stiles at all if it hadn't been for his good hearing being focused on the boy. Then the weight of Stiles' head lands on Derek's shoulder, but since Stiles' heart doesn't speed up nor skips a beat, Derek can't tell if it's intentional or not. It doesn't matter; Stiles is sleepy and it's not like Derek would pull away.
"No practice today," he responds simply.
Stiles just hums and doesn't say anything further.
The silence roams for a long time after that, though Derek can't really tell how long exactly because he's not watching the clock anymore. Well, he is, but his focus is on Stiles' breathing getting heavier and slower by the second. Eventually, he's got no idea if he's still awake or has fallen asleep.
Carefully, Derek tilts his own head to the side, resting his jaw on top of Stiles' head. The only heart skipping a beat is his own. He swallows, closing his eyelids with a soft sigh, allowing himself to relax, too.
Derek's eyes snap open at the sound of approaching footsteps. He blinks, not sure if he actually fell asleep or not until he looks back up to the clock and realizes it's been another twenty minutes. Stiles is still sleeping heavily on his shoulder and Derek can't help but notice the way his heart clenches at the sight.
Melissa appears as she rounds a corner, and Derek immediately jerks his head up. She's got a warm expression on her face, however, so there can't be bad news. Thank god.
"How is he?" He asks mechanically before remembering he's not the one who should be asking, even less to receive the answer. He looks down on Stiles. "Should I–"
"No, don't wake him up," Melissa hisses, waving her hands. "I don't want to disturb him." Derek can't help but to feel a little moved by how he's obviously not the only one concerned about Stiles' sleeping problems. "Just... tell him that everything is alright when he wakes up, okay? He's ready to get out of here in a bit, he's just getting some beta blockers right now." Upon Derek's frown, she adds: "Pills. Those are pills, Derek."
Derek scoffs lightly, nodding. "Thank you."
She looks as if she's about to object, but just gives him a smile before disappearing around the corner again.
Once alone again, Derek looks back down to Stiles. His own arm has fallen asleep under Stiles' weight; these chairs aren't exactly the most comfortable kind and most of his muscles are screaming with the need to move, but that's all fine. Unless Stiles is having a bad dream, he should remain asleep and calm as long as possible.
Stiles' hair is standing on edge, and Derek is pretty sure it's his doing. Carefully he reaches over with his free arm to run his hand through the soft hair, evening it out somewhat. But even when there is no reason to, he repeats the motion, sliding his fingers over Stiles' scalp while watching his eased face. He looks so peaceful. Careless. He looks like a boy, and by his age that should be normal. The sad truth is that Derek rarely see a boy when looking at Stiles. He see a man because he's been through more than most grown-ups ever will. Sometimes Derek will feel guilty about that, but deep down he knows that this – this boy – is not his fault.
His hand stills inside Stiles' thick hair when suddenly he realizes that their two heartbeats are in sync with each other, then Scott and Isaac burst through the door and Stiles jolts awake.
"Oh," Scott says, stopping when he sees Stiles shift into sitting up straight and receiving a glare from Derek. "We just– We wanted to come as soon as we could. Are you okay?" He asks as he and Isaac walk over to them.
"I'm fine," Stiles groans, voice thick with sleep as he rubs his eyes and the side of his neck. Derek can hear that he's not lying this time. "I must've– I have no idea what's going on," he says, and the stench of his worry is back.
"My mom won't reply to my messages," Scott says, sitting down on Stiles' other side. Isaac remains standing. "I mean, I know she can't have her phone with her at all times, but still. I thought maybe–"
He doesn't finish, just purses his lips.
"Your mom was just here," Derek informs, and suddenly he's got all three boys' attention. Stiles' pulse quickens, and his fear as well as hope fills the room. Derek moves his eyes from Scott to look straight at Stiles. "Your dad's fine. She said he'll be ready to go as soon as he's gotten some meds."
Stiles remain paralyzed for another moment, staring at him. Then he lets out a heavy breath, dropping his head in the process. Derek picks up on the overwhelming relief flooding through him, and can't help but letting it become his own, too.
Approaching footsteps make all four of them look up, and as soon as the Sheriff and Melissa appear around the corner, they shoot up to stand. Except for Stiles, of course, who throws himself forward at his father. The man nearly stumbles as their bodies collide, but Stiles' arms are preventing him from falling as they embrace.
"You're okay," Stiles breathes, and Derek almost feels bad for being able to hear it when he probably wasn't supposed to.
The sheriff lets out a light laugh, wrapping his own arms around his son and hugging back.
"Of course I'm okay," he says, and it's nearly heartbreaking how convincing he manages to sound. "Jesus, Melissa shouldn't even have called and gotten you out of school in the first place," he says, pulling back enough to give Stiles a reassuring look. "I'm fine. You know I wouldn't miss out on Christmas, son."
It's a lie. Derek can hear it loud and clear; the skip of the sheriff's tired heart. He's well aware of just how serious the heart attack had been, no matter how small or short-lasting, and that Melissa had every right to notify his son that he was on his way to the ER in an ambulance.
And even though Stiles just nods, Derek knows he's smart enough not to be fooled.
The sheriff is eager to leave, saying he'll probably vomit if he has to spend another five minutes in that hospital. Stiles doesn't seem like he wants to linger either, and Melissa order Scott and Isaac to go home and start dinner, so they all get shooed out of the building.
It's dark outside because it's late in the afternoon in the middle of December. Derek realizes he's spent most of his day in that waiting room with Stiles, but finds himself not minding it.
He doesn't expect Stiles to stop in the parking lot and turn to him, but he's happy when he does. Stiles offers a weak smile, digging his hands into the pockets of his jacket.
"Sorry I drooled on your jacket," he says, voice not really fitting the joke.
Derek returns the smile equally, wanting to point out that he didn't drool anywhere, but he knows that's not the point.
"Don't worry about it."
Stiles nods, dropping his gaze to the ground. He pauses, as if he's about to say something else, but in the end he just meets Derek's eyes with a final small smile before turning around and heading for his dad's cruiser. Derek remains motionless, still listening to his heartbeat as he walks away.
"Thank you."
Derek actually flinches because somehow he never noticed the sheriff standing so close to him. He turns to face him with a frown.
"For what?"
"For staying with him," the sheriff responds.
Derek looks at him with a blank expression before closing his mouth, not expecting that. The sheriff gives him his own small smile, which is so similar to Stiles' that Derek feels something inside him flip, before even he heads for the car. Derek catches Stiles' eye from where he's already sitting in the passenger seat, and maintain the eye contact for a few long seconds before dropping his gaze and heading into the shadow of the trees.
As the sheriff's car drives off, the sound of its engine fading away as well as the throbbing of Stiles' heartbeat, Derek actually laughs at himself. He wonders when exactly he started to feel like something is missing when that sound no longer is filling his ears.
Derek offers to walk Stiles home Thursday night after their daily rehearsal, and somehow they end up having a second round in the park.
-
Derek isn't sure exactly how it happened, but he walks Stiles home Thursday night.
Scott had given him a ride to school that morning and as always, they had gone straight to the loft in the afternoon. After their dance rehearsal Scott had prepared to drive him home, but Stiles had declined, claiming that he'd like to walk now when the snow prevented him from running. Derek had offered to walk with him before realizing what significance it might hold. It just slipped off his tongue. Stiles hadn't hesitated to say yes though; giving him a thankful smile while smelling all warm and happy.
It's already dark and it's started to snow again. Not lightly either; big fluffy flakes are falling down to the ground already covered in white. There's a slim path through the snow on the sidewalk, made by the footsteps of whoever walked there before them, but even those are about to disappear under the snow that just keeps pouring down. It's cold, too, which Derek isn't as troubled by as Stiles waking next to him.
"You know," Stiles says when they're somewhere downtown, and thereby breaking the silence that had lasted for the past ten minutes. It hasn't exactly been awkward, but Derek still appreciates Stiles' choice of trying to start a conversation. He's always been good at that. "I kind of love winter, but right now I kind of wish I had accepted Scott's offer for a ride."
Derek huffs out a cloud of smoke.
"I don't like winter," he admits.
"What?" Stiles says, glancing over to him in disbelief. "Dude, winter is awesome. How can you not love winter?"
"It's wet," Derek points out, looking over to cock an eyebrow at him.
"Only if you go outside," Stiles points out, returning his look with equal sarcasm. "Which I always forget," he goes on. "It's way nicer to look at the falling snow through a window than to actually be showered by it. The key is to stay inside."
"And do what?" Derek asks, eyes back on the path, but his attention on Stiles.
"Watch a movie?" Stiles suggest. "Eat food? Drink hot chocolate? Build a blanket fort; I don't know!"
"I don't have a TV," Derek reminds him.
"Which should be a crime."
"I haven't needed one," Derek shrugs, his elbows accidentally bumping against Stiles' side, and the teen elbows him in return.
"Guess you'll have to come over sometime and watch something on my TV then," Stiles decided casually, but the next second Derek can hear his heartbeat speeding up.
There's something funny going on inside his own chest, but Derek doesn't let his thoughts linger on it.
"Okay," he says simply.
Stiles doesn't say anything else, just nods and lets the silence take over again, but the way his heart skips a beat at Derek's reply doesn't go unnoticed by the werewolf.
They make a left turn and takes a shortcut through the park. There's few people around, and Derek suspects most of them have already gone home for the night.
"So what do you want for Christmas?" Stiles suddenly asks.
"W-What?" Derek says, completely caught off guard.
"Well, there's this ancient tradition where you give people gifts for Christmas," Stiles deadpans. When Derek doesn't say anything, he looks over to catch the look on his face, and his playful façade drops. "Wait, you didn't think I'd get you something for Christmas?"
Derek looks away from Stiles' face, feeling a warm tingle inside him over the fact that it's apparently obvious to Stiles.
"No."
"Dude," Stiles says, almost sounding a bit offended. "We've been texting each other more over the last two months than Scott and I have for the last year," he says voice growing deeper as he goes on. "Of course I'm planning on getting you a Christmas present."
There's something clenching around Derek's heart by the thick emotion in Stiles' voice and the steady rhythm of his pulse.
"Those are meant to be mutual, right?" He asks because he doesn't know what else to say.
Stiles shrugs at his side. "I guess."
"I'll think about it," Derek says.
"You don't have to give me anything," Stiles hurries to reassure.
Derek scoffs lightly, throwing him a weak smile. "I meant what I want."
"Oh," Stiles says. "Well, that's not a very hard question, is it? I mean, knowing what you want is easy, right?"
"These days, no," Derek says truthfully, and that's the end of that conversation.
It's impossible to miss the way Stiles forcibly swallows, but Derek focuses his senses on their surroundings before he reads too much into it.
They walk on in silence for a bit more, passing by a bench that's practically repainted in white due to the layers of snow. Something has been written on the seat, probably by some kids who'd played in the park before their curfew and they had to run home, but it's barely visible under the snow that's been piling up since. Derek feels the corner of his mouth twitch up in a smile.
He gets a few steps further before noticing Stiles is no longer next to him. Thinking he may have picked up on a too quick pace, he glances over his shoulder, but there's no Stiles in sight. Derek stops dead in his tracks and spins around.
Stiles has stopped by the bench, but he's not admiring the soon-to-be-covered doodling in the snow. His head is tilted back, chin lifted upwards as he looks up at the lamppost next to the bench. There are thankfully quite a few of them around, creating spots of light In the otherwise dark park.
Derek cocks an eyebrow to himself before replacing his questioning expression with a sly smile as he walks back to where Stiles is standing.
"What is it?" He asks, seemingly drawing Stiles out of a deep thought. "Did you discover Narnia?"
"What," Stiles snorts. "No, you idiot." Then his eyes widen a little. "Wait, you've read Narnia?"
"No," Derek replies, maybe a little too fast. (He may have read it once, alright? It's not his fault Laura was so fascinated with storybooks.) "So what's with the look on your face?"
An expression that Derek can't quite identify creeps onto Stiles' face, and he bites his bottom lip as he glances around them, throwing the lamppost one last look before holding out a hand. Derek stares at his open palm in confusion.
"C'mon," Stiles presses on. "I gotta get used to other surroundings than the loft, right?" Which, okay, point. Stiles gestures to the open air around himself. "This is perfect."
"This is in the middle of a park," Derek counters drily.
"Yeah," Stiles nods because of course he's aware of that already. He doesn't seem the slightest put out by it. Quite the opposite, Derek notices, and maybe that's the point. "Come on, Derek," Stiles says again, still with his hand reached out for him to take. "You're the teacher. It's not like you will be the one who's got anything to be ashamed of if someone walks by."
Derek sighs, exhaling through his nose. The pleased look on Stiles' face says he already knows he's won.
He closes the final distance between them, sliding his hand into Stiles' before placing another on his side. Stiles' heart jolts as he lands his own free hand on Derek's shoulder and steps up to leave only a thin space of air between their fronts, and Derek does his best not to dwell on it.
"There's no music," he points out.
"Not a problem," Stiles shrugs. "I usually shut your music out and just count anyway."
"Careful," Derek warns, but there's amusement in every corner of his voice.
Sties huffs, and they're close enough for his warm breath to curl over Derek's mouth.
"So defensive." He gestures to the way they're just standing pasted together. "Now please move before I freeze to death. Dancing actually warms me up pretty good, in case you haven't noticed."
Derek has noticed, because he's ended up dancing with Stiles more than any of the others during their rehearsals this week. He's noticed the way Stiles' pulse quickens, how his palms go hot and the flush that spreads across his face and neck.
"I know," he murmurs, not even sure if Stiles can hear it or not, and starts moving.
The falling snow blocks his vision a bit, but Derek manages to keep them under the light of the streetlamp without backing Stiles into a tree or tripping over the bench. At first it's a bit irritating and he's pretty sure he's scowling at the snow falling in his face, but after a while he gets the hang of it and they start to move more smoothly. Snowflakes swirl around them and they're stomping up a circle as they go.
Derek notices how Stiles is still set on looking at his own footwork, which he's been doing since day one.
"Don't watch your feet," he advices, and Stiles looks up. "Eyes on me."
It takes a second or two, but then Stiles' face lights up in a sly smile.
"I can do that."
Derek ignores the way his own heartbeat seems to react to that.
They're familiar with each other by now, but this is the first time they're dancing without the others around, and Derek realizes that this is something entirely different. Even if Stiles is still learning, this feels far from another dance lesson. If it had been Scott asking, Derek knows he would've said no.
He hears Stiles' phone go off a second before Stiles does, and they come to a stop.
"Probably my dad," Stiles says with a weak smile.
Derek nods as he lets him go and awkwardly steps back to put more space between them. Stiles looks like he wants to say something, eyes lingering on Derek's face even after they've parted, but then he shrugs the thoughtful look off his face and digs for his phone.
"Yo," he greets once putting it against his ear.
"Stiles, where are you?" Derek can't help but hear the sheriff demand on the other end. He doesn't sound as mad as he could've, but there's a sharpness in his tone.
"Oh, you know," Stiles says casually. "I'm just walking the dog."
Derek scowls at him. Really? Stiles gives him an innocent smile and a shrug before turning away.
"Scott?" The sheriff guesses.
"No, the big one," Stiles replies.
"Derek," his father says, and it almost sounds like a sigh to Derek's ears.
"Bingo," Stiles congratulates. "I'll be home in a bit. We're playing fetch in the park right now."
"Just come home at some point," the man on the other line begs, sounding tired.
"Coming, dad," Stiles finally promises in a more serious tone.
They end the call after that, and Stiles shoves the phone and his hands down the pockets of his jacket before turning back to Derek.
"So, thanks for walking with me this far, but you really don't have to follow me all the way to my doorstep," he says with a wide smile.
Derek wants to protest at first, insist that he had indeed planned on making it all the way to his doorstep, but he doesn't.
"Sure," he says instead, returning Stiles' smile with one of his own.
Stiles huffs, smelling happy, and waves a little as he steps backwards before turning around to continue in the direction they had been heading for.
Derek watches him go for a moment, then drops his gaze to the ground where they've shoved snow around as they danced and created a circle. It's already about to be buried under the new snow falling down. Before turning around to walk in the opposite direction, Derek throws a last look up to the lamppost, the only witness to what just occurred.
Hangover, coffee, muffins, small talk, hiccups and how you cure them.
-
Wednesday morning starts with a pounding headache, which Stiles professionally deals with by slapping himself across the face the second he's conscious enough to remember last night. It would've been even worse had his dad not forced him to drown about six glasses of water to sober him up before giving him permission to pass out. Stiles decides to start the day with thanking him for that, and getting the pissed-off-father-and-irresponsible-son talk over with.
Stiles has the day off from work and he has no plans for leaving the house for any reason. Scott doesn't seem to care, though, because he calls him up around noon – clearly in a lot better shape than Stiles – and tells him they're all heading downtown to check out the new coffee shop and that he simply can't say no. Stiles can say no, however, which is what he does for about five minutes before his headache gives in to Scott's chanting and he agrees.
He's got no clue if Derek will be there because Scott didn't define 'all of us' and Stiles just can't make himself send Derek a text and ask directly. He's too embarrassed.
But he finds out soon enough as he gets a ride downtown by his dad – who doesn't trust him to drive the Jeep just yet despite Stiles insisting that he's clear in the head – and enters the cute little café in a corner of the square.
The group is standing gathered by the counter as he walks through the door, lifting their heads to greet him with smiles and nods. Stiles counts to eight and swallows hard; they really are all there. His gaze is immediately drawn to Derek who is standing next to Scott with his hands in his pockets.
Stiles can feel his face go hot because he remembers everything that happened last night. At least he hopes he does. He remembers how words he's been wanting to say for weeks just slipped out of him without a second thought, and how Derek had just listened, probably having no clue how to counter any of it. He remembers stumbling out of the car to throw up, and how Derek had wiped his face afterwards. He remembers that he'd called Derek beautiful, but hadn't been able to see his reaction because he'd turned around, shrugging it off.
Derek offers him a weak smile as Stiles joins them, looking as if nothing has changed since dance practice yesterday afternoon when they last parted ways sober. Stiles lets out a breath of relief, returning the gesture gratefully.
The shop is small and surprisingly empty considering the season and the fact that it's freshly opened. A fake little Christmas tree made of plastic is standing on the counter along with green tinsel hanging by the windows sets a cozy Christmas mood. It's a lot nicer than the café that was there before the new owner bought the place.
Stiles doesn't bother browsing the menu of various coffee and milk drinks; he just wants a plain coffee with two sugars. He feels awake, but the headache kind of came back the moment he walked into the shop, and he's not sure whether he should blame the overwhelming smell of coffee beans or Derek. He also orders not one but three chocolate muffins because he's starving.
"You hungry or something?" Lydia asks with a raised eyebrow, taking her big cup of coffee latte with an impressive, yet completely unnecessary, leaf in the milk foam from the counter and heads for an empty table.
"Like a wolf," responds Stiles mechanically, receiving a handful of huffs from the present werewolves while the barista chuckles, thinking she got the joke. Poor thing.
They have to unite two tables in order to all sit together, and they do so without getting in trouble. Stiles is still surprised by the lack of costumers when he starts sipping his coffee because it tastes like heaven, but understanding dawns on him as people start dropping in and out to order paper cups to go.
They only talk briefly about last night because Danny mocks the puppy-triangle about having a good time wherever they ran off to. No one asks Stiles how he got home, and somehow Stiles gets the feeling that they just know. Derek doesn't address it either; just sits there and sips on his black coffee.
A thought hits Stiles; that once upon a time he would've taken the opportunity to joke about Derek's coffee having the same color as his everything else, but now it's irrelevant, so he doesn't.
He must still be a bit out of it, because he loses track of time and the line of conversation around the table. Once he's finished his coffee and two of the muffins, Lydia, Allison and Aiden get up to leave.
"Well, we've got some Christmas shopping to do," Lydia announces, swinging her bag over her shoulder.
"Why are you tagging along?" Ethan asks Aiden. "To carry the girls' bags?" He teases.
"The girls can carry their own bags," Lydia tells him firmly. "He'll carry his own, too." Then she grabs both her boyfriend and Allison's hands and walks out of there.
Isaac and Scott wave while Danny huffs. Only a short moment goes by before Scott stands as well.
"Actually, we got some business downtown as well," he excuses, poking Isaac.
"I guess we're all off then," Danny sighs, putting down his empty cup with a content sigh and reaches for his jacket slung over his chair.
"Not me," Stiles says drowsily, only sinking further into his seat by the thought of getting up and going out in the cold.
"You sure?" Scott asks as all the boys get to their feet.
All but Derek.
"Yeah," Stiles says, swallowing. "I got a muffin to finish."
Scott and the others snicker on their way out, the bell above the door ringing as they exit the shop. Stiles is surprised he didn't notice it when he first walked in with his sensitive ears.
Once the door shuts behind Isaac and everything goes quiet, Stiles notices they're the only costumers left in the shop. The barista has left the counter to fumble with the coffee machines, and her work is the only sound apart from the muffled voices from the people on the streets outside.
Stiles keeps his gaze down, feeling his heart speed up without his approval as he furiously stares at the untouched muffin before him. He can't tell where Derek is looking from this angle and it may just be his imagination, but he can practically feel his heavy haze on him. He knows Derek has already finished his coffee long before Stiles even did, so he's got no reason to stay. Other than to keep Stiles company, of course, which is a thought that's not as insane as it used to be.
He's embarrassed, and he's pretty sure he should say something about last night. He could pretend like he doesn't remember or that he didn't mean what he said, but he's not a good enough liar to make Derek believe him. He should definitely apologize, seeing that he'd been a jerk for calling Derek at all. There would be no jump in his pulse over that.
Just as he opens his mouth and inhales a breath to start speaking, though, Derek breaks the silence.
"Ethan wants to join Scott's pack, along with Aiden."
A deep frown seeks its way to Stiles' forehead, confusion catching his tongue. He tilts his head up and finds that Derek is not looking at him anymore, if he ever were. His eyes are fixed entirely on the window to their left.
"How do you know that?" Stiles asks, still frowning. "I don't even know that."
Derek locks eyes with him then and there's a small tug in the corner of his closed mouth.
"He just said so. He's right outside, talking to Danny."
"Oh," Stiles says sarcastically. "And naturally you can't help but to eavesdrop?"
"It's no effort," Derek says, but actually does sound a little bit guilty. "It's like breathing to you."
"Huh," Stiles says. "And you felt like sharing this information with me because..?"
Derek shrugs, eyes dropping to the empty mug still in his hands.
"Wouldn't be the first time we exchanged unnecessary information," he simply remarks.
Which, no, it wouldn't. Between their texts about Stiles' running or Stiles commenting on one of the many ridiculous pictures Cora sent, there had been a lot of random texts that held no purpose whatsoever. The kind of things not worth gathering a crowd for but still something you'd like to share with someone. Like how much Stiles hates doing the dishes, or how pizza tastes like heaven, or that there's a new mailman who looks like Beacon Hills' next serial killer. Stiles finally thinks he understands why some people get a Facebook or Twitter. But he doesn't want others to read his random thoughts, even if it's just a handful of them. It's been enough to only share them with Derek.
His heart flutters a little at the thought that it's something Derek still wants or expects them to be doing. Maybe he should say something, but they end up sitting in silence for quite a while. He doesn't realize he's still watching Derek until he looks up again.
"Ethan wants Danny to take the bite," he says, sounding alarmed but also thoughtful.
"Ah," Stiles says, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks back down at the damn muffin. "Yeah. I've figured that one out myself already."
"And?" Stiles looks back up, arching an eyebrow in question. "Shouldn't one of you talk to him?"
"And say what, Derek?" Stiles asks, realizing his voice is a little too loud for the given topic when the barista glances over. "That's their business, isn't it?" He adds in a lower tone.
"Stiles, we can't be sure if Danny would even survive the turn," Derek hisses, leaning forward over the table and suddenly bringing their faces closer, which makes Stiles' lips part as he exhales. "And if he does… he'll be a werewolf."
"No shit, Sherlock," Stiles pretends to gasp and Derek actually glares at him this time. "Look, it's not like he'd ever bite Danny without his permission, okay? He's offering – to a guy who's well aware of the history and consequences of lycanthropy as well as being old enough to make that decision himself."
"Stiles–" Derek tries, but Stiles interrupts him.
"No, Derek, I don't think you get it. Things aren't black and white, alright? Especially not when it comes to the twins." He slumps a little, frustration fading completely into tiredness. "Things haven't exactly been easy around here just because the big bads are gone."
"I never said it's been easy, Stiles," Derek says firmly, weight in every word. He seems to hesitate, voice going deep and lower as he adds, "I know things haven't been easy."
Stiles swallows. They're still looking at each other across the table and Stiles can tell they're both thinking about his struggle with the darkness without either of them having to say it out loud. Derek knows now and Stiles feels more relieved about that than he ever thought he would.
A moment of silence passes by and eventually they both sink back in their chairs.
"Do you still want to call me?" Derek eventually asks, and it's barely a murmur.
Stiles feels his heartbeat quicken, but ignores it.
"No," he says, shaking his head. "You're here now. It's not the same anymore."
Derek nods slowly, and Stiles realizes his heart is pounding. He sighs in frustration at himself, knowing it'll only get worse if he tries to make it slow down by will. Instead he figures he may as well say what he's been meaning to say on the topic from the start.
"Look," he begins. "I'm–"
"You don't need to apologize," Derek says.
Stiles blinks, not really agreeing, but he can tell by Derek's expression that he means it.
"Okay," he says dumbly. "I just… I mean, I meant it, okay?" He says instead because no matter that he never would've dared to say those things when sober; there's no way he's going to deny them.
Derek's gaze drifts between his eyes.
"I know you did."
Of course he does. Stiles manages to nod, swallowing and then letting out a heavy breath. He hasn't felt this relieved, this light, in a long time. Perhaps Derek can tell because he gives him a faint smile. It looks like he's considering saying something more, and Stiles patiently waits for it, but in the end he's pretty sure Derek change his mind, because his expression changes and his voice is much lighter when saying:
"So are you gonna eat that muffin or should we ask for our money back?"
Not sure what he'd expected, Stiles tries to shrug off the faint disappointment.
"Hell no, I'm gonna eat it," he assures with a snort.
Derek innocently holds up his hands in defeat, sinking back in his seat with a relaxed smile. His hands don't return to clutch the long-empty cup but slide into his pockets instead.
Stiles eats the last muffin despite the butterflies in his stomach and he eats it way too fast without chewing properly, which ends up with him getting the hiccups. Just his luck.
"Oh my – hic – god," he groans when Derek cracks a wide smile, and that just makes him chuckle. Which is worth it, in a way, but it's still a pain in the ass.
"Sorry," Derek says, forcing himself to be serious. "That must be really annoying."
"You don't – hic – know?" Stiles asks.
The corners of Derek's mouth twitch, but he restrains himself from smiling.
"No, we don't–" He throws a glance in the barista's direction, but she's busy counting coffee beans or whatever so she's not paying attention to their conversation. "Things can affect us, they just don't last."
"Is – hic – that why Scott's barely – hic – hung-over today?"
Derek nods. "We're not easy to get drunk."
Stiles points a finger at him, sneering.
"I know you wolfies can – hic – get drugged with wolfs bane though. Be – hic – afraid."
"I'm mortified," Derek says, and this time he's not even trying to hold back his amusement.
After another five minutes of Derek being entertained by Stiles' violent hiccups, however, he starts to realize how frustrating it is for Stiles and instead tries to help him cure it.
They ask for a glass of water, which he nearly chokes on. Stiles tries holding his breath despite Derek insisting it's dangerous. He orders Derek to scare him, which the werewolf says is impossible nowadays. Stiles tries breathing and swallowing with different techniques.
But none of it helps.
Derek lets out a deep sigh, leaning over the table on his elbows. Any trace of him still enjoying this are gone and he's probably more irritated by the silly little yelps by now than Stiles himself.
"Okay, here's the deal," Derek says, meeting his eyes steadily. "Stiles? If you do it one more time, I'm going to kiss you."
Stiles gulps, cold shock washes over him and gives him goose bumps. He stares at Derek who stares right back. His heart is suddenly pounding against his ribs. He waits. Derek waits.
Nothing happens.
After more than twenty seconds in absolute silence, Derek lets out a heavy breath, offering him a smile. Perhaps it's only Stiles who's still high on the shock, but he thinks it looks a bit shaky.
"Looks like I'm still capable of scaring you after all," Derek huffs, leaning back again.
With his heart still hammering in his chest, Stiles manages to snort and roll his eyes. He leans back against his chair too, trying to tell himself it's a big relief to get rid of the hiccups. There's a funny feeling stirring in his gut, and no matter how hard he tries to laugh it off at first, he soon realizes what it is.
He feels disappointed.
A knock on the window has him jerk in surprise, and Scott standing outside looks just a little guilty for startling him. Not as much as he looks amused though.
"You guys still here?" Scott asks through the glass, and it's perfectly audible even to Stiles' ears. "We're heading to the loft."
"The loft?" Stiles repeats, frowning.
He can see Derek looking at him in the corner of his eye but he doesn't look to meet him.
"Yes, the loft," Scott confirms, nodding as Isaac and Allison come into view. "Dancing time."
Right. Stiles mentally slaps himself. He'd totally forgotten about that.
"Do you remember the steps?" Derek asks as they're getting up from their seats.
"No," Stiles says before stopping himself.
It's a lie, and Derek can probably tell because even Stiles feels his own pulse jump in surprise. The werewolf doesn't call him out on it though.
"Alright," he just says, waiting for Stiles to put on his jacket. "I'll just show you again once we get there."
