❄️130. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”
“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”
Stiles froze in his tracks where he’d been tiptoeing into the kitchen, wide eyes searching for the source of the voice. He physically jumped when all he saw were Derek’s red eyes glowing in the otherwise completely dark living room.
“Jesus H Christ,” Stiles cursed under his breath, pressing a hand to his chest over his pounding heart. He shouldn’t have been so surprised, he reflected, he’d known Derek was there, sleeping in the living room after the most recent supernatural encounter.
A small band of werewolves from Washington had rolled into town like they owned it and tried to set up shop in Beacon Hills. When the pack had confronted them they’d decided to leave but not after taking a couple of cheap shots at Stiles. His side still ached from where he’d been scratched, the bruises on his cheek still smarting.
Derek had taken him home to treat his injuries and stayed at the Sheriff’s insistence should Stiles need any more pain drained, the couch made up for him with some pillows and blankets.
Stiles watched Derek rise from the couch, walking silently to the kitchen, eyes no longer red. As soon as Derek was close enough, Stiles punched his arm, quietly hissing, “Don’t do that! You’re gonna give me a heart attack.”
Derek snorted, looking entirely too pleased with himself in the soft light from the under cabinet LEDs. Growing more serious, Derek asked in a whisper, “Does it still hurt?”
“No, I’m just thirsty. Didn’t mean to wake you,” Stiles admitted, shaking his head, irrationally touched by Derek’s obvious concern. He offered a wide a smile and turned to walk further into the kitchen, opening the fridge to grab a bottle of water.
When he closed the refrigerator door, he turned around to find Derek extremely close, mere inches away. He furrowed his brow in silent question, tilting his head to the side. Derek very softly inquired, “You sure you’re alright?”
“Yeah, man. It’s just a scratch, I’ve had worse,” Stiles shrugged. To his surprise and intense embarrassment, Derek crouched down in front of him, rucking up his t-shirt to look at said scratch, carefully peeling back the bandage on his side. Laughing nervously, Stiles joked, “Gonna kiss it better, big guy?”
Derek glanced up at Stiles as he swiped his thumb over the corner of the bandage, recovering the scratch. To Stiles’ utter shock, Derek leaned closer to press a kiss to the bandage before tugging Stiles’ shirt back down.
Rising to his feet, Derek cupped Stiles’ unbruised cheek, almost inaudibly admitting, “I’m sorry you got hurt. I should’ve been faster, shouldn’t have let them hurt you. Hate seeing you hurt.”
Before Stiles could say a word Derek tentatively touched his lips to Stiles’, pressing a chaste, barely there kiss to his mouth. He began retreating, eyes glued to the floor, inching away from Stiles who whined in protest.
Derek’s eyes snapped up, wide and astonished, a small hopeful smile curling his lips. He ducked closer to kiss Stiles again, hands settling on Stiles’ hips.
Stiles shuffled closer, fisting his hands in Derek’s shirt, dropping his water bottle with a loud thump, tugging him deeper into the kiss. Derek lifted him, mindful not to jostle his side, and set him on the counter where Stiles wrapped his legs around Derek’s hips, drawing him closer.
They broke apart at the sound of someone clearing their throat. Wiping their mouths, both looking admonished, they turned to see Sheriff Stilinski standing in the living room, arms crossed and accusatory eyebrow raise. “Shouldn’t you two be sleeping?”
