Derek took another look around the kitchen, where glitter covered every available surface, including the refrigerator. He didn’t even know how it all got there. “No. I don’t even want to know. I just want to know you’re cleaning this up.”
“But look!” Stiles rummaged in the refrigerator and pulled out a tray of chocolate cupcakes with pink frosting, all of them liberally decorated with glitter and sprinkles. Cut-out letters on toothpicks were stuck in the top of each one.
Derek tilted his head to the side, trying to read what they said. “Had beer day…”
“Ugh, no.” Stiles set the tray on the counter and swiftly rearranged the cupcakes, and then turned it back around with a flourish. “Voila!”
Now Derek could see the actual message: HAPPY BDAY DEREK.
“They were supposed to be a surprise for when you got home from your trip,” Stiles said, a light flush bright on his cheeks. “But then you got here a little early and Isaac and Scott had a fight with the edible glitter–”
Derek raised an eyebrow. “Just Isaac and Scott?”
“Mostly Isaac and Scott,” Stiles admitted sheepishly. “But uh, yeah. Surprise? And happy birthday?”
Derek finally dropped his bag on the floor and walked over to Stiles to kiss him soundly on the mouth. “This is the nicest thing anyone has done for me in years.”
Stiles’s eyes shone dazedly. “Really?”
“Really.” Derek kissed him again. “And I’m going to show my appreciation very, very thoroughly.”
Stiles’s grin turned seductive. “Oh, really?”
Derek nodded and ran his hand down Stiles’s side. “Extremely thoroughly…just as soon as you clean up the kitchen.”
Stiles groaned. “You’re the worst.”
Derek pecked him on the cheek. “And yet, you still married me.”
“I did,” Stiles agreed, nuzzling him. “And I’d do it again, a thousand times over.”
Derek’s heart filled at the words, and he kissed Stiles again. “I would, too,” he murmured against Stiles’s lips. “But you’re still not coming to bed until this kitchen is clean.”
d is what it says in Stiles’ phone, looking sparse and strange next to the elaborate nicknames and full names of everyone else on the contact list. He supposes he put it in there to make it easier for him to forget.
But he was wrong.
Every time he flicks through his contact list– its alphabetical, the d is still there, reminding him of what isn’t.
He thumbs past it a thousand times, sometimes because he’s looking for someone else, sometimes because he’s looking for it, specifically. It hurts each time, like someone punched him in the stomach, leaving him short of breath.
Stiles should delete it. Really, he should.
He doesn’t.
He couldn’t say why.
It’s completely illogical. But every time his thumb hovers over the
“delete contact” button, he cancels out and leaves the contact there.
It’s been…Stiles doesn’t know how long it’s been honestly, because it’s not like they texted or called a lot before
Derek fucked off out of Beacon Hills yet again. But it’s late, and
Stiles just finished showering and bandaging himself up after
Supernatural Baddie #2367 waltzed through town, and the only good thing
he can say about the fight is that the blood he washed off was mostly
someone else’s.
He’s frustrated and angry and feels like he’s been
stretched thin, like he’s been screaming himself hoarse trying to warn
people and no one’s listening. He’s so exhausted, more so than he’s ever been in his life, it seems. He wishes he could sleep, wishes he could rest and let it all go, but he can’t turn off the side of him that’s on alert at all times.
He tells himself he isn’t thinking clearly, and that’s why he scans through his phone and punches in a text message to d.
Hey asshole, where are you? We need you.
I need you.
Stiles hits send before he can second-guess himself. He makes a mental promise that he’ll go to sleep and not check his phone obsessively, but of course he spends the next 15 minutes staring at it, hoping for an answer.
He doesn’t get one. He doesn’t know why he was even expecting one.
The number’s probably bad now, anyway.
Stiles plugs his phone in and shoves it as far away from him as he can. He’ll definitely delete the number.
Tomorrow.
Stiles tosses and and turns all night, a restless, agitated
sleep filled with fractured wisps of dreams: lupine, haunting eyes that never
stop changing colors, veins blackened with blood, a broken-but-resolute voice
echoing save him from every
direction. He jolts awake at dawn with the smell of chlorine assaulting his
nose, punches his pillow in frustration and then takes more of the
sleeping pills he finally convinced Melissa to give him, refusing to even
glance towards his phone.
He wakes up again around two pm, this time reaching for his
phone first thing, sighing in anticipation of whatever fresh hell likely awaits. (Is that why you left, he thinks
at Derek, a new little mental habit he’s developed since the asshole left town.
Again. At least you said goodbye this
time, Zenwolf.)
He has one text, and Stiles tells himself that his clenching
stomach and pounding heart is fear of today’s Supernatural Baddie,
not anticipation, and definitely not something as naïve and
ridiculous as hope. Stiles has been living the my-BFF-is-the-True
Alpha-charged-with-protecting-a-beacon-of-supernatural-power life long enough
now that he recognizes how messed up it is that he’d rather be scared than
hopeful, but no longer has any fucks to give about it. Fear, anxiety, loss,
sheer fucking terror: those are familiar, well-known. But hope? Stiles hasn’t
felt hope in so long, he’s not sure he’d recognize it.
(I hope you find what
you’re looking for, he had said to Derek, his tongue twisting around the
word goodbye, too stubborn to
actually say it.)
Biting his lip, Stiles enters his passcode and check his text,
searching for the d.
The text is from Scott, from a few hours ago, telling him that
he’s spending the day with Kira.
Sighing and tossing his phone to the bed, he runs his hands
through his bedraggled hair as he walks downstairs in nothing but his boxers,
trying to hold on to the memories of his dreams, piecing together the fragments of
Derek his subconscious sees fit to torture him with.
He stumbles into the kitchen in search of food, rubbing at his
bleary eyes. “Fucking sleeping pills,” he mutters, glancing sidelong at the
table on his way to the fridge. “Melissa didn’t say one of the side effects was
hallucinations,” he tells the mirage sitting there, a Derek-shaped mirage,
reading a book and calmly sipping from his mom’s favorite coffee cup, chipped-edge
Miracle Mets mug from the ’69 World Series. Distantly, Stiles is impressed with
his mind’s and the drugs’ accuracy and attention to detail.
“It’s about time you woke up,” hallucination-Derek says. “Your
dad left for work about an hour ago. Wants you to call him. Coffee’s fresh,” he
adds, nodding towards the pot on the counter.
Stiles stills, finally looking directly at the kitchen table,
stunned, mouth hanging open. Derek is wearing a threadbare flannel shirt with
the sleeves rolled to the elbow, and his hair is longer than Stiles has ever
seen it, shaggy and brushing along the tops of his ears. His beard his fuller
too, and this is clearly not a memory, not an illusion, not a fantasy.
This is Derek, the real Derek, in the stupidly-perfect flesh,
sitting at his kitchen table, reading a book called Women Who Run With the Wolves and sipping coffee from his
grandfather’s coffee mug, crooking up one of his stupidly-perfect eyebrows at
Stiles’ Yoda boxers.
“What the fuck, dude?” Stiles manages to sputter out, crossing
his arms awkwardly over his bare stomach, silently cursing his racing heart, pulsing
harder with each beat as it dawns on him that Derek is real, that he’s back,
that he’s home. “Why are you here?”
Derek rolls his eyes, which Stiles finds incredibly soothing, but then he smiles gently at him, which Stiles finds incredibly terrifying. “You said you needed
me,” Derek answers, cheeks above his ink-black beard going pink, but shrugging, like it makes
perfect sense.
Stiles feels his own cheeks growing hot, but he’s smiling too,
because suddenly, it does.
Stiles and Derek bickering all the time. Derek calling Stiles obnoxious and immature. Stiles calling Derek stubborn and hotheaded.
So, of course they end up having sex.
They don’t really know how they end up in bed together, just that they do and it’s good. Throughout the entire morning Stiles sings under his breath, ‘i had sex with Derek Hale.’
Derek is pretty sure he has made a terrible mistake. He dreads seeing the rest of the pack later because he’s absolutely sure Stiles is going to have told anyone standing still long enough about it.
Except, Stiles doesn’t. He doesn’t even act any different the next time Derek sees him. Not outwardly anyway, his heartbeat spikes and never really settles when Derek gets too close.
It’s…cute.
But Derek is convinced it was a one time thing. It’s not going to happen again. He doesn’t regret it now, and he doesn’t consider it a mistake, but it’s Stiles. Except, then Derek makes the mistake of asking Stiles why he never told anyone about what happened.
“Because that would be a sure fire way for it to never happen again,” Stiles tells him. “And not just the sex stuff,” Stiles says, “I mean like other stuff too, we could do, like hand holding and sharing chicken nuggets,” Stiles suggests.
Derek tells Stiles he is a loser. But the sentiment is sort of lost when he kisses Stiles right after.
Derek takes them both to ComicCon as a Christmas present to Stiles. It was the only thing he could think to do that would show how well he knew his boyfriend and would mean he could enjoy his company at the same time. John was surprised at his invite, but if they’re going to make a detour to San Diego while Stiles is on break, then Derek doesn’t want it to deprive him of any time with his dad. And Derek and the sheriff have been on good terms ever since they spent so much time jointly trying to help Stiles back when the whole nogitsune fiasco went down. So Stiles and the two men that love him most tackle the heart and centre of Stiles’ nerdiness, and it’s the best few days of Derek’s life.
Stiles loses his absolute mind at everything, and demands that they do this again sometime in full cosplay. Derek is only mildly annoyed at all the werewolf cosplay suggestions.
Derek learns that as well as Star Wars, Stiles has a truly breathtaking knowledge of Star Trek and both Marvel and DC comics, as well as a bunch of video games, the details of which Derek can’t really keep up with. But Stiles is as animated as Derek’s ever seen him. Talking to anyone with similar interests, getting photos with cosplayers and complimenting them like mad, pointing out everything and anything that interests him, explaining it to Derek with his eyes big and bright and happy. Derek’s favourite part of this is that Stiles will sometimes rush through a space to get to something interesting, will race up ahead or get stuck behind as Derek moves through the crowd, but he always circles back to Derek, bounding into him with arms around his shoulders and a kiss on the cheek. He’s like a yo-yo the way he darts out and then returns, but it makes Derek feel nice to be the centre point of all that ecstatic movement.
John, before the end of the first day, has somehow ended up with Woody’s hat and badge from a Toy Story costume, and Stiles laughs his ass off about it. As much as they needle him about it John won’t explain how it happened, but he gets pretty close to a blush. Turns out, John is a hit at ComicCon. Even with the costume items making him look softer his air of authority is clear and the second time he tells a guy off for being lude about a female cosplayer, someone buys him a free coffee and then he’s off, lost into the crowd. Derek and Stiles don’t see him until hours later when he resurfaces, telling them about all the lovely people he’s met. He shows them a photo of a little girl sitting on his shoulders in a Buzz Lightyear onesie and Stiles makes a breathless, choking sound, clutching at his heart as John tells them about it.
Stiles discovers that Derek has a deep and timeless love for obscure sci fi and fantasy novels from the 80s, watches him have an in-depth meta conversation with an artist at a stall selling art for some sci fi series Stiles has never heard of, watches Derek’s face light up when the woman mentions something he’d never thought of before. He determines that whatever gets Derek to have that expression on his face is clearly worth a look, and Stiles decides he’s going to find out what these books are and read them and maybe give Derek a themed birthday party or something. Because the only other times Derek looks like that are when he’s talking about Cora or Stiles, and Stiles wants more of it. He is absolutely delighted when Derek, after talking for close to 45 minutes, ends up with 3 novelty t-shirts with various books’ cover art on them – being out of BH means his shirts have a longer life expectancy – and a web address to join an online fan forum. (Stiles is also ridiculously grateful that this whole trip isn’t just about him, but that his boyfriend is actually enjoying himself, too).
ComicCon is like Disneyland for Stiles and that view of it rubs off on Derek and the sheriff until they’re all walking around with a steady buzz of amazement and low key happiness; and they get to do more tomorrow. Derek has spent a large portion of the day taking photos of Stiles and John, but this one, when they’re dead tired but more relaxed than they have been for a long time, is probably his favourite. He sends it to Cora and Lydia, the former sending him a bunch of sick faces and tongue-out faces which he translates to ‘stop being cute and gross’ and the latter sending back a ‘glad you’re all having a good time’ with two kissy faces. And yeah, that about sums it up.
He also sends copies of the photos to John’s phone, and over dinner John looks at him with the look of a man quietly grateful for his lot in life, and when he claps Derek on the shoulder before retiring to his room, Stiles says, ‘Oh man, you’re really in for it now. He’s keeping you.’
Derek snorts, ‘I’d hope that’s because you’re keeping me.’
‘Well yeah, obviously. But now it’s on pain of death, or just, on pain of disappointing my dad forever otherwise.’
When Derek gets out of the bathroom in their hotel room a little while later, though, he’s pretty sure that Stiles is keeping him forever anyway. Given that he’s dug out one of Derek’s graphic tees from his favourite book series, and is wearing that but nothing else as he reclines on the bed with a smirk.
Derek rolls his eyes, but he also grins and tackles him to the bed, so Stiles counts it as a win.
………………………………………
Oh god guys, I wrote this on my phone and now my thumbs hurt and I’m late, I was THAT emotional and overcome by this photo. Whoops. I’ve never been to ComicCon so stuff is probably inaccurate but just roll with it, okay? Okay.
ok but singer!derek and deaf!stiles where Derek sings to Stiles at night when they’re curled together in bed and Stiles lays his fingers against Derek’s throat to feel the vibrations from his voice
Derek gets back late. Stiles is still awake and sitting up in bed. When Derek spots him there, he hovers in the doorway and watches— the way Stiles is squinting down at the book resting on his thighs as his glasses slowly, slowly slip down his up-turned nose, and the way Stiles is biting the thick knuckle of his index finger in concentration. It’s something Derek doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to, coming home to share a bed with someone who he adores.
Light eyes glint like warm whiskey as Stiles glances over at the clock on the wall, and the younger man falters slightly as he spots Derek leaning against the jam of the door. Smiling coyly, Stiles pulls off his glasses and folds his book shut. Derek is at the side of the bed the second Stiles has set his things on the bedside table.
“Hi, baby.” Derek says— Stiles can’t hear him, but that keen gaze of his catches the words on his lips, and Stiles’ smile only grows.
Stiles signs rapidly at him, fingers moving faster than Derek can read the words in them, and he laughs and shakes his head as he signs back. ‘Slow down.’
Stiles blushes for a moment, and his voice is thick and not quite right when he speaks, but Derek thinks he sounds like perfection. ”Sorry.”
“I don’t mind,” Derek tells him and Stiles is smiling again.
Long, deft fingers reach for him, and Stiles pushes Derek’s coat off of his shoulders and then ushers him into bed at his side. Derek leans in and presses the sweetest kiss to Stiles’ cheek. Stiles lets out a hum, those fingers curling into Derek’s shirt and pulling him close and under the sheets until their legs are perfectly tangled. Stiles doesn’t care that Derek still smells like sweat and beer from the bar he’d been performing at. Wrapping his arms around Stiles’ lithe form, he lets their foreheads rest together until Stiles jabs him in the shoulder.
Pulling back, Derek just raises a brow. Stiles signs something, and Derek smiles dopily. ”What do you want to ‘hear’?”
Stiles seems to consider that for a moment. Then, he signs again, and Derek’s expression softens. Nodding, he shifts until he can catch one of Stiles’ hands. Derek brings it up to his mouth, kissing the tip of each of Stiles’ fingers, and then he lays it against his throat.
He sings softly for Stiles, and admires the way the younger man’s lashes contrast so prettily with his skin as Stiles closes his eyes.
I think the thing about omega!Stiles is that he’s never been one for those stereotypical alphas at all. Sure, during his heats his body wants what it wants, but ask him during literally any other time he’ll always pick a nice beta or fellow omega, or, in a pinch, an atypical and less jacked-up-testosterone-bomb of an alpha.
In Stiles’ experience, alphas are more often than not complete assholes, and Stiles’ life is too short for this, frankly.
Then, along comes Derek. He looks like every single horrible alpha stereotype. Too preoccupied with how large he can make his muscles and how tight he can make his jeans to make sure his junk is always prominently on display. Ugh. Stiles is just not into it, have some fucking tact.
But, in spite of himself, he finds himself really loving that beard. Loving it to a point where he maybe facebook stalks Derek just a little bit. Just to check out the beard. Maybe he could make Scott try for a beard, just to have a beard in his circle of friends and maybe get over this weird beard obsession. He’d grow one himself, but past attempts had proved to a devasting degree how pathetic a beard his body can manage even under the best of circumstances.
It gets worse, though, when he happens to end up next to Derek for a while at a casual party, and he smells amazing. Alphas usually smell good from sheer chemistry, but Derek is a whole other level. Stiles wants to rub himself all over that.
He assumes his heat is just coming on early, and spends a weird three weeks expecting it to hit any day, only for it to not happen at all. He even goes to the doctor, who tells him his hormone levels show that his heat is on schedule to arrive a month later like expected.
It doesn’t make sense.
Another party comes up, and Stiles subtly passes Derek a few times just to test… and yes, Derek smells just as amazing as last time.
So he’s forced to conclude that not only does he have a kink for salt-and-pepper beard (but only Derek’s for some reason. Other beards don’t seem to have the same effect, what the fuck…) but his body has also apparently decided that they have amazing physical chemistry. But the muscles alone… no, there’s no way Derek isn’t a dick, Stiles is just not getting anywhere near that. He loves himself too much, okay.
Thing is, though, heat partners are a thing, and Stiles is not an idiot. His heat-ridden self would weep with joy from having Derek around to fuck him through the floor for those two-three days until he regains the use of his senses. So he sends Derek the paperwork, all nice and neutral to avoid anyone feeling pressured, and the papers come back all filled out and signed. They even match up almost exactly on the “will do, won’t do” list. Derek has a thing about his stomach being touched too much, and Stiles doesn’t want to be called degrading names. Sure, in heat he’d lap it up, but afterwards he’d feel dirty.
Anywho, heat comes up and Stiles barely even remembers it afterwards. He’s already way into the heat daze when Derek arrives, and barely has enough sense to reconfirm his consent before it’s on. Three amazing days pass, and Stiles’ spank bank is filled for the next several years.
Thing is, he does have vague memories of Derek being very tender and caring, and judging from the food wrappers and empty water bottles in the trash, neatly put away by the time Stiles wakes up alone on day four, Derek had been diligent in his caretaker duties as well. So he forced to admit that Derek is at least a marginally nice person.
But he’s still a jacked up alpha, and Stiles isn’t into that.
Except, two heats later Stiles isn’t so sure. Day three hadn’t even really been a heat for the last one, he’d been so thoroughly sated. But he hadn’t said anything when he woke up and got Derek worked up for another round, and Derek hadn’t commented on the lack of heat scent on him. It had been almost a full day of just… lounging around, having lazy sex and eating junk food. And they didn’t talk about it.
But, as was mentioned earlier, Stiles isn’t actually an idiot, despite what Lydia likes to say. So he pulls himself together and has a talk with Derek. Which ends with a date. And then another date, and oh god, only a few weeks later Stiles has to eat his words and admit to the world and himself that Derek is a completely nice guy. He does like to work out a lot, but seems mostly uninterested in how it makes his body look. He does spend quite a lot of time and product on his beard and hair, but Stiles is into that, so win/win.
And most of all, Derek is just incredibly kind and caring, and admits to Stiles during a post-coital snuggle that he was shocked beyond belief when he presented as an alpha. He’d literally never thought it possible.
Cue some very interesting conversations and kink discussions, and okay, Stiles is gonna marry this man, there’s literally no force on earth that can stop him.
“Dude, I hope you like your coffee black, cuz I don’t have any cre–” Stiles stumbles to a stop at the doorway of his bedroom, the two steaming mugs of French roast in his hands dangerously close to spilling all over his bare chest and feet.
He’s struck still with slack-jawed awe, overwhelmed by the beauty of the man in his bed. Okay, yeah, he did just spend the night fucking and getting fucked by this guy, but in Stiles’ defense, he was more than a little tipsy when he brought this Adonis home from the bar last night – largely because he needed four shots of Jäger to summon the courage to talk the walking wall of muscled, bearded hotness.
Derek, his slightly-hungover brain helpfully supplies. The man in his bed who’s responsible for the ache in his ass and the beard burn that’s covering a not-insignificant percentage of his body is named Derek, he of rippling abs and a magnificent man-pelt, not to mention green-gold kaleidoscope eyes that Stiles remembers getting way, way too lost in last night.
Derek finishes sliding on his underwear and sits up on the bed, turning towards him. “Black coffee is great,” he smiles, and oh. Stiles had forgotten about his fucking smile, the wide curves of his lips and the brilliant, adorably uneven teeth shining out from that damn beard.
Swallowing the lump in his throat and resolutely ignoring his rising heartbeat, Stiles manages to step forward and hand one of the mugs to him. Derek’s hand lingers on his, a simple, gentle caress that seems almost incongruous with the fierceness with which they fucked each other a mere few hours earlier. Taking the mug, Derek dips his chin a bit and looks up at him from under his long, dark lashes, blinking owlishly. “Thank you, Stiles.” He says his name carefully, deliberately, with something that sounds dangerously close to reverence.
Ohshitohshitohshit. Stiles is so not prepared to be falling headfirst into warm fuzzy feelings for a one-night stand. That way lies madness, doesn’t it?
Not that he has any experience with the feelings side of things when it comes to his casual hookups. Hell, he already broke his Number Two rule for the very first time by letting Derek spend the night. He’s on completely new ground here, and it’s a little disorienting and overwhelming, but also exciting, especially with Derek still looking at him like that, with the late-morning sunlight peeking through the curtains dappling his skin and glimmering in his eyes, bedsheets spotted with their come puddled around him, slowly sipping his coffee and looking like he fucking belongs here.
“You’re welcome,” he manages to answer, absurdly proud of how chill he manages to sound. He rejoins Derek on the bed, tucking his flannel-clad legs under him, playing it cool when his knee presses against Derek’s naked thigh.
“So,” Derek says, pausing for a moment to take a sip. “Are you breaking another rule by making me coffee?”
Stiles opens his mouth with a question, but then closes it as another memory of last night comes to him, the edges of it a little blurry.
Derek, sprawled across the bed on his stomach, Stiles’ come strewn across his extraordinary ass, discarded condom on the floor, moonlight casting a gray-blue glow across his skin. Stiles, on his back beside him, one leg flung over Derek’s calf, still slightly panting.
“You fallin asleep, big guy?”
Derek raised his head slightly from Stiles’ favorite pillow, a ridiculously adorable eyebrow crooking up. “That okay with you? I can take off, if you’d prefer.” He shifted slightly, adjusting the pillow a bit, looking all soft and comfortable and not the least bit like someone who wanted to get up and leave.
Stiles was surprised to find that he didn’t want him to, and that, in fact, he very much liked having this big beautiful hairy man in his bed. “I usually have a strict no-sleepovers rule,” he said, turning on his side to face him. He ran a finger over the sculpted muscle of Derek’s back, lightly traced the curves of the tattoo between his shoulder blades that he had just moments ago bitten while deep inside him. “But I don’t mind breaking it for you.”
Stiles smiles into his mug and looks up at Derek from under his lashes. “I don’t have any coffee rules.” He takes quick sip. “But, uh, I’ve also never made coffee for a guy I brought home from the bar.” It’s a simple, true statement, but it feels significant.
Those damn eyebrows again, darting up, now with a flirtatious grin. “I broke one of my rules for you too, you know.”
“You did? What rule is that?”
“Don’t go home with drunk guys, no matter how beautiful they are.”
Now it’s Stiles’ turn for the raised eyebrows. “And why did you break that rule for me?”
Derek places his mug on the nightstand and scooches closer to him. “Because you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever met,” he says simply, and then he’s leaning over to kiss him, all sweet and tender and tasting like coffee.
Stiles can’t stop the small moan of happy pleasure he makes as he kisses him back, or the exhilaration he feels when he realizes, awe-struck once again, that there isn’t a rule in the world he wouldn’t break for Derek.
Stays away. And there’s more than definitely a few stolen moments between the two of them. A first kiss here, a hot and heady make out session while on the hunt for the baddie of the week, but it all comes to a head right after Stiles thinks Derek is gonna die, cause after the fight, Derek comes to tell Stiles that he’s leaving Beacon Hills, but they don’t get around to talking that night because all Stiles wants to do is kiss and touch and feel Derek, and know that he’s alive and safe and hold, and the moment is beautiful!
And Stiles makes plans for the morning during whispered conversations and soft kisses. In the morning he’ll make chocolate chip pancakes, and they will talk about what this means for them. But in the morning, Stiles gets up and Derek is gone. All that’s left is a note that says ‘I’m sorry. I love you’.
Why……why would you hurt me in this way???
Okay, but let me make this better. Because Derek travels around the world and he can’t just shut Stiles out of his life, okay? He thought about it but when it comes to Stiles, Derek is actually pretty weak. Although, he thinks with a smile, maybe not weak. Just….less inclined to put more walls up. Not that Stiles hasn’t found several ways of climbing over Derek’s walls already, but Derek can’t say he’s ever been truly upset about that. Not really.
So he takes to sending Stiles notes from wherever he is. He sends a note on the back of a napkin saying the milkshakes in Paris are good and another one on a motherfucking rock, the wordscarved out by one of Derek’s claws; it reads, ‘it’s warm here but not as warm as in your bed’. He hesitates for five whole days before sending it.
(The rock is something Stiles cherishes for weeks; he sleeps with it under his pillow and looks at it before he goes to bed. He holds it when he’s scared and eventually puts it in a box where, up until that point, he only put things that had belonged to his mom. He figures she’ll keep Derek safe.)
Neither of them call – it’s a rule neither of them voiced, but it’s rule all the same. It’s only when Stiles shows up in Washington and runs into Derek – literally, runs into him, late for class – that Derek realises the utter fucking hell Stiles and the pack went through after he left, and all Derek can do is say ‘sorry’ over and over again, practically shaking because he should have been there, he never should have left. Why did he think him leaving would make Beacon Hills a safer place? He’s babbling, he’s pretty sure, in a way he wants to blame Stiles for because he never babbles, that is until – until Stiles is cupping his face and shushing him; saying things like, “I’m glad you weren’t there, sourwolf. Knowing you, you would have died.“
Derek rolls his eyes at that but Stiles is 100% serious. “You could have died,” he says again. He says it over and over until he’s the one shaking and Derek is the one cupping his face.
“I’m going to protect you,” Stiles then says, after a minute. “I…..I want to protect you, Derek Hale. For the rest of…..well. Yeah.”
Derek smiles, raising an eyebrow. His heart is beating so fast. Stiles always wants to protect him. “You always want to protect me,” he whispers, biting his lip.
His heart beats faster.
Stiles snorts. “Want is a strong word, big guy. I didn’t want to do jack for you in the beginning.”
“Then why save me, all those times?”
“Dunno,” Stiles shrugs, his own heart beat caught between steady and a stutter. “Guess I just thought you were worth saving.”
Derek smiles again, ducking his head. “Guess I thought you were too,” he breathes, leaning in for a kiss.
The marks were Stiles’ favorite. He knew they wouldn’t last, and that pretty soon, their rough, red bitten soreness would begin to fade from Derek’s neck, but while they were there, he loved them. Each and every one.
And the werewolf to which they were attached, because let’s be real, who wouldn’t?
And judging by the way he was was playing with them in the mirror, running a finger over the rough, bruised skin absentmindedly, Derek loved them too. Although Stiles knew de’d never admit it.
“Like what you see, big guy?” Stiles asked, and Derek flinched, before he flicked a quick glare toward the human by way of the mirror in front of his face. He abruptly pulled his hand away from the glorious, angry-looking bruises Stiles had sucked into his skin.
Derek’s only response was a low, throaty growl. Stiles just rolled his eyes. They were going on five years together, and things like that didn’t really affect him anymore. Especially considering the fact that Derek was anything but the big bad wolf he was often made out to be. He was much more likely to aggressively cuddle Stiles to death than to rip his throat from his neck these days. Not to mention, the werewolf had an oddly affectionate streak, and a needy habit of holding the human close and kissing softly at his neck, or for breathing shallow, warm breaths along the curve of his jaw, and murmuring soft ‘I love you’s’ into Stiles’ ears.
Do you think that Draco Malfoy knows he’s in love with Harry Potter? Because I have this head cannon that he doesn’t actually realise until that day in Malfoy Manor when he’s asked to identify him.
At first he tries not to look but of course he recognises Potter from the tiniest glance. He looks hideous, with all that swelling and the shiny red marks all over his face, so distorted that he’s almost indistinguishable. But not to Draco. Because Draco knows those green eyes. He thought he hated them, just like he thought he hated Potter. But just having Potter here surrounded by his family and fellow Death Eaters who surely want to kill him, or at least present him to Voldemort, Draco starts to sweat. “I can’t – I can’t be sure,” he tells them, avoiding Potter’s eyes as best he can, but as soon as he speaks he can feel them boring into him.
It’s not enough. Draco’s father forces him closer so that he’s face to face with Potter, with no way to avoid eye contact now. And Potter is searching Draco’s face, his eyes pleading for Draco not to give him away, asking him, drawing him in. But Draco’s already made up his mind anyway. Because he realises he doesn’t want Harry Potter to die. No Harry Potter can’t die. Because a part of Draco would die with him. It takes the threat of Potter’s death for Draco to finally realise he’s been in love with him this whole time. And despite all the choices Draco has made, all the punches he’s thrown on the other side of the fight, he wants Potter to win.
Draco can’t communicate all that with his eyes of course, but he sees something hopeful and forgiving in Harry’s when he finally answers his father: “I don’t know.”
The words find their way to Harry’s ears easily, the voice
smooth like honey, so dissimilar to the raspy, choked teenage voice Harry
recalls as if it were yesterday. Even so, he knows it’s the same person.
He turns from where he leans at the bar to come face to face
with Draco Malfoy. They haven’t seen each other in years. And it shows. Malfoy
has aged well. Beside him is obviously Pansy Parkinson, although it doesn’t
appear as if the years have affected her at all.
He looks back to Malfoy and smiles at the bored expression
on his face. “What don’t you know?” Harry asks.
Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Why I continue to let Pansy drag me to these
places.” It could easily be the truth if it weren’t for the twitch of his jaw,
giving him away.
Harry wishes he’d been able to eavesdrop earlier and know
the actual truth. Although he knows there’s a reason why it’s those particular
words that he heard above all the music pounding around them.
“What’s so wrong with these
places?”
Malfoy smiles now, or smirks maybe. It’s hard to tell with
such a flawless pointy face. “I often bump into people I know.”
And yet this is the first time Harry’s seen him. Perhaps he’s
been at all the wrong places. Until tonight.
“That doesn’t have to be a bad thing,” Harry offers,
wondering why he’s so eager to make friendly with his childhood rival. But really,
he knows. He tries to pretend. But he knows.
“And that sounds like my queue to leave,” Pansy speaks for
the first time. Harry had forgotten she was there.
Malfoy whispers something to her that sounds suspiciously like:
“Please don’t leave me,” but if it is, Pansy doesn’t listen. She laughs openly
at Malfoy, extracts herself from his grip on her arm and disappears into the
crowd of dancers behind them.
Harry watches Malfoy frown at her retreating back. He’d like
to see the return of that smirk/smile, or more accurately he’d like to be the
cause of it. He takes a breath. “What do you drink?”
Malfoy’s eyes flicker back to Harry, his jaw twitches again.
He ignores the question and strides past Harry to the bar. “Sailor Jerry’s,” he
says to the bartender. “Dry.”
Harry turns back around to the bar and picks up his own
drink – a vodka raspberry. He can tell Malfoy is eyeing him in judgement as he
takes a sip. It’s the only drink sweet enough for him to mask the flavour of
the spirit. He’s not so good with alcohol.
They stand in a silence until Malfoy’s drink arrives. He
takes a long sip and then shifts himself to face Harry completely, one elbow
leaning on the bar counter. “I’ll start,” he says. “I owe you an apology. I’m
not proud of many things in my past, including my treatment of you, both in the
war and at school. There is, of course, no excuse, but if you will allow me to
indulge, I was misguided and….scared. Petrified. Which brings me to my next
point. I also owe you my gratitude. I can’t thank you enough for saving my life
and also saving us all from the Dark – from Voldemort.” Malfoy takes a breath
and then opens his mouth as if to say more, but instead, closes it and takes
another long sip of his drink.
Harry watches Malfoy closely, waiting for the smirk, the
laughter, the punch line. Waiting for himself to wake up and realise it was all
a dream. But no such thing happens.
Malfoy has genuinely apologised to Harry, and thanked him, all in one breath.
And Harry realises it’s what he’s been waiting for all this time. But he still
has one question. The question that has been gnawing at him ever since that day
in Malfoy Manor.
“Why didn’t you give me away?”
Even though it was years ago, Harry doesn’t need to clarify
what he’s referring to. He can see the recognition in Malfoy’s eyes, just as he
did on that day.
Malfoy downs the rest of his drink and places it back down
on the bar gently. His eyes remain on his glass as he responds: “Because I was
in love with you.”
An involuntary outtake of breath falls from Harry’s mouth.
It’s not what he was expecting. He can feel his face heating up. How can Malfoy’s
remain so pale with an admission like that?
“And are you now?” Harry whispers, his voice coming out in an
uncertain waver, as if it were he who were confessing such secrets, instead of
the other way around. “Still in love with me?”
Malfoy looks up from his glass and finally meets Harry’s
eye. His expression is unreadable, and his words are steady as he responds: “I
don’t know.”
The sharp contrast to the teenage iteration of the same
words all those years ago causes Harry to smile. Malfoy’s matured. He’s no
longer the scared boy making all the wrong choices. He’s just a man. One who is
smiling back at Harry now, the expression fitting his face more comfortably
than any smirk or scowl Harry has witnessed on it before. And Merlin, Harry
hopes he can make this man fall in love with him all over again. Only this
time, he’s ready to fall too.
shealwaysreads 