“Are you going to get in?” Stiles asked, peeling out of his last shirt, his words a little slurry around the edges. “In a- a- a-” He paused, trying rather unsuccessfully to shake his hand free of his sleeve. He started laughing uncontrollably and collapsed to the floor to work on his shoes. “The water, are you?”
“No,” Derek groused, pointedly not looking when Stiles flopped onto his back and began to shimmy out of his soaked pants. Black slime coated almost every square inch of the floor. “This is your bath, not mine.”
“Mine,” Stiles echoed, now just lying on the floor in a puddle of black, his pale skin coated head to foot in the gunk. “This is not my house.”
“Yes,” Derek agreed, as patiently as he could, checking the water’s temperature before turning off the tap. It had to be extra hot to affect the stuff. “This is the clinic.”
Deaton had explained that even minimal contact with the ichorous substance gave a contact high. Stiles had been practically drenched in the stuff when they had killed it. Luckily it was not deadly or even toxic- which was the problem. Someone had been keeping the creature as a pet, drawing out the fluid and selling it, and it had escaped three days ago to wreak havoc.
Very, very unfortunately, Derek had drawn the short straw for ensuring Stiles got cleaned up and came down from the high safely. Isaac, Boyd, and Erica were taking care of disposal of the body while Scott and Allison swung by Allison’s house to return weapons and report to her father. Deaton had been kind enough – or perhaps had enough self preservation – to give Derek the key to the clinic so he could get Stiles washed up away from his father’s questions.
“Come on,” Derek said gently, slipping from the edge of the tub to crouch at Stiles’ side. It was, he reflected, a very good thing that werewolves were not susceptible to the substance’s effects. “You gotta get cleaned up.” The effects wouldn’t wear off until every drop of the ichor was gone.
Stiles lifted his head, looking all the way down his lean form. “Oh, no, no that’s too far,” he told Derek, head falling back with an audible clunk he was probably going to feel in a few hours. “Wow, this is the best floor ever. Do you think I could take it home with me?”
“No,” Derek said with a sigh. Looked like this was going to have to be the hard way. He shifted, kneeling beside Stiles, and grabbed at his wrists to haul him up.
Despite that they slipped and slid a bit, Derek managed to get a very naked Stiles upright and across the three feet to the tub. For a second Stiles stood very still, holding tightly onto the edge of it like he was going to resist going in. Then he tipped forward and faceplanted directly into the basin so quickly Derek had to scramble to keep him from drowning.
“Hoooooo!!!!” Stiles shouted the second his mouth was above the surface, water sluicing away the ichor clinging to his skin. “It’s hot, Derek! This is really hot, why is it so hot? Oh my god, I’m melting!” He started grabbing at the black liquid coming off his skin.
Closing his eyes, Derek counted to three. Then five. Then ten, for good measure, and when he opened them again, Stiles had fallen very, very still and was staring wide eyed into the middle distance. It was not exactly an improvement, but at least he’d stopped thrashing, slopping water and ichor all over the floor and flinging it onto the walls and- and was that- on the ceiling?
“Stiles, how did you- you know what, nevermind,” Derek grumbled, reaching for the spray nozzle.
This setup was supposed to be for cleaning dogs, but it would work just as well for ornery, tripping humans. He began to run the spray over Stiles’ hair, watching the black give way to brown. When the tub had filled completely, Derek pulled the plug and let it drain. Diluted like this with water, it wouldn’t hurt the general populace; at worst, they’d all have a really good day soon.
Stiles’ eyes slid closed, and he relaxed into the gentle touches Derek used to turn him this way and that, to get at the last of the ichor still clinging to strange places like inside of his ears and between his fingers and- well, at least Stiles was unlikely to remember any of this very well tomorrow.
By the time he had gotten the last of it, Stiles had turned to putty in his hands, making a soft, pleasant humming noise that might have been purring on a cat. Derek swallowed hard, trying to keep it together. He still needed to get Stiles someplace to wait out the high, and get this place cleaned up so no one else would be affected.
Difficult to think of anything beyond the way Stiles pressed himself into Derek’s touches. “Feels good,” Stiles murmured, unwilling or unable to keep his eyes open. “You should touch me more.”
“Tomorrow,” Derek mumbled back, prodding Stiles to his feet. The floor was still covered in ichor, so Derek just leaned over and scooped a completely unresisting Stiles into his arms. Immediately, Stiles looped his own arms around Derek’s neck and burrowed his nose against Derek’s shoulder. “If you still want me to touch you tomorrow, I will.”
“Okay,” Stiles agreed muzzily.
He wouldn’t remember. No one else had. Still…
He allowed himself a small smile, and a measure of hope. Stiles had never been one for following the rules, after all.
@welshwoman1988 prompted for what happens after the slime wears off… so here is the answer!
———
Stiles stirred to the smell of breakfast heavy in the air, and knew almost immediately that he was not in his own room. He wasn’t even in an actual room, he was under too many blankets on Derek’s ridiculous bed, his face mashed into a pillow that was- not his own. He startled upright very suddenly, heart racing for a second against the huge blank in his memory.
“Hey, it’s okay,” came a gentle voice from behind him, and he scrabbled to turn around to see. Derek stood a couple of yards away, his hands both held up in a calming gesture. “It’s okay,” he repeated. “You’re safe. You got slimed by that thing.”
Stiles took a few choppy breaths, scraping at his memory. They had gone to fight the monster, found it at a park, up a tree. He remembered walking over to look up. He remembered Allison’s arrow, and seeing the thing pop like a balloon, and then-
And then nothing.
“I don’t remember,” he croaked, throat scratchy.
“I know,” Derek soothed, stepping closer and watching for a reaction. “Does anything feel weird? Hurt? Headache or anything?”
“No,” Stiles said, watching Derek right back as he took another step forward, almost to the edge of the bed. Stiles was suddenly very aware that although he was dressed, the clothing did not belong to him. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Derek said, and Stiles didn’t have to be a werewolf to know that was a lie. “Nothing important,” Derek amended. “The others ditched you with me to get cleaned up at the clinic. You were… really high. And loud.”
“Oh,” Stiles said, not really sure what to make of that. “And I’m in scrubs because…”
Stiles watched in fascination as Derek’s cheeks and ears pinked, the color speckling at the lines of his neck. “You were completely covered in that stuff. Your clothes were ruined, and you needed a- a bath.”
“And you-”
For just a split second, Stiles thought he remembered the sensation of warm, broad hands smoothing over his skin, slicking water from his hair, tipping his jaw, brushing along his-
“Yeah,” Derek interrupted, tense and hesitant. “You went catatonic after getting in the water. I thought if I just got it rinsed off…”
The low, contented noise Stiles had made with Derek practically petting him.
“Yeah,” Stiles agreed, voice a little shaky. Maybe more than just his voice.
The beat of Derek’s heart in his ear as he carried him out of the back room, carried him to the passenger seat of his camaro, carried him upstairs to the loft.
“Thank you,” was what came out of his mouth instead of all the questions he had. “It, uh… it worked. I’m… me, again. I think.”
The warmth of Derek’s body, inches away from his as he drifted in and out of restless sleep, the rasp of his soft breathing, the knowledge that he was safe.
Tomorrow.
Stiles shivered a little, looking up to meet Derek’s eyes as if he could find an answer there.
“You sound like you,” Derek told him, leaning on his leg against the side of the bed.
If you still want me to touch you tomorrow, I will.
The ichor had all been washed away by then. He remembered those words. He remembered the patience in Derek’s voice as he said them, and the resignation. He remembered his last, desperate thoughts, the ones unable to claw past his lips, being how much he wanted to reassure Derek.
“I am,” he said, as firmly as he could, and it seemed to work, because Derek smiled softly. “I’m back to normal.”
“That’s relative,” Derek said with a small smirk, and it felt so familiar and alien, the way Derek teased him. “I made breakfast, if you’re hungry.”
Derek turned away again, toward the kitchen, and Stiles moved like he’d been pulled on puppet strings, sitting on the edge of the bed before he registered the decision to follow at all.
“Derek,” Stiles called.
Derek froze, tension written in every line of his body, and Stiles could barely hear anything over the thundering of his heart. This was happening. Derek didn’t answer, but he didn’t move away, either.
“I- I do remember something,” Stiles admitted hesitantly. “I remember that I… I asked you… to touch me. More.”
“You weren’t in your right mind,” Derek told him, an easy out. Stiles might have taken it as a rejection if it hadn’t sounded like it broke Derek to say.
“I am, now.” This had to have been the gentlest argument they’d ever had. Derek turned to look, and Stiles looked right back, unwavering. “And it’s tomorrow.”
“Stiles…” Soft, barely there. Another argument.
“Please,” Stiles asked. “You said you would, if I still wanted you to. I do.”
Derek stared at him for a long few moments, looking torn, before finally taking a step forward, and another, and another, and then he was standing in right in front of Stiles again, their knees just inches apart. Stiles could feel his own heart thrumming in his fingertips, in his throat, in his lips, and he was sure Derek could hear it even louder.
“Please,” Stiles repeated. “Touch me.”
With a small sound of surrender, Derek did, palms warm on Stiles’ jaw, leaning down to rest his forehead against Stiles’. They stayed like that for one breath, two, and then Stiles shifted just slightly, just enough to tip his chin up, just enough to touch his lips to Derek’s. Eyes closed, breath stalled, he stayed like that a moment longer, Derek’s thumb brushing over his cheek.
Then he pulled back a little, opening his eyes. “Okay,” he breathed.
“Okay?” Derek echoed uncertainly.
“Yeah,” Stiles said, putting himself very much into Derek’s space as he got to his feet. “We’re going to have breakfast now.”
“We are?” Derek asked, sounding confused and a little hurt now.
“Yeah,” Stiles said again, grabbing Derek’s shirt before he could back away. “Then you’re going to touch me again. And again. And again. And-”
And Derek closed the distance between them, kissing him again just to shut him up. Stiles just grinned, and kissed him back this time.
Sterek fic where Stiles gets Derek drunk for the first time.
Stiles is more than curious about what Derek would be like with a few drinks in him. He has his suspicions but there’s also the possibility of an even sour Derek or an angry Derek.
Stiles’ suspicions are confirmed when Derek has smiled at him three times in the last hour. Three different smiles.
One is the kind Stiles gets more often these days, the one when Derek humors him. The one that reminds Stiles of Derek at sixteen, before the fire.
The second is the fake grin, blinding and breathtaking, that Derek uses when he’s turning on the flirt. Derek catches him in a lie. They’re sitting around Derek’s coffee table with the scrabble board between them (Drunk Derek also has a surprisingly good vocabulary) When Derek leans forward towards Stiles a little too far, slapping his tiles down with unnecessary force, clearly very proud of whatever word he’s made:
“Sex…” Stiles sighs, tallying up the points. Derek is winning. Stiles can’t think of words at the best of time let alone pretty drunk.
“You want to have sex with me, don’t you, Stiles?” Derek asks dramatically.
“Jesus chrysanthemums, Derek,” Stiles says, he thinks it’s more of a slur, “No I don’t,” Stiles ducks his head and pretends to do math.
“Your nose is growing,” Derek says. “Or maybe something e–”
“–you do not finish that sentence, Derek,” Stiles interrupts. Derek just leers at him, which is so much worse when he doesn’t have his stupidly sexy aviators on.
The third one is by far the worst of all.
They’re outside on the balcony, laying on a blanket that Stiles thinks is probably too expensive to be laid out on a filthy ground. Stiles tries to point this out but Derek looks devastated and says, “I like the way it feels.”
So, they’re laying side by side on it and staring up at the stars when Stiles asks, “You could have gotten drunk before, but you said you didn’t want to,” Stiles says, “what changed?”
“You asked,” Derek replies, eyes on the sky.
“Yeah,” Stiles sighs, “wait what?”
Derek laughs at him before rolling over onto his side. Stiles mirrors the movement. “I never wanted to drink alone, and I wouldn’t trust anyone else,” Derek tells him, easy. Stiles’ mouth is open he thinks.
“Why?” Stiles asks, fascinated. Derek’s brow furrows adorably, and Stiles reaches out a hand to brush his thumb across it. He pulls his hand back quickly and says, “sorry, dude.”
But Derek just smiles at him. Stiles has seen this smile before, once, and he doesn’t think he was supposed to. This is the part where Derek usually ducks his head, like he’s protecting himself from too much affection.
Except, this time he doesn’t. He’s looking at Stiles in a way that makes his heart stutter in his chest. “Oh,” Stiles says.
“We’ve all made some real bad interpersonal choices in the past, but statistically speaking you’ve never given me a reason not to trust you,” Derek says.
Stiles flushes, “yeah, well same to you,” he stutters out, flustered.
“Not really,” Derek admits. Stiles laughs, hysterically. Derek just smiles that smile at him. It makes Stiles sober enough to lean into Derek’s space and say soft and private,
“When we’re sober, and if it’s still okay, do you think, maybe I could ask you out?”
Stiles would totally do that. He would open the window, Derek asking what’s he’s doing, ‘I’m gonna have some fun, Der’ ‘What do you mean fun? Your fun is me getting arrested by one of your dads deputies!’ Stiles leans out of the window, starts waving at people they pass by, ‘Stiles get in the car!’
Stiles starts shouting greetings, and ‘Nice shirt’ at people and waves almost manically at anyone that waves or greets him back.
‘Get in the car, NOW!’ Derek pulls at Stiles leg until he’s fully in the car again. ‘What if your-’ They hear a siren blip twice and Derek sees the light in the rearview mirror and pulls over and then glares at Stiles as he gets his licence and registration papers out.
‘Evening, Mr. Hale.’ Derek freezes and his glare turns into a slightly frightened expression, Parrish he had no trouble with, Grimes he had no issues with, but Sheriff John Stilinski was more than just the law around here. He was also Dereks boyfriend-of-almost-two-days father. With a swallow Derek turned to John.
‘Sheriff Stilinski.’ ‘Hiya Dad.’ Stiles waved, not looking even slightly guilty about anything. The brat. ‘How’s your evening going?’ ‘It was going wonderfully until not only Mrs. Sanches but also Hillary and Duch called me about my son hanging out of the window of his boyfriends car.’ At this Stiles flinched. ‘Yeah. So son why don’t you say goodbye to Derek and get in my cruiser.’ ‘But-’ ‘I’m gonna talk to Derek for a bit and I will deal with you later.’ Stiles dares to kiss Dereks cheek and says a quiet goodbye and leaves the car, Derek is not sure where this is going but the next thing out of John Stilinskis mouth was not it. ‘Derek, son, if or lets be honest here, when, my son does something like this again don’t hesitate to just stop and leave him at the curb. Or just drive down to the station and he can stay a few hours and do some papperwork instead.’
‘Sir?’ ‘I know my son, Derek, I am not gonna charge you or give you a ticket for something I am sure you tried to stop-’ Derek nods. ‘when it’s my son doing whatever it is.’John pauses to give Derek a moment before continuing. ‘I’m expecting you over for dinner sometime this weekend, alright?’ Derek can only nod and is still sitting there 10 minutes later when Stiles texts him ‘So my dad just had a shovel talk with me, for you. So I guess he likes you?!’
Derek was alright with this, now he just needed to figure out what to bring to dinner this weekend.
OH MY GOD I WASNT EXPECTING THIS!! THANK YOU FOR MAKING THIS REAL
You’re very welcome, I wasn’t even gonna write something more than just that I loved this idea and then all of a sudden I had written all of it XD ❤ Glad you liked it.
Thanks for getting me to write something, been a while.
(This is a birthday present for the always-wonderful geeky-sova. Hope you had a wonderful one, bb! ❤ <3)
“Why is it raining?” Stiles whined, draping
himself over the back of the couch in their rented cabin. “This was
supposed to be a secluded romantic getaway with lots of outdoor sex, and
instead we’ve been trapped inside for three whole days.”
On the couch, Derek just flipped to the next page of his
book and gave no indication that he’d even heard Stiles.
Well, he couldn’t have that. Stiles flopped himself a little
closer to Derek and repeated, “Three days,
Derek. Daaaaays.”
Derek snorted. “I heard you the first time.”
“Are you ignoring me?” Stiles pouted, hoping it
would make Derek look at him. “Has the magic already gone out of our
relationship? You’re more interested in books than in me, now?”
Without raising his eyes from his book, Derek reached back
with one hand and ruffled Stiles’s hair. “I blew you in the shower this
morning. I think the magic is safe.”
“Mmmm.” Stiles turned his face to nose at Derek’s
ear. “But what have you done for me lately?”
In a flash, Stiles found himself yanked over the back of the
couch and pressed back-first into the cushions. Derek loomed over him, eyes
flashing blue and fangs poking out of his smirk, his hands pinning Stiles’s
wrists to the couch.
Of course, Stiles’s dick took note of the flashing eyes and
the fangs and immediately went Playtime!
“You,” Derek lowered his head to run his nose
along Stiles’s cheek, “are infuriating.”
Stiles rocked his hips up into Derek’s and grinned.
“Yeah, but you love me anyway.”
Derek growled and nipped at his neck. “Fine, if you’re
going to be so annoying, I won’t show you your present.”
Stiles perked up instantly. “Present? You got me a
present? What did you get me?”
“Ah, ah, ah. You didn’t say the magic word.”
Stiles wiggled in an effort to get out of Derek’s grip; of
course, it was useless. “Derek. Come on.” He batted his eyelashes and
then tried to make the biggest puppy dog eyes he could. “Please?”
“One day those aren’t going to work on me,” Derek
muttered.
Stiles widened his eyes some more. “But they do now.”
Derek sat up and patted Stiles’s side. “Come on, get
up.”
“Up?” Stiles scrambled to his feet. “Where are
we going? The bedroom?”
Derek grinned and started walking out of the living room.
“Nope.”
You hit me at exactly the right time because I was just finishing this:
Just picture Derek waking up late on a quiet Sunday morning, pulling on Stiles’ worn FBI shirt in a sleepy haze, and shuffling out to the kitchen where there’s a mug of fresh coffee waiting for him. Stiles is making breakfast and just lets him putter around in the background while he wakes up–he still finds a half-asleep Derek impossibly endearing, and if he can avoid waking him up fully, he does. Every chance he gets. It’s still something of a novelty that Derek doesn’t jerk awake at the slightest movement or creaking floorboard.
In this particular future, they’ve got a house up in the mountains overlooking Beacon Hills, and Derek likes to shuffle out onto the deck to drink his coffee and read the paper when he’s conscious enough. It usually takes a few tries to get both the sliding door and the screen unlocked and open, but he gets there eventually. Stiles just lets it happen, however long it takes.
When breakfast is ready and on the table, he follows Derek outside and hugs him from behind so he hook his chin over his shoulder and look out at the city. There’s a chilly breeze because it’s moving into fall, but with Derek in his arms blocking the wind, he’s still warm.
He presses kisses to Derek’s neck and stubbly jaw, and runs his hands up under the front of his own shirt, and marvels at the extra space through the chest and shoulders. Derek’s eased up on his workouts over the years, the further from danger and memories they got, and he’s not soft by any means, just less obsessive with being prepared for an attack of any kind. He doesn’t feel like he has to be a physical wall against any and all threats, not anymore.
There are good days and bad, of course there are bad days with everything they’ve been through in life, but the weekends are always theirs. The weekends are for waking up late and having real breakfast that’s not a rushed piece of toast in the car on the way into the Sacramento field office, and half-asleep coffee on the deck while the city comes alive.
They’ll probably go back to bed after they eat–maybe have some lazy and playful sex if they’re in the mood. Maybe they’ll just spoon and doze into the afternoon, because even though Stiles loves being the little spoon when he sleeps, he also loves holding Derek in his arms while the sun’s light lazily inches across their bedroom.
“Breakfast’s ready,” he murmurs quietly, and presses a kiss to Derek’s shoulder before pulling him back into the house. Derek’s eyes still aren’t open all the way, be he willingly goes where Stiles tugs him, knowing he’ll never steer him wrong.
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.”
Derek was in trouble. Not literally speaking—he’d never done a morally questionable thing in his life, he wasn’t Laura. No, Derek was in the kind of trouble people get into when they couldn’t control their damn feelings, and they leaked all over the place. He knew Isaac and Boyd had a bet going about his predicament, and he was pretty sure they convinced Alison to buy in the day before. It was unprofessional… Derek didn’t like it, and he did not find it the least bit funny.
It was ironic, considering liking things was what got him into that situation in the first place. Specifically his unmitigated, all-consuming like of the artist whose tattoo shop sat across the street from Derek’s fire station. Every morning at 9am Derek watched agile fingers wiggle the key in the lock and uncoordinated attempts to both balance his coffee and open the door. He was forced to witness the flailing as Stiles struggled to open the blinds. The inch of skin that crept into view when Stiles stretched his lean, ink covered arms above his head was obscene. There should be laws about being subjected that that sort of thing. It was unjust.
“You could always not watch him,” Boyd pointed out.
Derek feigned ignorance and folded the hose he was inspecting back into place. “I’m not watching anybody, I’m checking the rig. It’s called work, you should try it.”
“Right,” Boyd raised a brow. “Checking the rig at the same time the kid across the street shows up for work. Every day. With the bay door open.”
“I like the breeze.”
“You like the view,” Boyd snorted, and because he was actually good at his job he went to inspect the tires. “You should ask him out.”
Derek ignored him, like he’d done to everyone who stuck their noses in Derek’s love life and tried to offer the same advice. “The front left needs more air,” he said instead, ending the conversation.
Stiles doesn’t know how started spending all of his nights hanging out in a forgotten diner instead of getting a good night’s rest. Okay, so maybe he does actually know how he got here, and it might have everything to do with one surly worker with a quiet disposition and a big heart.
Stiles doesn’t know how he got here. One minute he had been staring aimlessly at his computer screen, going crazy trying to figure out a good argument for his essay, and the next he was in his car, driving around town at 12:34 in the morning. All he wanted was to find something to do that would take his mind off of all the work he was avoiding. Ending up at Pop’s, a 24-hour diner Stiles didn’t even know existed, was a complete accident. But it turned out that it was exactly what he was looking for, even though when he first stumbled inside, all he could hope was that it wasn’t the start of a b-rated horror film featuring his death.
Now, most of his nights are spent at the small diner.
“I’m cutting you off.”
Stiles blinks up at the man towering over him, a pout pulling at his lips. Okay, so maybe he does actually know how he got here, and it might have everything to do with one surly worker.
The first time that Stiles saw Derek, he thought that the older man might be a tragically beautiful serial killer, because even though he was the most attractive man Stiles had ever seen, the frown pulling his lips down suggested violence. Instead he turned out to be the tragically beautiful owner of Pop’s, whose resting face naturally looks violent. And, after that fateful night, he also happens to be Stiles’ favorite unobtainable companion.
Except when he decides it’s his ‘duty to the public’ to cut off Stiles’ caffeine supply.
“That’s not fair,” Stiles whines, tightening his hands around the coffee mug and glaring up at Derek. “I’m a paying customer. You’re supposed to take my money without complaining or questioning my life choices.”
“If you expect that kind of service you should go somewhere else.”
“Derek.” His voice is all whine. “You have to give me more coffee. How else am I going to finish all of this?” He gestures to the counter where several textbooks have been left open.
Derek snorts. “Stiles, you’ve been staring at your books without doing anything for ten minutes.” He grabs Stiles’ discarded pencil (which rolled across the counter and was forgotten) as evidence of his lack of work. “It’s almost 2 o’clock, you haven’t done any work, and you’re cut off. “ Derek reaches over the counter and presses the pencil’s eraser against Stiles’ forehead. “You know, normal people would be thinking about going to bed.”
Stiles bats the pencil away and snorts. “Yeah, well I think we can safely deduce that I am in no way normal. Why else would I be hanging out with you practically every night?”
Surprisingly, Derek doesn’t take the bait. It makes Stiles pout again; he loves the way that they banter and tease each other. But Derek just calmly pries the mug from his fingers and replaces it with a tall glass of water, a smirk teasing his lips. Obediently, though with an eye-roll, Stiles sips at the new drink. In all honesty, he’s not even feeling jittery from all of the coffee. He’s long suspected that Derek swaps his caffeinated coffee with decaf, but he hasn’t been able to prove it. Either way, he’s definitely more than ready to head back to his dorm and sleep for a few hours.
But at the same time, Stiles doesn’t want to leave Derek alone. He knows that he must be used to it; obviously he was alone before Stiles wandered in and kept coming back. But Stiles hates picturing Derek wasting time by himself. The first night they met, Derek had been behind the counter waiting for orders even though no one was there. And he’s never mentioned having anyone to go home to.
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.
shealwaysreads 