Chapter Text
After that, they make purposeful plans with each other, to talk.
And they actually talk, is the thing.
Derek tells Stiles about Cora living in New York, how she fits right in with the New York City aesthetic in a way he and Laura never managed. He mentions Parrish threatening to drag him out to get drinks with a couple of the other deputies and Chris Argent, of all people, every Friday—and Stiles wishes he could be a fly on the wall just to watch Derek Hale attempt to make small talk.
Stiles tells Derek about the rest of his friends, how he doesn’t speak with Scott much these days. He isn’t sure when or why it happened, just that they grew apart. He guesses that's just a part of growing up. He's not sure yet what the outcome will be, only that he isn’t part of Scott’s pack anymore. The thought hurts less to think about now than it used to.
The last time he spoke to Kira, she and Malia started dating, though their relationship was strained from being in schools on opposite coasts. Lydia is taking MIT by storm. She isn’t sure if she ever plans on moving back to Beacon Hills permanently.
Stiles doesn’t blame her.
“Are you planning on staying?” Derek asks him one unseasonably cold afternoon. They're sitting in the living room at the loft, rain pattering at the windows, Stiles' feet tucked up under Derek's thighs on the couch to keep them warm. The weather is making his arm ache more than usual, and Derek slides his fingers up Stiles' pants leg, just enough to take some of his pain. He smiles gratefully, then makes a face when Derek takes an unnecessarily giant bite out of a slice of pizza.
"Lydia asked me the same thing." He shrugs. "College is expensive. It makes more sense to live at home for now. Especially since I have no idea what I want to do with the rest of my life.” Does he follow in his dad’s footsteps? His mom was a teacher. But he doesn’t want to choose something just because his parents did it.
Stiles wiggles his toes just to watch Derek's thigh twitch. “What about you? Or are you enjoying your life as a gentleman of leisure?”
Derek throws a balled-up napkin at his face. “I have a couple of things I need to figure out first. Your dad keeps trying to recruit me as a deputy.”
Stiles snorts. “Am I supposed to be surprised?” A werewolf super-sniffer, a built-in lie detector, and supernatural strength and speed would all be major assets to any law enforcement agency. The CIA would recruit him without bothering to run a background check. “Is that something you would want to do?”
“Maybe.” He takes a smaller bite of his pizza, looking down at his lap instead of meeting Stiles’ eyes. “I actually have my bachelor’s degree in auto mechanics.”
The fully-formed image of a grease-stained Derek wearing nothing but a pair of worn, steel-toed work boots lifting Stiles up against the side of the Camaro leaps into his thoughts. Stiles' brain short circuits a little.
He clears his throat, shifting his paper plate so it covers his crotch. “I didn’t know you went to college.”
“I finished right before Laura came back here.” Derek’s voice breaks a little on her name. “Had a job lined up and everything.”
“Gotta be honest, I can’t picture you as a mechanic.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. Stiles takes a bite of his food.
Derek squeezes Stiles’ ankle, and a slow smirk crosses his lips. “I like working with my hands.”
Stiles chokes on his pizza. “You suck,” he croaks. Derek grins and tosses another napkin at his face.
As the days pass and Stiles heals, Derek spends more time alone at the loft in an effort to give both of them some space. He goes out for drinks with Jordan and Chris at the one bar in town that Stiles can’t sneak into because the owner has known him since he was a toddler. He tells Stiles he’s surprised that he actually enjoyed himself. That he’s looking forward to going out with them again.
Stiles hates it, and he hates himself for hating it.
“Do you hate it because he enjoyed himself, or because he enjoyed himself without you?” Lydia’s face stares out at him from the screen of his laptop. She’s painting her nails a glittery dark green, examining them under the dorm room lights.
“Listen.” Stiles points the pen he’s been fidgeting with at the screen. “No one asked you to psychoanalyze me.”
“So, both then.”
He glares. She ignores him and continues to paint her nails.
“If you’re insinuating that I’m jealous, I’m not.” Lydia raises a single, perfectly manicured eyebrow. “I’m not. I just… want to crawl into his lap and hiss at anyone else who gets too close and keep him all to myself and oh my god, I’m jealous.”
Lydia laughs.
Stiles flails his arms, yelping when his shoulder screams in protest. His pen goes flying across the room. “No, Lydia, help. I don’t want to be That Guy who’s jealous every time his boyfriend hangs out with his friends.”
Her head snaps up, like one of the wolves catching a scent—a comparison he will never, ever, on pain of dismemberment, make to her face. “Is Derek your boyfriend now?”
Stiles curses his rambling mouth. He flops back down in his seat, holding onto his bad arm to keep it still. “I don’t know what we are. We’re…”
“Complicated?” Lydia says dryly. She blows on her nails.
“I was going to go with confused, but yeah, sure, complicated works.”
“Stiles.” She places the bottle of nail polish on the plush, blue throw rug she bought to cover the hideous dorm floor. She turns to fully face the screen. “Look. You’ve been through a lot. You and Derek have been through a lot. You’re allowed to be confused. Give yourself some time, and everything will work out the way it's supposed to.”
He sighs. “My dad said the same thing.”
“Your dad is a smart man.” She picks up the bottle with a flourish and starts on a second coat on her fingernails. “In other news, I talked to Jackson the other day.”
Stiles rolls his eyes, thankful for the change of subject. He uses his toes to spin his chair in circles. “Really? How is Lizard Boy doing these days?”
“Dating Ethan, apparently.”
Stiles falls out of his chair, much to Lydia’s very loud amusement.
“Are you okay?” she asks through her laughter.
“I hate you,” Stiles groans from the floor. At least he fell on his good side.
“No, you don’t.”
“No, I don’t.” He crawls back into the chair. “Okay. Tell me everything. Spare no details.”
Lydia gives him a shark-like grin and dives in.
When Derek picks Stiles up for physical therapy, he’s distracted. More so than usual. Stiles tells him about his conversation with Lydia about Jackson, and receives no more than one or two word answers in reply.
Stiles frowns and asks, “Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“Liar.”
Derek grits his teeth and squeezes the steering wheel. He pulls into the hospital parking lot. A murder of crows takes up the spot directly across from them, because that’s not ominous at all.
“There's a full moon tonight. It's...affecting me more than usual. I just need to figure some things out.” Derek turns to Stiles, eyes wide and surprisingly earnest. “I’ll explain later, okay?”
“Promise?”
“Yes. Do you need me to pick you up?”
Stiles gets out of the car and slams the door, much to Derek’s consternation. “No, I’ll get a cab. Go dance naked in the woods. I’ll text you later.”
“That’s witches, not werewolves.”
Stiles smiles to himself. He narrows his eyes at the crows, who haven’t budged an inch. “Stay away from the windows, and nobody gets hurt.”
One of them caws at him. The rest ignore him completely. Par for the course.
Physical therapy sucks. Stiles complains about still not being allowed to drive, so his therapist puts his arm through the wringer. By the end, all he gets is a gnawing pain in his shoulder, two Advil, a shiny new ice pack, and a whole new hatred for kettlebells.
He’s regretting not taking Derek up on his offer now. Instead, he gets an Uber to the sheriff’s station so he doesn’t have to pay for a ride all the way home. His dad’s cruiser is cooler than the Camaro anyway.
Well. Sort of. At least when he’s not in the back of it.
Stiles walks over to Jordan’s desk, where he scribbles a note on a post-it saying Stiles wuz here, complete with a drawing of a penis, because it thrills his petty inner child.
The door to his dad’s office opens. Stiles sticks the note to the desk with a piece of packing tape—the super sticky kind—looks up to see who walked out because he’s a nosy little shit, and freezes in place.
Stiles has been trying not to beat himself up as much about the things that happened when he was possessed by the nogitsune. He isn’t always consumed by guilt at the very thought of Allison.
That doesn’t mean he’ll ever be mentally prepared the moment Chris Argent walks into a room.
“Stiles,” Chris says, equally surprised.
“Mr. Argent,” Stiles says. His mental flagellation is momentarily suspended by his dad bringing up the rear.
“I’ll email those papers to you by tomorrow. When you see my deputies, tell them they still have to work Saturday morning, even if they’re hung over.”
Chris laughs quietly. “I’ll do that.”
Noah shuts the door at his back. “You ready to go, kiddo?”
Stiles nods, leading the way out of the station. He can’t help but glance back at Chris standing in front of the welcome desk one last time.
His dad at least waits until they’re in the car and stopped at a red light to turn to Stiles and ask, “You okay?”
Stiles stares out the window, watching the cars whiz by on the cross-street. “Yeah. Fine.”
“Stiles.”
“I am.” Stiles sighs and looks over at his dad. “Mostly. I was just surprised. That’s all. Pinky promise. Cross my heart.” He slashes his finger in the air over his heart.
His dad grunts but otherwise doesn’t voice his disbelief.
Stiles wanders up to his room after dinner and throws himself onto his bed with the intention of distracting his brain with something funny on Netflix. Exhaustion rolls over him like a wave, however, and he passes out as soon as his head hits the pillow.
He’s in the basement below Eichen House, bare feet sticking to the floor. The lights flicker as he walks, painting everything in disorienting shadows. He hears something dripping, like water from a leaky pipe.
Someone whispers his name.
“Hello?” Stiles says into the darkness. The sound echoes off of the walls, making it seem like a cacophony of voices instead of just one.
He walks around the corner into the old, dank tunnels below Oak Creek. The electric hum of the lights is the only sound, save his own footsteps.
The lights go out, leaving him shrouded in darkness. He stumbles, gripping onto the wall to hold himself up. He makes a fist, tapping his fingers against his palm, counting them.
“One… two… three… four…”
“Five.”
The lights turn on, leaving him staring directly at the faerie from the preserve, teeth too sharp in their mouth. Pain lances through his stomach, and he looks down to find their nails buried in his abdomen.
“You didn’t think it would be that easy to get rid of me, did you?” The faerie laughs, face shifting into Stiles’ own, holding a ring dagger in his hand. He stares down at his blood drenching the blade.
His blood splatters against the ground like water from a leaky pipe.
Stiles wakes up with a gasp, shooting up in bed. He covers his hands over his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut, but the scream remains caught in his throat. He lifts his shirt, frantically pawing his abdomen with trembling hands. He finds bare, clean skin marred by nothing but his moles.
“Shit,” Stiles says, harsh and shaking, chest heaving for breath. “Shit.” Apparently, his brain doesn't think he's fine any more than his dad does. His brain and his dad must be besties.
...he's never realized how bizarre his train of thoughts gets when he's sleep-deprived.
His phone vibrates. He answers it without thought. “Hello?”
“Oh.” Derek’s voice is a balm for his soul. “Sorry, I was—going to leave a message. Did I wake you?”
“Had a nightmare,” Stiles admits, fingers quivering. He squeezes his hands into fists to stop the shaking. “What’s your excuse?”
“Yeah, me too.
That brings Stiles up short. The two of them are being honest with each other? About feelings? Without prompting?
Will wonders never cease. He has half a mind to look out the window and see if pigs are flying, but that would also mean he’s probably still dreaming.
He shudders. Best not to chance it. Instead, he latches onto this well-timed distraction like a lifeline. “You wanna talk about it?”
“With you?”
“No, with my invisible twin.”
“You have an invisible twin? Why haven’t I seen him?” Derek is screwing with him. Derek is teasing him. That makes him happier than he’s ready to admit.
He still rolls his eyes though. “Ha fucking ha. Seriously though. Do you want to talk about it?”
There’s a very long pause, punctuated by Stiles' still-racing heartbeat.
“Not right now. Goodnight.” Derek hangs up before he can respond.
Stiles puts the phone down and frowns. Derek never said what he was actually calling about. He isn’t entirely sure why he’s disappointed by being so quickly written-off. He’s not exactly champing at the bit to delve too deeply into his own emotional turmoil. Why should he expect the same from Derek?
He rolls over onto his side and clutches his hands over his stomach. He doesn’t fall back to sleep for a long time.
There’s a knock on his door at way-too-early-o’clock.
Stiles zombie shuffles with bleary eyes across the house, flinging the door open. Only then does he realize he’s wearing nothing but a pair of boxers.
Oh well. Too early. Not his problem.
“Uh. Good morning.”
It’s Derek. Of course it’s fucking Derek. No, he should be fucking Derek. But not on the front porch, Stiles isn’t into exhibitionism.
“Good for you,” Derek says, bewildered. He shifts the duffel bag on his shoulder.
Stiles shuts his eyes, hoping that if he can’t see Derek, he won’t feel mortified. It doesn’t help. “How much of that did I say out loud?”
“Just the part about not being an exhibitionist.”
Stiles grimaces and opens his eyes, accepting his fate with as much dignity as he can muster.
Derek holds out an extra-large Starbucks cup. “Why, was there more?”
“Nope.” Stiles grabs the cup with greedy hands.
Derek smirks, like he knows better. “Thought you might need that. Wait, careful, it’s—”
Stiles chugs a good portion and sputters when the boiling liquid scalds his tongue. So much for dignity.
“—hot,” Derek says dryly.
“You don’t say.” Stiles fans at his mouth, which does absolutely nothing to ease the burn, but it makes him feel better. “Come in so I can put some pants on.”
Stiles pushes the door all the way open, letting Derek walk inside before closing the door behind him and heading up to his bedroom.
“Do you flash everyone who comes to your door?” Derek yells up the stairs.
“I do when they come knocking this early in the morning.”
“Stiles, it’s noon.”
“Like I said!” He yanks on the first pair of sweatpants he gets his hands on and an old Beacon Hills Lacrosse Team t-shirt with holes in the hem and questionable cleanliness. He looks in the mirror, runs his fingers through his hair, then shrugs and heads back downstairs. Not like Derek hasn’t seen him looking a heck of a lot worse than with some bedhead and dirty clothes.
Derek is sitting at the kitchen table with his own cup of coffee. Stiles' cup is sitting in front of the other chair with the lid off, steam curling into the air as it cools.
Stiles throws himself into the empty seat. “Thanks.” He reaches for the cup and takes a gulp, choking when that still burns going down.
Derek shakes his head and takes a sip of his drink, the tension between them broken, at least for now.
“So what are you doing here?” Stiles takes a smaller sip this time. Much better. “Besides literally killing me with kindness.”
Derek rolls his eyes. “I need to show you something.”
“And you brought me coffee to sweeten me up? Aw.”
“I just didn’t want to hear you complain about needing caffeine.”
“Whatever,” Stiles mumbles, but he takes another sip of his coffee.
Derek snorts, opens his bag, and pulls out a tall, rolled-up sheet of poster paper. He gestures at Stiles to move his cup before he removes the rubberband and unfurls the paper on the table.
Stiles tilts his head to the side. “Are these plans for a house?”
“For my house.” Derek scratches at his hair. “Or, what could be my house.”
He glances back up at Derek. “You’re tearing your house down?”
Derek clenches his jaw. “At some point. The county gave me thirty days to figure out what I want to do with the land before they make the decision for me. That was a week ago.” He sighs, flicking his finger against a folded corner. “I guess I should just be thankful they waited this long.”
Stiles hesitates a moment, biting his lip, before asking, “Have you spoken to Cora about it?”
“Yes. She said she doesn’t know what to do, either.”
“So helpful.”
Derek chuckles. “That’s what I said.” He looks down at the plans with a frown Stiles aches to wipe from his face.
“Is this what you called me about last night?”
“Yeah," Derek says, voice clipped. He closes his eyes, takes a breath, then looks at Stiles again. “Sorry. Yes. And why I was struggling on the full moon." He frowns like it's a personal moral failing to struggle with losing his family on the one night every month he's likely most reminded of the trauma. "Any thoughts?”
Stiles runs his hand along the curled edge of the paper, smoothing it out to get a better look. There’s a mock-up of what the front of the house could look like, along with blueprints for the layout of the individual rooms. From what he remembers of Derek's home and what he could put together from the existing wreckage, this house is a carbon copy, right down to the shutters. That can't be healthy.
He doesn't mention it. “Looks good. I mean, my knowledge of architecture is limited, but give me a few hours with Reddit and a couple of YouTube videos, and I’ll be as good as an expert.”
Derek cracks a smile, and Stiles mentally throws victory arms into the air. “I was going to get in touch with my inner Frat Boy today. Steal one of my dad’s beers and watch every football game on TV until he gets home and drags me out the door for physical therapy. Wanna join me?”
“Sure.” Derek rolls up the paper, re-wraps the rubber band around it, and places it back into his bag. “But no beer.”
“Party pooper,” Stiles says, happily putting the cans back in the fridge.
Derek stays long enough to watch exactly one full game, leaving at halftime of the next when Stiles’ dad gets home. The sheriff’s uniform has that effect on people.
Stiles watches out the window as he gets into his car. He meets Stiles’ eyes through the windshield, gives him a soft smile that makes his stomach flutter, and peels out of the driveway.
Noah shakes his head. “One day, I’m going to give that man a ticket, werewolf or not.” He looks Stiles up and down. "You're not planning on wearing that get-up in public, are you?"
Stiles rolls his eyes and goes upstairs to change.
Pleased with his progress healing, his physical therapist gives him the okay to drive on his own, as long as he starts with short distances. Stiles celebrates by driving to the loft with dinner from In-N-Out, just because he can. He laughs at Derek’s look of disgust when he dips a fry in his chocolate shake, sticking his finger in the cup and wiping some on Derek’s nose.
“That’s gross,” Derek says, wiping his face with a napkin, “and sticky.”
“You know what else is gross and sticky.” Stiles waggles his eyebrows.
Derek snatches Stiles’ hand before he can poke his face again. “That’s terrible, even for you,” he says, but he rests their clasped hands on the couch in between them, stroking Stiles’ fingers with his thumb. Stiles' breath hitches, and Derek looks at him, eyes dark. Knowing. Intimate in a way Stiles isn't quite sure he's ready to acknowledge yet.
Derek squeezes his fingers and lets go of his hand. He immediately misses the warmth.
When his phone rings at ten o’clock the next morning, Stiles doesn’t curse Derek and throw his cell across the room. That should earn him some sort of prize.
He yawns as he answers the call. “What’s up, buttercup?”
“Don’t call me buttercup,” Derek grumbles, his usual, grumpy self. No prizes for Derek.
“What’s the word, hummingbird?”
“That’s even worse.”
“What’s the sitch, bitch?” Stiles grins and stretches out across the mattress. “I can do this all day. I’ve got a million of these.”
Derek heaves a sigh. “My car broke down. The tow truck has already been here, but I have no way of getting home.”
Stiles rolls onto his stomach, tracing a wrinkle in his pillowcase with a finger. “Call an Uber? Why are you calling me?”
“There aren’t any Ubers for half an hour.”
Ah yes, the joys of the brunch rush. One of several reasons Stiles does not participate in this particular past-time.
The other being sleep, glorious sleep. He flops onto his back again. “I’m busy.”
“Doing what? Counting ceiling tiles? You’re still in bed.”
“You don’t have to be rude.”
“Please,” Derek adds mulishly.
“That’s better.” Stiles groans, overly-loud and dramatic. “Fine. You win. Where are you?”
“Main Street, in front of the diner.”
“Gimme ten minutes.”
He heaves himself out of bed and gets dressed, pausing to grab a quick cup of coffee and shove a granola bar in his mouth before moseying out to his Jeep. The roads are busy, so Stiles doesn’t rush, waving to one of the deputies as he passes them at a red light.
He pulls into the diner parking lot, slides into one of the spots in front reserved for pick-ups, and rolls down the window. “I guess this time I get to be your knight in shining armor.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Derek says, climbing into the passenger seat.
“Rude.” Stiles waits for him to buckle his seatbelt before he pulls back out onto the interstate.
Derek swipes a hand over his forehead, wicking away the sweat beading at his hairline. He relaxes a little once they’re moving. “Thank you for the ride. Jordan would have taken me, but he got called into work to cover a shift.”
“Excuses, excuses,” Stiles teases, passing Derek a bottle of water. “Here. Before you melt all over my clean seats.”
“I’m not going to melt,” Derek mutters into the bottle as he takes a drink. Stiles glances over, just in time to catch a bead of sweat rolling down his neck. Stiles’ response gets caught in his throat, mouth going dry.
Derek swallows, wiping at the corner of his mouth. Stiles is intimately familiar with what that mouth feels like wrapped around his cock. He turns up the music, trying to push the image of Derek sprawled out across the front seat from his mind, but it’s a futile effort when Stiles can picture the memory as clearly as if it happened yesterday.
“Watch the road,” Derek says quietly. He pretends not to smell Stiles’ no-doubt potent arousal, just like Stiles pretends not to notice Derek’s cock straining against the seam of his jeans.
They don’t say another word to each other for the rest of the drive. They don’t even look at each other. As soon as they reach Derek’s loft, he mutters another quick thank you and hops out of the Jeep like the hounds of hell are on his ass.
For days after, he doesn’t visit Stiles or call him at an ungodly hour. Stiles uses this unexpected time alone to try to sort his thoughts into some semblance of order. He takes a drive, he talks to his dad, he sends a long, rambling email to Lydia. He sleeps better than he has in months, but anxiety still pulls at his brain, threatening to put him in a chokehold.
In an effort to vent his frustrations rather than work himself into a lather, Stiles pulls on his sneakers and drives out to the preserve for a run. Contrary to what Coach might think, he likes running - when he isn’t being chased by something or yelled at during warm-ups.
He runs until his lungs burn and his arm hurts and his feet ache as they pound against the ground. The sun starts to set, and Stiles turns back to the trail leading to the main road. He ends up at the Hale house, staring at the caution tape strung across the banisters on the porch. The full moon is hidden behind the clouds so only a small stream of light shines through.
One of the floorboards on the stairs creaks under his feet. Stiles freezes, heart speeding in his chest even faster than when he was running.
“I know you’re out there, Stiles,” Derek’s voice says from inside of the house, making him jump out of his skin.
He presses a hand to his chest then ducks under the caution tape and walks inside. “Dude, you scared the crap out of me.”
“Sorry.” Derek is standing next to the stairs, staring at the corner of the hallway, his profile half in shadow so Stiles can’t see his eyes.
Stiles tries to follow his gaze, but the corner is dark and empty. “Is everything okay?”
“The county is tearing down the house next week.”
That explains the recent lack of communication better than their repressed sexual tension. Stiles winces.
Derek continues without waiting for a reply. “I know I should be more upset about that. How else are you supposed to feel about your family home being bulldozed to the ground?”
Stiles doesn’t say anything. He lets Derek talk himself out, acutely aware of the fragility of the moment. One wrong move, and the trust they’ve spent all this time building will shatter like broken glass.
“Cora said she wants the whole thing razed to the ground. That she was afraid of telling me because she thought I would be angry. But the truth is, part of me agrees. Too much has happened here for it to feel like anything else but a graveyard.”
Stiles takes a step forward, intending to touch Derek’s shoulder. His hand freezes mid-air as he’s finally close enough to follow Derek’s line of sight. He isn’t looking at the corner at all. He’s looking at the floorboards, at Stiles’ blood dried up on the ground that no one ever bothered to wash away.
Stiles lowers his hand and bends down, dragging shaking fingers over the very stark reminder of just how close he came to dying.
“I told you to run.”
Stiles’ head snaps up. “And what, leave you to kill the faerie on your own?”
“I could have handled myself.”
No. They're not doing this. Stiles isn’t going to be the punching bag for anyone’s displaced anger, especially Derek motherfucking Hale. He stands up. “She threw you into a tree!”
Derek snarls, “And I survived! I would have survived anything she threw at me!”
“Not being poisoned!”
“You don’t know that,” Derek says, voice the low, dark growl of an angry predator.
Stiles has never been very good at self-preservation. He pushes the exact buttons he knows will piss Derek off the most. “So you’re the only person who gets to martyr yourself for someone else? And the rest of us mere humans get to—what? Stand back and watch you get yourself killed?” Derek won’t look him in the eye. Stiles shoves him backwards, so he doesn’t have a choice in the matter. “Fuck that, Derek, and fuck you, too. If you think I was just going to stand back and watch you die—“
“You almost died, Stiles! Do you understand that? You were dying, and I couldn’t do anything!” Derek kicks the bottom stair, flinching when one of the baseboards comes loose.
“What are you talking about? You saved my life.”
Derek shuts his eyes. “I’m just—scared. I’m terrified. That one day something is going to hurt you that I can’t save you from. Like I couldn't save them.” He gestures out into the room. He exhales, breath shivering. “I don’t want to lose you. Especially not here.”
Not here—the place where Derek has already lost so many of the people he cares about.
Wow, Stiles is an idiot.
He gives into the earlier temptation to touch Derek’s shoulder. His other hand cups Derek’s cheek. “You won’t lose me. I promise. But you can’t protect me from the entire world, Derek. And I don’t want to lose you, either.”
Derek leans forward, pressing his face to Stiles’ chest. Stiles scrapes his nails through his hair, over and over. He doesn’t know how long they stand there, but a cold wind blows through the open door, making Stiles shiver.
He nudges Derek’s head up. “Come on. Come home with me. You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”
“Okay,” Derek says. Stiles holds out his hand, and Derek takes it, allowing Stiles to tow him out of the house towards the trailhead where he parked the Jeep.
He needs to let go of Derek’s hand so he can drive, so Derek places a hand on his thigh instead. Stiles intermittently lets go of the steering wheel or the gearshift to squeeze his fingers, letting him know he’s still here without saying a word.
Noah is asleep on the couch with a football game playing on the TV when he gets home, giving Stiles ample opportunity to sneak past without explanation. He gets Derek into his room with the door shut before he sends his dad a text with a very brief rundown.
“I don’t want to get you in trouble,” Derek says.
Stiles scoffs. “Are you kidding? My dad would move you into the spare bedroom permanently if given half a chance.” He tosses his phone to the side and tugs a pair of basketball shorts out of his dresser drawers. “These should fit you well enough to sleep in.”
Handing them off to Derek, Stiles kicks off his shoes, toes off his socks, and takes off his clothes, flinging them in the general direction of his hamper. He really needs a shower, but when he turns, Derek is standing in the middle of the room wearing nothing but Stiles’ shorts, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
Stiles tugs on a pair of pajama pants and gets into bed. He holds up the covers in invitation. Derek crawls underneath, instantly maneuvering himself so his back is to the wall. Stiles lets him, dropping the covers and lying on his side, leaving his arm exposed.
Derek drags his finger down the length of the thick, raised scar that runs from his shoulder to his bicep. “You don’t know how scared I was,” he whispers.
“I’m pretty sure I do.” It’s the same terror Stiles felt when Derek mentioned running off to fight the faerie on his own, the same way he felt looking back at Derek dying on the ground outside of a church in Mexico in a pool of his own blood. Maybe even as far back as the night he lost his grip and watched Derek plummet to the bottom of the high school’s swimming pool.
He presses their foreheads together. “I still love you, you know,” he murmurs.
“I know.”
“You’re really gonna Han Solo me right now?”
“Yes.”
Stiles huffs a laugh. He pushes gently at Derek until he rolls onto his back and lies down with his head on Derek’s chest. He falls asleep to the sound of Derek’s heartbeat under his ear.
Derek spends a lot of nights with Stiles after that. Under the cover of darkness, they tell each other secrets, things they've never confessed to anyone else.
Stiles tells Derek about his nightmares about the nogitsune. How the guilt about Allison still eats him alive some days, even though he knows her death wasn’t his fault.
“Sometimes, the rage inside of me makes me think the nogitsune left a part of himself behind,” he says, face pressed into his pillow. “It scares the shit out of me.”
“I know what you mean,” Derek says; of course he does. Derek was a wrecking ball with fangs and claws, full of rage and emotional damage when he first showed up in Beacon Hills.
He understands guilt, too. Derek tells him his nightmares are almost always about the fire. Sometimes, he’s in the house with his family. Other times, they stand outside and watch. The ghost of Kate always dogs at his heels.
Derek’s lips brush against Stiles’ neck when he speaks, sending a shiver through his entire body. One of these days, he’s going to lose control and jump Derek’s bones.
“Cora and I figured out what to do with the house,” Derek says, pulling away. Nothing like mentioning family while in bed together to kill the mood.
Stiles pokes Derek in the chest when he doesn’t elaborate. “And that is…”
“We’re going to rebuild. But not in the same place. My parents owned land about a mile away from the preserve. I signed the house away to the county. Told them to build something out of the rubble. The clerk mentioned a community garden. Laura would have loved that.”
“You can’t live on top of your family’s ashes,” Stiles says softly. Him and his dad almost moved out of the house after his mom died. She haunted every room, her specter in every corner. No matter where they turned, there she was.
Derek raises an eyebrow. “Since when are you so introspective?”
“I am a man of many layers. Like a pie.”
“Like an onion.”
“Hey! I am not Shrek!” He pokes Derek in his sternum, harder this time. “Out of the two of us, which one is more likely to live in an actual swamp?”
Derek laughs. It’s a good sound.
One autumn morning, Derek joins Stiles for a run out in the preserve. He allows Stiles to set the pace, but Stiles lets him take the lead instead, in the mood for a challenge. A thick mist of fog blankets everything, the sky dark gray and threatening rain. Stiles does a decent job keeping up with Derek, only a little winded. The humidity makes him regret wearing a hoodie. Sweat beads at his temples, rolling down his neck.
Halfway into the run, he looks over, finding Derek breathing normally. He isn’t even sweating.
That's just not fair.
Stiles puts on a burst of speed. Derek catches up to him. Stiles runs a little faster.
“Are you seriously trying to outrun a werewolf?” Derek asks.
“Bet I could.”
Derek makes a point of turning his head, still managing to dodge every tree in sight. “I bet you could not.”
“Oh yeah?” Stiles grins. “Last person to touch the hood of your car has to buy the other ice cream. Ready, set, go!” He shoves Derek, who stares at him with wide eyes as he falls.
Stiles cackles, running past him. He is not above cheating; Derek should know this by now.
The wind whips through his hair as rain starts to pour down, and his sneakers slip-slide in dirt turned to wet sludge. He uses his momentum to skid into the side of the car.
The rain also disguises Derek’s footsteps, so he yelps when a blur of black fur barrels into his legs, knocking him to the ground.
Derek pins him down with the full weight of his wolfy body. He bares his teeth.
“I’m not sorry.” Stiles flicks him in the nose.
Derek growls then licks Stiles’ face from chin to forehead.
“Yeugh!” He wipes a hand down his face. “Derek, that’s disgusting.”
Fur changes to skin beneath his hands, snout shortening, pointed ears shrinking and curving, the paws on his shoulders and legs turning to fingers and toes.
He looks up at Derek, his eyes still bright and wild.
“You cheated,” Derek says.
“You smell like a wet dog,” Stiles teases.
Derek laughs; the sound drips down his spine like the rain dripping into his hair. “Thank you.”
"That wasn't a compliment." Derek's skin is warm where it presses against Stiles, even through his clothes.
His flawless, exceptionally bare skin.
Stiles swallows. “You’re naked,” he says quietly.
Derek’s response is low, barely audible over the roar of the rain. “I noticed.”
Stiles’ heart trips over itself, clanging against his ribcage like the thunder building in the sky, the air between them charged like the storm. Stiles slides shaking hands up Derek’s bare arms, over his shoulders and the sides of his neck to grip his face. Derek stops with his lips a hair's breadth away from Stiles’ lips. His fingers tighten against Stiles’ shoulders.
He bends down. Stiles leans up. Their lips finally meet.
The kiss is soft, slow, and sweet, and Stiles’ heart aches in the best of ways. He pulls back to draw breath, and the air shakes between them.
Derek ducks back down with a soft groan, kissing him harder, tongue sliding into Stiles’ mouth. His body writhes against Stiles in a dirty grind. Stiles moans, rushing up to meet him.
He splutters as water falls into his eyes, yanking him back to earth. “We need to go somewhere. Not here. We need to—” He kisses Derek again, helpless to keep more than an inch between them. “Fuck.”
“Yes, we do.”
Stiles’ brain skids to a halt, and his dick throbs in his shorts. “You can’t just say things like that.”
Derek smirks. “You say things like that all the time.”
“Yes, but I’m me.”
Derek rolls his eyes. He leverages himself off of Stiles, and Stiles whines, making grabby hands.
Instead of lying back down, he lifts Stiles to his feet. “Come on. We both need a shower.”
Stiles perks up. “Together?”
“No.”
He pouts. “You’re no fun.”
“You won’t be saying that when I have you laid out in my bed underneath me.”
“Hng.” His brain crashes. Stiles.exe has stopped working. He grabs onto the hood of the Camaro to support his weight, then looks down at his hand. “Oh. I win.”
“You’re an idiot,” Derek says fondly.
“Yeah, but I’m your idiot.”
The look on Derek’s face mirrors the storm in Stiles’ body.
A smirk dances across his lips. If he has to suffer, he’s damn well making sure Derek does, too. “Is that because I called you an idiot? Or because I said I was yours?”
Derek growls, eyes flashing.
Stiles grins. “Option two then.”
“Get in the car. Now.”
“Bossy.” Stiles tugs open the passenger side door. “Who’s giving the orders now?”
Derek grabs two towels out of the trunk and throws them over the seats so they don’t ruin the leather. “Actually, I’d rather you give the orders.”
Stiles falls into his seat, catching himself at the last second before his face slams into the dashboard. Derek sits down, cool as a cucumber, like Stiles can’t see exactly how hard his dick is.
Oh fuck, Derek is still naked.
“You’re not going to put pants on?” Stiles asks weakly.
Derek closes his door. “No.” He revs the engine, smirking at Stiles out of the corner of his eye. “Put your seatbelt on.”
“You put your seatbelt on,” Stiles mutters, putting on his seatbelt. He squeezes himself through his shorts. He takes a deep breath. He can do this. He can keep his hands to himself for ten minutes.
Maybe.
Derek speeds down the roads out of the preserve. Stiles crosses his fingers, hoping like hell that his dad isn't out in this weather hiding in any speed traps, waiting to pull them over. He has no idea how he could even begin to explain Derek’s state of undress, why the two of them are streaked with mud, or any good reason why they’d be flying down the highway at over ninety miles an hour.
He grips the edges of his seat so he doesn’t reach across. The muscles in Derek’s cheek jump like he’s gritting his teeth, clawed nails tight around the steering wheel.
At least Stiles isn’t the only one having difficulty controlling himself.
Derek skids into his usual parking space in front his building, turns off the engine, and wraps the towel around his waist. Stiles’ hands shake when he tries to undo his own seatbelt, but he manages, slipping out of the car and running inside. He barely makes it into the elevator before Derek shoves him up against the back wall and lifts him up by his waist, urging Stiles to wrap his legs around his hips.
A hand grips Stiles’ chin, angling his head to the side so Derek can nip and bite his way down his throat.
Stiles gasps. “Are you holding me up one-handed?”
“Yes,” Derek growls.
He grinds his cock against Derek’s body. “That is so hot.”
Derek’s responding grin can only be described as wolfish. Stiles kisses him, pressing at the seam of his lips with his tongue. Derek almost drops him when he licks at his fangs.
He carries Stiles into the loft, dumping him unceremoniously on the couch. He drops his towel as he walks up the stairs. Stiles watches the muscles of his ass flex as he moves.
“You’re killing me here!” Stiles shouts. Derek laughs loud enough for him to hear it.
Derek speeds through his shower, finished in five minutes flat. Stiles plans on speeding through his own shower, but once the hot water is massaging his shoulders, he can’t help but duck his head under and luxuriate in the feeling. He focuses on each step of his routine: scrub the shampoo through his hair, rinse it out, the same with conditioner. Pour body wash onto a hand towel and scrub his skin from head to toe. He watches the mud swirl down the drain, purposely not thinking about the fact that Derek is likely waiting for him.
In his bedroom.
On his bed.
“Fuck this noise,” Stiles mutters to himself. He zooms through the rest of his shower, hastily wiping himself dry before skidding out into the part of the loft that functions as Derek's bedroom.
Where Derek is waiting for him, standing in front of his bed wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs.
He looks up at Stiles, a smug look tugging on the edge of his mouth. “Everything okay?”
“Super,” Stiles breathes, stalking forward. He shudders at the touch of Derek’s lips against his, and he moans, body curving towards Derek, hands briefly touching his waist.
Derek laughs, breathless as Stiles shoves him down onto the end of the bed before crawling into his lap. He grips Derek’s hair, opens his mouth over Derek’s throat, leaving bruises that won’t stay. He darts his tongue out to taste the skin.
Derek moans. Stiles trails his mouth down Derek’s neck, brushes his lips across his collarbones, down between his pecs.
“Your muscles are ridiculous.” He slithers down Derek’s body, fingers playing at the waistband of his briefs. “Why did you even bother to put these on?” He snaps the elastic hard against Derek’s skin.
Derek glares. “Really?”
Stiles snickers. He drags Derek’s briefs down his legs, fingers teasing at his skin from the backs of his knees to his toes. Everything between them has always been quick and dirty and aimed at getting one or the other off, and while the sex was hot as hell, it was never really satisfying. It always left Stiles wanting more.
He wants to take his time and find out what Derek likes, what really drives him wild, what makes him fall apart.
“So,” Stiles slips between Derek’s legs, pressing a biting kiss to his hip. “I really want to get my mouth on your dick. That cool with you?”
Derek moans, back arching. “Yeah.”
He mouths down the crease of Derek’s thigh, rubbing his tongue over the tip of his cock. Derek gasps, trying to roll his hips, but Stiles’ hands on his waist keep him pinned down. He grips the sheets tight. It's a rush, knowing he could buck Stiles' grip, that he's staying down only because Stiles wants him to. Stiles’ thumbs rub against Derek’s hips, soothing while he starts to bob his head up and down.
One of Derek’s hands curls around the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair.
"Fuck, Stiles, your mouth." He tightly grips the back of Stiles’ neck, and Stiles chuckles, sucking lightly, taking Derek’s cock fully into his mouth inch by slow inch. He focuses on the heavy weight on his tongue, the taste of Derek at the back of his throat.
Derek whimpers and squirms through the sensations. Stiles pulls off of him with a lewd pop.
Derek tugs him up by his shoulders, back into his lap. Blunt teeth bite against the cord of Stiles’ neck so his hips jerk forwards, rubbing his cock against Derek’s washboard stomach.
“Why did you stop?” Derek asks, mouth pressing insistently against his jawline.
“Because I need to you to fuck me into the mattress, and you can’t do that if you come in my mouth.”
Derek flips Stiles flat on the bed onto his stomach in a single, glorious display of strength.
Stiles turns his head to look at Derek, grinning. “Eager, are we?”
Derek shoves his face back down into the mattress. He yanks at Stiles' hips until he’s resting on his knees, shoulders against the bed. “Shut up, Stiles.”
“But you like it when I talk,” Stiles says, voice muffled by the bedsheets. He hears the snick of a cap just before Derek circles his hole with a finger. He drops his head to the mattress, rocking his hips into the sensation. Derek dips his finger inside, then goes back to circling. Dip, circle, over and over, until Stiles is going mad with it.
“Stop teasing me,” he snaps over his shoulder.
“It's only a tease if I don’t plan to follow through.”
“You—” Derek finally slides a finger inside, and a whine breaks free of Stiles’ throat.
“What was that?” Derek asks as he begins thrusting his finger.
“Shut up, Derek,” Stiles says, breathless. Derek chuckles, pulls his finger out, and shushes Stiles when he whines again.
Incredulous, Stiles asks, “Did you just shush me?”
“At least I didn’t tell you not to talk with your mouth full.”
Stiles groans as Derek pushes inside, a slow, dirty grind against the girth of several fingers. He rolls backwards, forcing them deeper. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”
“Not a chance.” Derek curls his fingers, and Stiles sees stars. That used to be a metaphor, but no, Stiles is pretty sure he’s in heaven right now. And he hasn’t even had Derek’s dick inside him yet.
Speaking of. “Come on.” Stiles wiggles his ass. “Get in me.”
“Oh, how romantic,” Derek says, monotone, but he takes his fingers out, presumably to slick his cock.
Stiles hopes that’s what he’s doing, because he needs Derek inside of him, yesterday. “If you wanted romance, you should have taken me to dinner first.” He yelps as Derek wipes his lube-covered hand against his thigh. “Dude. Not cool.”
“If you want me to fuck you, stop calling me dude.”
Stiles purposely waits until he feels Derek’s cock against his hole to say, “Okay, sugarlips.”
“What the hell,” Derek says, laughing as he slides inside. Stiles can’t formulate a response anymore, too overwhelmed by the feeling of being filled by Derek. Derek’s cock. Derek’s cock, which is inside him. Stiles wants to compose ballads about Derek’s amazing cock.
“Please don’t,” Derek says, and Stiles whines at once again sharing what should have been his private thoughts. Then, Derek starts moving, and coherent thought ceases altogether.
Fullstretchedyes. Finally.
Time loses all meaning, moving slowly and at the speed of sound all at once. Harder. Faster. Derek’s hips slap against his ass as he moves, and Stiles groans, dropping his head to his hands.
“Stiles.” Derek breathes out his name like a prayer.
Stiles needs to see his face the same way he needs air. “Stop,” he pants out.
Derek freezes mid-thrust, hands going tight on his waist. “Did I hurt you?”
“No. Just—turn around. I need to see you.”
“Okay. Okay.” He pulls out slowly, shifting on the sheets until he’s kneeling up against the headboard facing Stiles, cheeks flushed, face sweaty, mouth hanging open. Stiles commits the image to memory, because even when he’s old and gray and has forgotten his own name, he never wants to forget this moment.
“Hello,” Stiles says. He looks down. “And hello, Derek’s dick.”
Derek actually facepalms. “And here I thought we were about to have a moment.”
“Not sure where you would have ever gotten that idea.” He swings himself over Derek’s lap, reaches back to grip Derek’s cock, and slowly slides down until his ass is flush with Derek’s thighs.
“Oh.” Stiles’ eyes flutter shut. He didn’t think it was possible for this to feel even better, but somehow, they’ve accomplished it. Derek grips his sides, his entire body shaking and stock-still, like he’s trying to keep himself from thrusting up.
“You can move.” He rolls his hips experimentally, and shouts as pleasure like an electric current races down his spine and directly to his cock. “Derek, move.”
Derek moans, but he starts moving, jerking his hips up as Stiles grinds down, down as Stiles slides up, until they’re able to set a rhythm, until Stiles doesn’t have to think, can let his instincts take over and just feel. Derek’s eyes flash red, the tips of claws pressing at Stiles’ skin.
“Stiles,” he growls around the fangs in his mouth. Stiles grips the back of Derek’s neck and kisses him, hard and rough and wanting, helpless to do anything else. Derek’s kisses are like a drug. He could kiss Derek forever and still never get enough.
A hand wraps around Stiles’ cock, and he pulls back with a gasp, “Derek—”
Derek twists his fingers as he jerks Stiles once, twice, three times.
His mouth opens but no sound comes out as his orgasm rips through his body, rattling his bones until he cries. Pleasure rolls over him, wave after wave, consuming everything in its path. He doesn’t realize Derek is coming until he shouts Stiles’ name.
Stiles collapses down with his head on Derek’s shoulder, trying to catch his breath as his tears taper off. Derek follows and presses his forehead against his hair, panting directly in his ear.
“I can’t feel my limbs,” Stiles says when he finally regains the power of speech. “Derek, do I have fingers?”
Derek makes a noise that defies explanation. Stiles curls said fingers through his hair. He grimaces as he shifts in Derek’s lap, slowly lifting himself up and away. Derek collapses forward, trying to grab at Stiles, though he can barely lift his arms.
The sensation of Derek’s come sliding down his legs is less than pleasant. Stiles stumbles to the bathroom, where he wets a washcloth and wipes himself as clean as possible before walking over to the bed and doing the same to Derek. He tries to turn Derek over to clean the front of his body, but the stubborn werewolf refuses to move.
Stiles grunts. “Turn over.”
Derek mumbles into the bedding. It sounds like, “Leave me alone.”
Stiles rolls his eyes. He throws the washcloth to the side, and it hits the floor with a wet slap that makes him giggle. He shuffles down to the kitchen, grabs two bottles of water, and almost trips in his haste to get back to bed.
Derek has melted into the sheets and refuses to move. Stiles sticks his tongue out at him, just because he can. “Turn over. Come on.”
“No.”
Derek reverts to monosyllables after sex. Noted. “At least drink some water.”
He lifts his head with a weak glare. Derek takes the water Stiles offers and guzzles down half. He throws the bottle to the side then grabs at Stiles’ waist, wrestling him into bed and hugging him to his chest like his personal teddy bear. He snuffles into Stiles’ hair.
Stiles can’t help but lean forward, sappy and indulgent as he presses a kiss to Derek's mouth.
“I love you,” Derek whispers, a breath against his lips. In the space that remains between them, he reaches for Stiles' hand.
When their fingers twine together, Stiles feels like he’s coming home.