Work Text:
Wednesday, February eighth, 8.09am
Calendar Reminder: Mom’s Birthday
Stiles eyes bug out of his head as he jumps out of bed and throws on the, hopefully, clean clothes that were hanging over the back of his desk chair. He shoves the books and papers that are on his desk into his bag and sprints down the stairs. The house is cold, and quiet aside from the patter of rain against the roof. His dad isn’t home, which was expected. He would have left around six and Stiles should have left around seven. His first class starts at eight! He has no time to eat anything or to even make sure he’s put on the right shoes. He snatches his keys off of the kitchen counter and looks down at his feet to double check and yep, they match . He sprints out of the door, locking it behind him, races to his car, throws his backpack onto the passenger seat and stalls his car as he tries to leave. He groans and starts it again, more slowly, this time and he has no issues backing out of the drive, and speeding off to school. It’s pouring down rain now, his wipers are racing back and forth as fast as they can but Stiles is still struggling to see. His lack of air conditioning means he has to have the windows down a little bit to circulate the air but the fog that builds up against the windscreen is anxiety inducing. He’s frustrated, and stressed, his heart is pounding in his chest and his hands are gripped onto the steering wheel, holding on for dear life as he drives just under the limit so that he doesn’t spin out or skid.
“What!?” Stiles asks his dashboard as the Jeep sputters and spurts and jolts then stalls before it rolls to a stop with nothing but mechanical brakes. Slowly and steadily Stiles pulls to the side of the road, barely three miles from his home.
“Nooo,” Stiles tries to restart the car but the engine misfires and shuts off again.
Stiles hits the wheel with his palm as he emphasizes his words, “Not! Today!” he shouts and drops his head to it, “please.” The rain is slamming against the vehicle, occasionally wetting the back of his head as it creeps in through the cracked window. He sits up and turns around to rummage through the junk on the floor behind him trying to find a spare jacket, an umbrella, rain coat, anything, but all he finds that comes remotely close is an odd sock.
Stiles exhales a sigh that turns into a groan and accepts his fate. He rolls up his windows, rips his bag off the seat and slides out of his car, slamming the door shut and locking it behind him. He throws his bag on his shoulders and starts to jog the last two miles. He keeps his head low to avoid the sting of rain hitting his face and hands hanging onto the straps of his backpack. His clothes are becoming wetter and heavier with every step, his shoes are soaked already with every slap of his feet in the unavoidable puddles. His breathing is heavy and his lungs are burning with every breath and he still has one and a half miles to go. He stops and walks for a bit before returning to a slow jog and it’s right about now he wishes he was a werewolf because he is exhausted. His legs hurt, his chest hurts, hell, everything hurts. He doesn’t even work this hard in Lacrosse practice. But as quickly as the thought appears in his mind, he pushes it away. As left out as Stiles feels, he does not want the bite. That he is sure of.
A couple more minutes of jogging, Stiles can see the school. It’s still a bit away but it is in his sight. He picks up the pace and only stops after he’s barged his way through the school doors, a chill immediately hitting his body upon entrance. He stops to catch his breath, hunches over hands on his knees and stares at the small puddle of water forming by his feet.
He’s missed the first period, and with how empty and deserted the corridor is, it’s about ten minutes into the second. So he stands up straight, and briskly walks to his class almost slipping a couple of times, trying to ignore just how cold his soaking clothes make him feel. His toes are numb in his shoes and his fingers like icicles. They feel stiff as he stretches them out to push down on the handle of his classroom door. He walks in and he's greeted with all eyes on him and it startles him.
“Stilinski,” his teacher greets him in a monotone of disappointment.
“My Jeep broke down…” is all he says as he spots an empty desk towards the back of the room.
He tries to walk past the teacher but is stopped with a manilla folder to his chest, “your essay?”
Stiles’ eyes bug and his mouth drops. The Great Gatsby!
“Oh my god…” he mutters to himself and crouches to the ground and plops his bag off of his shoulders. It hits the ground with a wet slump, a puddle already starting to form around it. He wrenches the zipper open and is shocked at his own shocked-ness when he sees that all his books, all his papers, are wet. He pulls them out, hitting the ground with a slap and files through them in search of his essay.
His teacher is peering over his shoulder, making comments on his tardiness and disorganization and his inability to prepare for bad weather in an unreliable vehicle. He tries his hardest to ignore it, focusing on not ripping the fragile clump of paper-mache in front of him, but the sniggers from the class in front of him make it hard. He blinks away the sting of tears in his eyes as he comes to the realization that even if his teacher would accept the soaking wet essay, it’s not here.
“I swear it’s done,” he says, voice raspy, his lungs still not fully recovered from his morning cardio. He goes through everything one more time, it’s not here.
His teacher leans on the desk and shakes his head at him, “late submissions result in an automatic fail, Stilinski, please take a seat, you’ve wasted enough time now.”
Stiles swallows the embarrassment of the class laughing at him, and staring at him as he trudges through the sea of desks and people and takes a seat in the back row, looking down to avoid all eye contact. There’s no use pulling out his stuff again, everything is too wet to open and pull apart, let alone write in it. So he slouches in his chair, arms stretched out on the desk and picks at his pale, slightly blue fingernails. He tries his hardest not to cry, but the lump in his throat, and the sting in his nose, and the tingling in his cheeks make it so hard. The violent shiver that has cracked its way through his body is a slight distraction but he’s not sure what’s worse; having to sit in the classroom for half an hour, soaked to the bone, or to cry silently where everyone can see him.
He tries to pay attention to what Mr. Davis is saying, he really does, but everything sounds like it’s blurred, like white noise. There's a slight ringing in his ears and he feels like he’s spinning with every blink. He sits up straight and digs his elbows into the desk, head in his hands, and counts his breaths, focusing on the chill in his muscles. He tries to distract himself by backtracking his steps last night, not sure where he’s left his essay. He was sure it was in the pile he put in his bag this morning. But try as he might, he cannot remember for the life of him. He pulls all his work out of his bag again and goes through it, ignoring the complaints of everyone around him that he’s making too much noise. But it’s definitely not there. So he sighs and folds his arms in an attempt to warm himself up.
After what feels like an eternity later, the bell rings to signal the end of class. He scoops all his books, careful not to rip anything and makes a dash for the door. He runs to his locker, ignoring his sore calves and quads, and grabs out all the books he needs for the day -a thing he usually does before school.
He dumps the wet ones on the bottom of his locker and decides to just pull out everything that’s dry so as not to damage them from all that are wet, his arm already starting to cramp up in the process. He has everything balanced in one throbbing arm, and decides against putting everything in his backpack. He manages to single-handedly shove his bag in his locker and close it.
The bell for third period, chemistry with Scott, has rung by the time he’s got himself organised, and he scolds himself for being late again. He digs into his pocket and pulls out his phone, which is thankfully not dead from all the water, to text him that he will be there but a force slams him into the lockers. His books along with his phone crash to the ground, papers scattering all around his feet. He groans as he peels himself off the lockers and follows the laughs of the offenders to some jock and his douche friends. He looks around as a couple of random passer-byers laugh too but they mind their own business other than that, and carry on to their classes.
Despite knowing better, Stiles yells out at the bullies anyway and has no idea why he is surprised when they storm back and slam him even harder, “what was that?” he spits in his face and shoves him again. Stiles' head bounces off of the locker, the combo digging right into his back, lodging itself against his spine.
“I said, why don’t you help me pick up my crap,” he grits into the guys’ face, no longer caring if he’s about to get beat up or not. It would just be the perfect addition to the day he’s having.
“I’m sure your scrawny little ass would have no trouble getting it yourself,” he shoves him again and Stiles’ vision blurs slightly before he sees little black spots glittering around like pixels on an old television.
“Yeah, you like skinny white boys?” He asks weakly, his body falling limp in the jock’s grasp.
“I’m going to kill you, I swear to-” his threats are cut off and Stiles falls to the ground as Mr. Davis walks their way. His back burns along his spine as the locker combos scratch him on his descent, but he doesn’t care. He’s still sore and freezing cold, and the confrontation just now has him shivering once again. He’s holding back sobs as he starts to gather his things, a few silent tears escaping, though hopefully the teacher just thinks it’s from his still slightly dripping wet hair.
He crouches down to Stiles level and helps him gather the last of his stuff, “are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Stiles snaps back at him rather rudely, but not meaning it to be.
“Sorry,” he whispers afterwards, another tear slipping down his cheek.
“Bring me your essay first thing tomorrow,” he says. Stiles looks up into his sympathetic eyes and he hates it. This man was belittling him in front of 23 other students not even an hour ago. He doesn’t want his sympathy. Today more than any.
But Stiles sighs, “I swear it’s done! It’s just been a-”
“A shit morning?” His teacher chuckles, “I believe you.”
Stiles looks down as his teacher hands him the rest of his books and papers as well as his phone. Stiles takes it and nods solemnly.
“It happens,” His teacher whispers. “Tomorrow,” he nods encouragingly and helps Stiles up before walking away.
Tomorrow, he thinks and watches as the teacher walks down the hallway and into another classroom.
His phone chimes and he looks down, unlocking it. There’s a crack through the length of the screen but as he selects the message app, he’s just grateful the screen works at all. There’s a few texts from Scott all within the last five minutes.
From Scott: Where are you?
From Scott: I thought you were coming today
From Scott: Are you okay?
Stiles leans against his locker and looks around. The halls are now completely empty, silent, and chilly. He rests his head against the cool metal, shuts his eyes, and exhales deeply, a tear from each eye escaping from under his lashes. His head is pounding, he can feel it behind his eyelids and at the base of his neck, and his back will definitely be bruised by the end of the day.
He swallows the lump in his throat and scrolls through his contacts, hovering his finger over the call button, hesitating ever so slightly before dialing. He brings the phone to his ear with shaky hands and squeezes his eyes shut.
The phone picks up on the fourth ring and Stiles can’t help the relief that floods through him when he hears the gruff voice on the other end of the line, “you’re supposed to be in school. What?” Stiles breathes out shakily, not realizing he was holding his breath. It’s almost as if he can hear the thick bushy brows frowning at him.
“I am,” he cringes at the sound of his voice and how hoarse it is to his own ears, “can you come get me?” His voice wobbles as he speaks, cracking at the end. He covers his mouth with his hands, suffocating the whimper that was desperate to be released.
“When?” Derek asks, gently this time.
“Now?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry,” Stiles whispers, but Derek hears it anyway.
“You’ve done nothing wrong. Wait out front, I’ll be there soon, okay?” He says in that same comforting tone as he did mere days ago.
“‘Kay,” Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and sucks in a choked breath as he hangs up.
He opens his locker and grabs the wet books and his backpack out again and shoves the dry ones back in and makes his way to the front of the school. He should feel relieved that Derek is willing to come to his rescue but he feels heavy and big, like he’s taking up too much space in Derek’s life. He reminds himself that Derek wouldn’t have answered if he didn’t want to and repeats that a few times, Derek’s own voice echoing in his mind, I am always here for you.
He waits outside under the covers so he’s out of the rain. He’s still damp, and shivering, like his bones have been frozen and it’s slowly freezing and stiffening the surrounding muscles and tissue. Regardless, he waits out of the weather, he’s not as soaked as before and doesn’t want to be if he’s going to be sitting in the Camaro. He leans against the brick wall but winces when his back makes contact forgetting about the bruise and stands up straight again. When his phone chimes again, he sighs and fishes it out of his pocket.
Missed Call from Dad
He unlocks his phone at the same time it rings again and happens to answer the call instead of opening his Lock Screen.
He hesitates only a little before putting it to his ear, “hey, dad,” he greets weakly.
“Hey kid, are you not at school?” He asks exasperated and Stiles can’t help but break down, leaning against the wall and sliding to the ground, ignoring the pain doing so brings. He recurs the terrible morning he’s had, shamelessly weeping, with his head in his hands. His dad sighs again and guilt floods his veins. His dad can’t be enjoying this day either. They never usually do. He can picture him situated at his desk, head in his hands rubbing his forehead, as if Stiles is another ache in an already painful day.
“Alright then. Make sure you catch up, okay?” His dad sighs as Derek pulls up in front of him.
“Okay?” He asks as he stands, surprised that his dad didn’t even argue with him about it. He wipes his face and hurriedly climbs into the car, but Derek doesn’t drive off straight away. Instead, he shrugs off his jacket and places it in Stiles’ lap and turns the air conditioner over to heating, making sure all the vents are on him.
“Yeah, it’s okay. Just text me when you are home,” he says and Stiles tries not to overthink the edge in his fathers voice.
“I will.”
“Good. I love you.”
Stiles breathes out shakily again, his heart hurting at those words, wanting nothing more than to jump into his fathers arms and hug him like they did when he was a kid, “love you, too,” and he hangs up.
Derek hands Stiles a pack of pocket tissues and he chuckles weakly taking them, not looking at him.
He mumbles a “thanks,” and wipes his face before blowing his nose and whispers, “sorry.”
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for, okay. Thank you for calling me,” Derek turns in his seat so he’s facing Stiles, one leg crossed awkwardly on the seat and the other on the floor, his knee resting against the gear box. He reaches a comforting hand to the back of Stiles neck but he flinches on contact, the area a bit tender still, even sitting in the seats are uncomfortable on his back at the moment.
“Are you hurt?” Derek questions pulling his hand back. His voice is soft, and gentle, as if he were talking to a small child, but his face is intense, his eyes pierce straight through him. He squirms under his gaze and looks down at his hands unable to hold contact. It feels like too much.
“I’m fine,” he says, picking at the tissue. Derek puts a hand over his to stop it, probably to prevent a mess in his car. But still, the contact causes Stiles' heart to beat a little bit faster, Derek’s hand warming his numb fingers, and he appreciates it.
“Stiles,” he sighs sadly and reaches his arm up again but Stiles doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want Derek to take away his physical pain. At least not yet.
“No, please,” he says and flinches away from Derek’s warm reach. He takes both of his hands back and Stiles misses the touch already, his hands slightly clammy but he can feel his fingertips again.
“You don’t want me to? Is this you trying to hurt-”
“No! God no. It’s not like that,” Stiles sighs and leans back again, trying not to show on his face just how uncomfortable he is, “it just feels better than everything else,” he admits, a little embarrassed. Because that’s why people hurt themselves isn’t it? The emotional pain is too much, too deep, too intense? It’s not like he did this on purpose either, this just happened to happen to him. No fault of his own. Well maybe some fault. If he had just kept his mouth shut then maybe it wouldn’t have hurt so much. His head is still pounding, throbbing behind his eyes to the beat of his heart.
“I get that. I do. But I don’t need to tell you that’s not healthy.”
“Then don’t. Because I know! But if I had just kept to myself this wouldn’t have happened, so yes, it’s fine.”
Stiles sighs then. He did not mean to snap. He turns his head to look out the window. The rain is still coming down pretty hard but his shivering has stopped. The warmth from the heater and apparently inside the seats too are finally starting to defrost him.
“What happened to the Jeep?”
Stiles shrugs, and looks back down at the tissue in his hands, picking at it once again. Little sprinkles of white dusting the jacket that’s still laid out on Stiles’ lap.
“Put that on,” he directs, and Stiles does. He puts his arms through the sleeves and wears it like one of those blankets with sleeves, so the back of the jacket is laid out down his front. It’s still warm from Derek, and smells like him too, a mix of leather and aftershave, and it’s intoxicating and comforting and the wait of the jacket itself is heavy enough that it calms him.
“Have you eaten?” He asks and Stiles shakes his head, not trusting his voice.
“Okay,” and with that he drives off.
The ride is silent besides the soft hum of the engine, the gentle drone of the heater, and the short sniffles from Stiles. He’s leant back in his seat and facing the window, lost in the scenery. Not that there’s much to look at on this side of the road, just rows of houses, each varying only slightly in architecture, many with gardens, some with bushes, others bare. The radio is off and neither of them say anything and Stiles can’t be bothered to start up a conversation. So he continues to stare out the window until he recognizes his own house and they pull up in the driveway, as close to the front porch as possible.
“Go put something dry on,” Derek directs.
Stiles nods and hauls himself and his bag into the house and up the stairs, still wearing Derek’s jacket loosely over his arms. He throws his back onto the floor and digs through his closet to pull out some fresh clothes. He changes into some well-worn very-faded denim jeans and a black t-shirt with a baby yoda on it. He checks his back in the mirror as he lifts his shirt, a red scratch down along his spine and the beginnings of a bruise between his shoulder blades already appearing.
He turns away, disgusted with himself and shoves his shirt down. He grabs his red hoodie and kicks all of his wet things into the bathroom to deal with later and jogs back down the stairs. He shoves his wallet into his back pocket and texts his dad:
To Dad: Am home
Stiles then stows his phone with his keys into the pocket of his hoodie and grabs Derek’s jacket before heading back outside.
Locking the door behind him, Stiles jogs to the car and gets in as quickly as he can. The seat is toasty against his back, a little damp, but warm and welcoming. He wipes the water off the interior panels of the door with the sleeve of his hoodie before slumping into the seat and laying Derek's jacket over his legs like a blanket.
“Sorry for getting your seats wet,” he mumbles, buckling up.
Derek shrugs, “they’ve seen worse.” Stiles knows he’s talking about blood after the multiple times he’s been beaten and attacked and chased by hunters and other creatures but his mind can’t help but to wander somewhere dirtier.
They drive in silence again. Aside from Stiles’ phone chiming a couple of times, that is. He flicks it to silent and reads the massages:
From Momma McCall: Message me if you need absolutely anything xx
From Momma McCall: Scott is worried about you.
From Isaac: dude IDK what’s happening but Scotts bugging me to text u to ask if ur coming today
Stiles scoffs to himself and replies:
To Scott: not feeling well stayed home
To Momma McCall: thank you love you im ok for now am with derek
From Dad: Okay. Make sure you eat and do your homework.
Stiles sends a thumbs up back to his father and turns his phone off and sighs.
“What happened to your phone?” Derek asks.
“Jocks…” is all Stiles offered. He saw Derek glance at his phone while he was typing but just assumed he was being nosy. Not that he cares, he has nothing to hide. He purposely doesn’t look at him though, not wanting to be pressed to answer any more questions. And Derek doesn’t ask any more. Stiles appreciates that about Derek. He won’t usually ask questions unless it's dire. And if he does, he won't pressure or force Stiles to answer it if he doesn’t want to. So they sit in silence again, except for the huff Stiles makes as they drive past the abandoned Jeep.
They drive for just shy of fifteen minutes when they pull up at a cafe on main street, Derek getting out of the car first and leading the way, but leaving it up to Stiles to pick where they sit. He chooses a small two seater table outside while Derek heads in to grab them some menus. When he comes back, he already has a table number in his hand. He places it in the center of the table and takes the seat across from Stiles, handing him a menu. He glances at everything and feels his stomach gurgle hard, everything looks so delicious- ew except the salads. He only looks up when he hears Derek chuckle, who is still looking at the menu with a smirk. Stiles feels his face and neck warm up, blushing, assuming Derek could hear his stomach rumble. It makes him feel weirdly embarrassed. Such a normal thing turned obscure with the fact that Derek can hear it quite clearly.
“What are you getting?” Derek asks. Stiles looks over to him again. He isn’t looking at his menu anymore, it is discarded to the table. He is met with Derek looking back at him, one leg crossed over his knee, hands in his lap.
“Uhmm…” Stiles flicks over the menu one last time before settling on one, “...the bacon and eggs benedict, I think.”
Derek hums in approval, nodding his head and looks around. The cafe is quite beautiful. It’s at the edge of the main road, the south exit out of town and has an amazing view of the edge of the preserve. The rain has created a sort of mist which gives an eerie, foggy edge to the treeline. There’s pot plants dangling from the roof in macrame hangers, and vines that snake their way up the strings, wrapping themselves along the support beams, swaying softly to the wind, as if they are dancing in the rain. But Stiles isn’t looking at any of that like Derek is. He’s admiring the view right in front of him. He watches as Derek’s eyes dart from pot to pot and track the vines up and down. He watches the way Derek's features soften; his eyes are lit up, his lips turned upward in a fond, distant smile, his brows raised ever so slightly, soaking in the scenery, as if this place is of comfort to him. And perhaps it is.
Derek catches Stiles eyes and smiles kindly in return. Stiles chuckles and looks away, his face burning, as if he was caught doing something he shouldn’t. Thankfully, a waitress comes outside holding two steaming mugs, “I have the long black, and a camomile tea?”
Derek takes the coffee and the lady, Gill her nametag reads, hands him the tea.
“Thanks,” Stiles and Derek say in unison, and Gill giggles, “You’re welcome, loves,” in a faint southern accent, “y’all ready to order?”
“Yeah, please,” Derek says and she pulls out a notepad and a pen from the pocket of her apron, “Yup.”
Derek looks over to Stiles and raises his eyebrows. Stiles nods.
“When you’re ready,” Gill encourages, flicking her hair over her shoulder rather dramatically. Stiles catches himself frowning and fixes his face; he relaxes his eyebrows and slouches in his seat, sipping his tea, not enjoying how the waitress flirting with Derek annoys him. She’s pretty. Hot, even. A natural blonde with long curly hair down to her waist. She's tall and slender with curves in all the right places. So why wouldn't she be flirting with Derek?
He catches himself frowning again and tries his hardest not to and decides to pay attention to Derek giving Gill their order: Stiles’ bacon and eggs, add hash brown, oooh yum thank you, why didn’t I think to add the potato goodness , and some healthy sounding falafel garden bowl for himself, what the hell is a falafel?
Stiles looks at him in disgust as he orders it, not bothering to fix this expression this time because it is well deserved, who goes to a cafe and orders a salad?
Gill skips off with a, “That won’t be too long for y’all,” and Derek thanks her then raises an eyebrow at Stiles, sipping his coffee.
“What is a falafel and why are you eating it?”
Derek shakes his head, as if Stiles is the weird one, “I ate earlier.”
“That doesn’t answer my question…”
“It answers one of them.”
“Okay, then what is it?”
“It’s chickpeas,” Derek shrugs.
Stiles scrunches up his face again and takes another sip of his tea, humming in approval, finding comfort in the silky-smooth texture. It’s warm and even though he’s not as cold as he was before -it’s still cool out- it’s defrosting his throat and hands. Derek chuckles at him and gives him back his jacket which Stiles blankets over his jittering legs again.
“Aren’t you cold?”
Derek shrugs. He is wearing a maroon sweater, the one with thumb holes, but the sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, black jeans and his black boots. It may be the beginning of February but it is still freezing out, the wind and rain is making it seem colder than it actually is. So Stiles keeps taking sips of his tea and watches the rain start to slowly lighten up. His mind wanders back to the Jeep, deserted, all alone on the side of the road, broken down once again.
Derek, as if reading his mind, says, “if the rain holds off, we can take a look at the Jeep?”
Stiles smiles appreciatively and nods, “yeah, thanks.” Derek nods and leans back in his seat too, also sipping his drink.
Stiles watches the scenery again, following the cars that drive off until they are out of his view then waiting for the next, thinking about previous February eights. This year was the first that Stiles has gone to school on this date, look how that went for ya . It’s been eight years. He would think that after eight years this date wouldn’t have this much of an effect on him. Sure, he’s felt sad every time but he’s always been able to carry on with his day. It’s never consumed him. Not like this. Hell, his dad has been working every February eighth. But maybe that’s more to distract himself rather than him being fine. Or maybe it’s a way to get away from Stiles on this day. Logically, Stiles knows his mothers death wasn’t his fault, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling guilty about it. Doesn’t stop the sneaky thought that his dad would blame him for it too. He knows he doesn’t. He does. But the thought crosses his mind sometimes and it hurts. Like a rope wrapped around his chest, squeezing his lungs and his heart, crushing him.
Taking a deep breath, he forces himself out of his thoughts. Derek glances at him, his eyes squinting slightly but he isn’t giving him the look everyone else does. Maybe because he hates it himself. The head nod accompanied with a slight tilt, the wide eyes, dramatically pinched brows, the thin-lipped flat smile that’s supposed to be comforting and resemble something sympathetic, but really it’s disturbing. And not at all comforting. But just as quickly as it appeared, the look on his face was gone.
Stiles swallows the rest of his tea and rests his chin in the palm of his hand, his elbow supporting him on the edge of the table.
“I started reading the Great Gatsby… Have you finished it?”
Stiles fights the small smile he feels at the distraction but the nagging whereabouts of his essay still stunts his memory.
“Yeah… I was supposed to hand in my essay on it this morning actually…” he mumbles, “my teacher extended my deadline until tomorrow though…” he trails off fiddling with his teacup. He’s swishing the small bit that’s left in it around trying to make a pattern out of the leaves that are left.
Derek nods but continues anyway, “what did you think about it?”
Stiles smiles a little wider this time, he really is so grateful for Derek. He could have asked him why the teacher gave him an extension, could bug him about why he’s not at school or why he’s so emotional, but he doesn’t. And it’s refreshing. It’s nice to have his mind distracted this way.
“Would you like my personal opinion, or the one I devoted my essay to?”
Derek chuckles and thinks about it for a second before deciding on, “yours.”
Stiles leans back and crosses his arms, stating proudly, “Nick Carraway is gay for Gatsby.”
Derek laughs at that. And Stiles melts into it. The way his eyes crinkle around the edges before he squeezes them shut and the way his nose scrunches slightly. Stiles can’t help but laugh with him.
“That’s one way to put it.”
“Tell me I’m wrong though!” Stiles leans forward in his seat, the excitement getting the better of him, “He describes male characters in so much more detail than female characters, he dedicated a whole paragraph to some dude’s smile, and the kicker, he was in his underwear in bed with Mr. McKee! The elevator scene, dude! Tell me that he is not gay or at the very least not, not straight,” he whips his hand too fast and his teacup tumbles off the table. Stiles gasps and watches wide eyed and mouthed as Derek reaches out and catches it before it hits the ground, continuing conversation like he doesn’t have the reflexes of a ninja.
“I thought it was ambivalent…”
Stiles nods and catches his breath for a second, his heart still pounding over the nearly shattered cup, “yeah, well… I will live in my bubble of Nick having the hots for Jay on my lonesome. Doesn't bother me. Just know that I could write a whole ass essay on it for you.”
Derek chuckles at that before asking, “what did you actually write it on then?”
“Y’know,” Stiles says, waving his hand but then stopping himself. He doesn’t want another nearly shattered glass. He leans back and crosses his arms, tucking his hands under his armpits, “The ‘Roaring Twenties’, the ‘American dream’, the representation of ‘the green light’ and other symbolisms like that.”
Derek nods along, approvingly.
“Mr. Davis wouldn’t let me write about the underlying homoeroticism… I tried.”
Derek huffs and shakes his head, clearly still amused.
“What?” Stiles asks.
“Nothing,” Derek says, still smiling at Stiles.
“That’s what I thought,” Stiles says and jerks his head at him as if to say ‘come at me’ .
They fall back into a comfortable silence, Derek pulls out his phone and is… texting? He doesn’t have an Apple or Android device like the rest of the population. No. He has this old as hell 2000s black brick of a phone. It’s not even a touch screen. Stiles has bugged him multiple times about upgrading but Derek’s replies are always, ‘it does what I want it to do’ , or ‘I don’t need anything fancy, this works fine’ .
Derek must feel Stiles staring at him though because without looking up, he mutters, “Peter.”
Stiles doesn’t pull his phone out, doesn’t want to see any of the texts or the long crack that’s running down his entire screen. So he rests his elbow on the table and puts his chin in his hand again, his other tracing the patterns in the wood within the table. His mind wanders again, from his mom to the Jeep and the many problems it’s has in the past, and what problem it could possibly have this time, where his assignment might be… is it still on the desk? Maybe it’s still sitting on the printer… Either way, he’s sure he shoved it in his bag before he left. Tonight he was definitely putting it in his bag before he went to sleep.
“Hi guys,” the waitress greets, the pleasant smell of bacon cutting him out of his thoughts. He sits upright to allow for Gill to put the plate down and it looks delicious! Huge! But delicious. His stomach growls once again as he appreciates the meal before digging in. They ate in relative silence. Stiles’ bacon was crunchy and chewy in all the right places, his eggs were perfectly cooked, the toast had just the right amount of butter on it, and the hash browns were crisp and golden. It truly was beautiful. And then there’s Derek’s; rabbit food with weird looking balls on top.
Stiles caught Derek trying to sneak some bacon off of his plate and rewarded him with a slap with his fork, a streak of hollandaise sauce left behind. Derek smirks and proceeds to, very slowly, stick his tongue out and lick it off before sucking it at. Stiles tries not to watch but cannot take his eyes off of his mouth, goddamn is there anything this man can’t make look so hot!?
“Joey doesn’t share food,” Stiles mumbles weakly, too distracted to declare it with force.
Derek chuckles anyway, “is that Friends?”
“Yes. Yes it is!”
They sit in silence again and Stiles contemplates leaving the Jeep, thinking the hunk of metal is more trouble than it’s worth sometimes. But the instant regret sets in and he mentally apologizes to it before shoveling a mouthful layered with toast, hash brown, bacon, egg, all covered in sauce. He’s mid-chew when it dawns on him, almost choking but he composes himself then shakes his head and runs a hand through his nearly dry hair.
“What…?” Derek asks cautiously.
“It’s out of fuel…” Stiles mutters in between mouthfuls.
Derek pauses mid fork-to-mouth and raises his ‘im so judging you right now’ eyebrow at him.
“I was supposed to fill it up Friday but we had Lacrosse then I only drove it once over the weekend to yours. I was going to do it this morning but I was late and completely forgot until right now!” Derek shakes his head and continues eating.
Unlike Stiles, he waits until he has swallowed all his food before he suggests, “we can get some after this,” as more of a statement than a question.
Stiles nods and eats until his stomach is so full and his jeans have no more give left in them. He’s done well. He only has half of a streak of bacon and one out of three hash browns left. Derek, having finished well before him, starts picking off of Stiles’ abandoned plate.
Stiles leans back, his hands on his belly and groans, “if I try to fit anything else in I will explode and it will not be pretty. Unless you like blood and fresh digestive juices.”
“Jesus,” Derek hisses under his breath and shakes his head. Stiles pushes his plate forwards, an invitation for Derek to finish what’s left, and he does. He stacks the plates on top of eachother when he’s done, both of their utensils on top, and does the same with their cups. He wipes the table a little and puts the dirty napkin in the top mug and leans back as Gill comes out to take everything.
“Head on inside whenever y’all are ready,” she says, taking everything. Derek thanks her and Gill winks at him before turning around and walking off, swaying her hips more exaggeratedly as she does so, but Derek isn’t even looking at her. Stiles' jaw drops but Derek doesn’t even seem to notice that she is totally flirting with him. He doesn’t make any eye contact with Stiles either and he takes that as his hint to drop it.
Derek stands up first and Stiles follows suit, handing Derek back his jacket. He shrugs it on as they head inside.
They reach the counter and Stiles pulls out his wallet but Derek stops him from opening it, placing a hand over his, “I got it,” and pulls out his own.
“But I-”
“-Nope”
“But it’s-”
Derek turns to face Stiles as the waitress reaches the till, “no.”
Gill stands behind the counter watching them awkwardly as Stiles gives up and she takes Derek’s card, “That’s so sweet of you,” and brushes her hair over her shoulder and gently twists side to side batting her eyelashes at him. Derek offers her a polite smile and Stiles tries not to cringe at the attempt.
“Here’s your card back,” she pulls the receipt out of the printer and scribbles on it before handing it over to Derek, “and you’re receipt,” and leans forward, her cleavage becoming more visible and whispers not so quietly, “my number is on the bottom,” and winks then stands back up.
Derek smiles again but shakes his head and hands the receipt back, “That’s really nice of you, but I’m not interested, sorry.”
Gill’s smile fades only slightly, “That’s okay. Gotta shoot your shot, right,” and waves them goodbye.
Derek smiles and says goodbye, Stiles still shook. He shuts his mouth when Derek frowns his direction and nudges him. So he does. He shoves his hands back into his pockets and follows Derek back to the car. They get in and head to the fuel station they passed on the way, since the rain had almost completely cleared up.
“Thank you. You didn’t have to do that…” Stiles sighs as he slouches in the seat, so full his pants button is painfully digging into his stomach.
“No problem. Your hunger pains were annoying me.” Stiles looks over at him and catches a fading smile, Derek amusing himself with his own jokes, and chuckles too.
“She was pretty, don't you think?” Stiles says changing the subject, turning as much as he can to face Derek wanting to give him his whole attention. Derek doesn’t look at him though.
He tenses a little and nods, “…sure,” uneasily.
“You didn’t think so?” Stiles asks incredulously.
“Stiles,” Derek says in a low tone, the edge to his voice should be a warning but Stiles ignores it.
“What!? She was hot! And she was obviously tryna get with you! I mean she did give you her num-”
“I said I wasn’t interested!” Derek snaps a little too quickly, and a little too loudly.
Stiles flinches, and stops, his face heating up and eyes stinging, his breath catching, but not before he snaps back, “Maybe if you were, you wouldn’t be so uptight!” And turns around to face the window so Derek wouldn’t see his eyes welling up. He had it coming, he just didn’t think he’d react this way. He thought he was tougher than that, than to cry over being yelled at.
Derek doesn’t say anything and Stiles doesn’t blame him. He shouldn’t have been nosy but it still hurts. And the emotionality of the day doesn’t help either.
“Sorry,” he whispers but still looking out the window, his hands clenched together, blinking quickly to try to clear his eyes.
“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I just… I don’t know, Stiles,” and he sighs exasperatedly.
“No, it’s fine. I shouldn’t have said anything.” His voice cracks at the end and a single tear slips down his cheek.
“I’m sorry. Stiles, I’m-”
“It’s not you, it’s just the day,” Stiles cuts him off, voice wavering. Derek shouldn’t feel sorry or bad about what just happened. He had said he wasn’t interested. Stiles should have taken that at face value and left it alone. Derek hasn’t pried into Stiles’ day so why not return the favor, give the man his privacy. Another tear falls and he wipes it a bit too aggressively, his hand slapping his face slightly in the process, I deserved that.
He feels a warm pressure on his left arm and looks at Derek’s hand, resting there, squeezing slightly and he looks up at Derek, “I’m sorry,” he says again and glances at Stiles quickly before turning back to the road. Stiles nods and turns back to the window. They drive the rest of the way in silence, Derek’s hand remains on his arm only moving it when he has to switch gears, but always returning it.
When they arrive at the fuel station, Stiles pays for the fuel while Derek grabs a jerry can. He offers to fill it for him and Stiles tries to decline but Derek does it anyway, and he is so not flattered by that. He watches bashfully for a moment as Derek grabs the nozzle and squats down to start filling it. When Derek glances up at him and flashes him a smile, Stiles feels like his heart might burst, because damn this man really does have the most beautiful smile.
“I’m gonna- I should probably go and pay for that,” he says and turns around and quickly walks inside to pay for the canister. By the time he comes back out, Derek has finished filling it and is securing it in the trunk.
“Thanks,” he says as they climb back into the car and make their way to the Jeep.
“It’s the least,” Derek shrugs.
When they arrive at the Jeep, Derek fills it for him too, lifting the 20 litre can like it’s nothing, and it’s getting harder to deny that he isn’t flattered by this goddamnit. But he also doesn’t think he could have lifted it as gracefully as Derek. He definitely would have spilled the fuel everywhere and then not have enough to make it to a fuel station for a refill. Actually, now that he thinks about it, he probably couldn’t lift the thing at all.
When the container is empty, Stiles clambers into the driver's seat and starts the car. It sputters to life and instantly, stiles burst into tears, relieved and overwhelmed. Derek chuckles and leans onto the car, rubbing small circles on Stiles’ back until he starts laughing too.
Derek removes his hand, steps back and shuts the door then leans in through the window when Stiles rolls it down, “what do you want to do?” He asks as Stiles wipes his face with the sleeves of his hoodie and leans back in the seat. He shrugs and starts picking at the flaky material on his steering wheel.
“Do you want to go back to school?”
Stiles shakes his head.
“Do you want to be alone?”
He hesitates slightly, thinking about it momentarily before he shakes his head again.
“Do you want me to stay with you?”
Stiles doesn’t move this time. His heart is pounding and he feels heavy with exhaustion already and it’s only midday. He doesn’t want to force Derek to spend the day with him. He’d probably just make him miserable too.
“I can follow you to your place, or mine?”
Stiles takes a couple of breaths to think about it before deciding, “mine please.”
Derek reaches in and squeezes his shoulder, “you right to drive?”
Stiles glances at him, offering a shy smile before nodding.
“Okay.”
Stiles waits for Derek to get back into his car before he pulls out onto the road and turns around. He drives autopilot most of the way, checking that Derek was still behind him a couple of times and is amazed when he pulls up on his own driveway safely. He parks to the left to leave room for his dad to park beside him. Derek pulls up behind him.
He gets out and waits by the Jeep for Derek to catch up to him before they walk inside together, locking the door behind them.
After emptying his pockets onto the kitchen counter, he walks into the kitchen and grabs two glasses from the cupboard and fills them with cold filtered water from the fridge. He walks back around to the opposite side of the counter and hands Derek one and downing the other himself.
He bumps his shoulder against Derek’s and takes a deep breath before admitting in a hushed tone, “It’s her birthday today.”
Derek nudges him back, “thank you for telling me.”
Stiles nods and takes another deep breath in, exhaling shakily, his eyes blurry with tears again.
“I don’t know why I’m crying, it’s been eight years!” He groans and aggressively wipes his eyes.
“Time doesn’t matter,” Derek says softly, throwing an arm over Stiles' shoulders and pulling him in for a hug. He relaxes into it instantly, his arms wrapping around Derek’s waist, holding him against himself, his face smooshed into his chest. A few silent tears fall as he breathes in and out, matching it with Derek’s. His embrace is warm, comforting, and full of understanding. Safe. This feels safe , Stiles thinks. And he does feel safe in Derek’s arms. The thought makes his heart swell and stutter. Up this close Derek smells like clean laundry and a cologne that’s rich and musky, and delicious, and it’s intoxicating. They stand like this for a while and it’s not awkward at all. Derek doesn’t pull away, and neither does Stiles. He needed this. Derek huffs out a small chuckle and squeezes Stiles a little closer to him as if he knows. Stiles smiles into the embrace before slowly peeling himself away and wiping his face with the front of his shirt.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Derek asks kindly, once again leaning against the counter with his arms crossed.
Stiles shrugs and mimics Derek’s position, fiddling with the empty cup, “I just miss her, y’know…”
He sees Derek nod out of the corner of his eyes.
“We used to take flowers to her grave. Tulips. They were her favorite… or any yellow flower. It was her favorite color. Otherwise I’d pick out sunflowers.. they’re my favorite… or dad would bring whatever he could find home. He’d finish work, come home and clean up, then we’d go visit her. We’d sit and talk to each other, talk to her, and just… be…” Stiles shrugs.
“But we haven’t been out there in a while. He’s been busy with work and I’ve been busy with school and supernatural creatures and I’ve never been able to bring myself to go alone…” he trails off and Derek nods.
“I feel guilty when I think about it. About how little we’ve been. But I just don’t think I can do it…”
“On your own?” Derek questions.
“Yeah…” Stiles sighs.
Derek nods again. “It’s hard,” is all he says and Stiles can’t help but crack a sad smile.
“The first time I went was with Laura. After she died it was years before I went alone. It was hard. Still is. I don’t visit them nearly often enough,” Derek says, offering a small smile back.
Stiles nodes before exhaling deeply and chuckling awkwardly. He pushes himself off of the bench and claps his hands, “Welp. I have The Great Gatsby on my laptop… if you want to watch it?” He offers changing the subject.
Derek chuckles softly as well and agrees. So they head upstairs to Stiles' room. When he opens his door, he remembers the state he had left it in; bed unmade, clothes all over the floor and up his computer chair, and pillows strewn across the room in his rush to get up. He quickly tidied everything and hands Derek his laptop, instructing him where to find the movie, and goes to relocate his dirty clothes in the washing machine. By doing that he remembered the wet ones he discarded earlier and added them to the wash also. When he walks back into his room, two pillows have been placed at the foot of the bed and in front of the laptop, Derek sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for him but stands when Stiles walks in.
“Can I see?” He asks softly.
Stiles frowns at him confused, “see what?”
“Your back.”
Stiles mouth drops open in panic. He goes to deny it and tell him he’s fine but nothing comes out. He closes his mouth and swallows dryly. No one has ever seen him shirtless before. Except maybe Scott a small handful of times when they were younger. But he also doesn’t have a huge crush on Scott like he does Derek. And Derek is fit. And tan. Not pale and gangly.
“It’s okay if you don’t want me too. Are you still in pain?” He asks again. Stiles swallows again and hesitantly turns around and lifts his shirt up, slowly, the light draft in the room tickling his bare skin as he pulls the shirt over his head.
Derek doesn’t say anything but Stiles hears his bed creak as Derek stands, and he feels the warmth surrounding him like an aura when Derek stands behind him. His fingertips are warm and soft and send a shiver down his spine when he makes contact on the back of his neck, brushing down Stiles’ spine, tracing the long red, probably now bruised, scratch along his back. Stiles' heart is pounding in his chest and he can’t think straight, his mind is hazy and racing all at once. All he can think about is Derek staring at and touching his bare back. He feels so embarrassed and exposed and excited all at once. It’s dizzying. But Derek stops at the top of Stiles’ jeans and his touch is gone, and Stiles misses it instantly, though it’s replaced again soon after, his right hand resting at the curve between his neck and shoulder, the left on his hip. Stiles breathes in deeply and forces himself to relax on his exhale, the ache in his back and muscles slowly leaching out of his body until all he can feel is the intimacy of Derek’s hold on him. They’re close. Stiles can feel the heat radiating off of Derek as if he had just stepped outside in the afternoon during the middle of summer. He feels loose and relaxed when Derek’s right hand ghosts down Stiles' back and rests on his waist opposite his other and he steps forward so Stiles’ back is pressed up against Derek’s front. He can’t help himself when his head leans back to rest on Derek’s shoulder, his eyes fluttering shut.
Derek leans into it, his lips grazing along Stiles ear as he asks, “was that okay?”
Stiles nods and breathes out breathlessly, “yeah.”
They stand there for a moment longer before Stiles lifts his head, and pulls his shirt back on, suddenly feeling naked and self conscious, needing to cover himself up.
“Thank you,” he says scratching the back of his neck as he watches Derek toe off his shoes and crawl onto the bed, laying on his belly. Stiles clambers onto the bed laying next to him, mimicking his position and crosses his arms on the pillow and rests his head in them. They don’t say anything and Stiles is thankful for that. Instead Derek angles the computer screen so they can both see it and presses play.
He makes it far, he thinks. Far enough; to the first part scene, but he’s out like a light before Nick even meets Gatsby, fast asleep.
Stiles wakes soon after to the bed moving, Derek shifting his weight, but the room is silent. He blinks a few times and looks up at the computer, which is still playing, but muted; the movie is almost finished…
“Why did you mute it?”
“I haven't finished the book yet, and you fell asleep.”
“We didn’t have to watch it then…”
Derek chuckles at that, “What do you mean, ‘we’?”
Stiles can’t help but huff in amusement before shutting the lid to his laptop then rolls over onto his back, and staring at the ceiling, allowing his mind to wander… the morning he had playing in his head, Derek buying him breakfast, Derek filling his Jeep, Derek tracing his hands down Stiles’ naked back…
He shivers slightly and rests his hands on his stomach, closing his eyes, “You don’t have to stay…” He mutters quietly.
The room is silent. Derek doesn’t respond, or move, and Stiles is afraid he’s already left. He opens his eyes and looks over to Derek, who is staring back at him with raised eyebrows.
“Do you want me to leave?”
Stiles looks back up to the ceiling, “You’re not using your werewolf lie detector powers on me. I’m telling you that you can go. I don’t need your sympathy, or your charity, and I definitely don’t need a babysitter.” The words spit out of his mouth before he can stop them, and they come out harsher than he means them too. He just hopes Derek knows that. And no, he doesn’t want him to leave. But he doesn’t want to emotionally guilt him into staying either.
“That’s good then because I have no sympathy, you’re not a charity, and you couldn’t pay me enough to babysit you,” Derek sounds amused but it still feels like a punch to the gut.
Derek rolls onto his side so he’s facing Stiles now, his head propped up by his right arm, the other resting on his waist. Stiles can’t look at him. He doesn’t move his body but shifts his neck to the right so he’s not facing him. So Derek can’t read his face.
“Stiles, I'm here because we’re friends. And when your friend has a crap morning, you buy them food and refuel their car and watch movies you haven’t finished the book for.”
There's that amused tone again…
Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and sighs, “That’s oddly specific…”
Derek chuckles and pokes him in the arm.
“Seriously though, why wouldn’t I stay? I meant it when I said I’m here for you, okay?”
Stiles doesn’t reply. He can’t. He feels heavy, like there's too much attention on him. Derek has a way of focusing all his attention on Stiles, and he can feel it. It feels like there's no one else in the room with him, and usually he could just babble his way out of the awkward weight of it, but this time, it’s just them. There’s no one else to divert the weight to.
“If you haven’t told me to leave by the time your dad gets home, I will stay until then. And I'm not here against my will. I’m not here just because you want me to stay. I’m here because I want to be here with you. As long as you want me to be. But if you would rather be alone, I’ll go.”
Stiles’ heart hurts, aching deep within his chest. He’s sad, frustrated, annoyed, and grateful. He’s grateful for Derek. For having him as a friend, as someone who can empathize with him, as someone who always happens to know what he’s thinking, and just how to cheer him up.
So for the hundredth time today, Stiles blinks back tears and whispers, “okay,” and rolls over to his side, his back to Derek, and curls in on himself. He tries so hard to not let anymore tears fall. He’s cried too many times today, and too many of those times have been in front of Derek. If it wasn’t for the overwhelming exhaustion that blanketed him he’d feel embarrassed, but right now, the release of all his emotions just hurts so good. So he crosses his arms against his chest, holds his own shoulders, and sobs quietly, letting go of all the anger, all the frustration, all the tension, all the pain. And he sobs a little bit harder when Derek scoots closer and wraps his arms around him, one under his head and wrapping around to hold Stiles’ arms, and the other over his waist, firmly holding him in place. They laid like that for some time, Derek’s legs curled under Stiles’, a tangle of limbs, and he stayed there like a tight net of security until Stiles had cried all the tears he had left, until they all but dried, and his breathing was even once again, until he was completely loose and limp and relaxed. Even then, they kept their place and cuddled in silence. Stiles listening to the sound, and memorizing the feel of Derek’s breath on the back of his neck, matching it with his own. His eyes were closed, and he wondered what it would be like to fall asleep in Derek’s arms? What would it feel like to wake up in them? Or next to him? To just roll over and kiss him lazily, domestically, first thing in the morning…?
He could feel his heart beat a little faster and his face turn noticeably hot, definitely red, but thankfully, Derek doesn't say anything. And good too because that would be embarrassing to explain.
Instead, what he does say is, “Dad will be home early today… Scott will probably drop schoolwork around… Stay until then?”
“Okay,” Derek whispers in his ear, his breath is hot and tickles his hairs on the back of his neck and sends a shiver down his spine. Stiles closes his eyes and tries to ignore how close he and Derek are right now, and the way it makes him think and feel. And how they’re friends, sure, but he could not ever imagine spooning Scott. That’s what this is right? Derek is spooning him. Scott would definitely think this is weird and maybe Stiles’ way of getting him to make out with him again… Not that there was ever a first time. But it definitely wouldn’t be the first time Stiles has suggested as much… For science of course… Would Derek make out with me for science? Stiles stifles a laugh at that thought. Because if Stiles ever made an advancement on Derek like that, he’s sure that Derek would deck him so hard. Shove him into a wall or something equally as painful. But for some strange, totally bizarre reason, the thought entertained him. Because what if he didn’t physically assault him for kissing him? What if he kissed him back? What if they both liked it? Stiles tries not to laugh at himself again. A while ago Stiles never would have thought that he and Derek would be cuddling in Stiles’ bed either, but now look at them. This is definitely not straight behavior on either one of their parts. Just thinking about kissing Derek and being very aware of how much of their bodies are touching right now is turning him on more than he would care to admit. What would his dad think if he saw them like this? Would he throw a blanket on them and make them pancakes again or would he get the ‘keep the door open’ talk? Would he even assume something more is going on between them? Would he be okay with it if something more than friendship was happening? If Stiles were to come out to his dad would he be okay with it? Would he then assume he and Derek are together? Wait- came out? Well that’s a new thought. He hasn’t thought about coming out to his dad since the night at the club when his dad said so assuredly, ‘you’re not gay’ . And sure, he’s not technically gay, but he is definitely not straight. And even if he wasn’t sure, he would be now because do straight people even think about how maybe not straight they are? Probably not…
“Stiles?”
He hums in response, gladly pulled out of his train of thought because he was starting to make himself nervous.
“Stop thinking.”
He freezes.
If he wasn’t nervous before, he is now, and his only defense mechanism is to deny everything, “I wasn’t thinking about anything.”
“Were too.”
“Were not.”
Derek chuckles, “Your heart rate was increasing rapidly, you kept quietly laughing to yourself, and now you’re lying to me. You think any harder, you’ll fry your brain.”
“Will not.”
“Will too.”
“Are your eyes closed?”
“No.”
“Are too.”
“Fine,” Derek huffs, “I’m comfy,” he admits proudly and makes his point by nuzzling his face into the back of Stiles’ neck sending goosebumps down Stiles’ arms.
“Me too,” Stiles mumbles.
They lay there for a little longer, before Stiles began to subconsciously fidget as he relayed the girl at the cafe. He began by tapping his fingers against Derek’s arms, then brushing his arm hairs messy then smooth a couple of times before back to tapping.
“Spit it out already,” Derek demands, but it’s not aggressive.
Stiles stammered, “wha- Spit what out…?”
Derek didn’t reply, which was smart really, because the silence made Stiles want to talk more, to fill it with words.
“Why didn’t you take her number? She was hot! And totally into you!”
“I wasn’t interested,” Derek mumbles into Stiles’ shoulder.
“Dude, are you blind!?”
“No, Stiles,” he says flatly, borderline annoyed.
“Then what?” Stiles pushed. He knows he shouldn't; that he shouldn’t be nosy, but he can’t help himself.
“She was good looking, yes, but I don't know her…” Derek trailed off and Stiles can’t help but notice the tension in Derek’s arms as he thinks about what he said.
“You need to know someone before you’re with them?”
“Yeah…”
“Huh.”
The room is silent again, but Stiles has more questions, “Why don’t you get to know her then?”
“Stiles.”
His tone is warning but Stiles chooses to ignore it and feign innocence, “What?”
“Why can’t you just drop this?”
“Because I don’t want you to be alone…” He sighs. It's not a lie. Not completely anyway. He definitely doesn’t want Derek to be alone, he just wishes that he wasn’t alone with Stiles.
“I’m not alone right now,” Derek responds with, and Stiles ignores the blip in his heartbeat.
“You know what I mean.”
Derek doesn’t answer this time.
“So why not?”
He sighs.
“I’m serious.”
Silence.
“Are you a virgin? Is that what it is?” he asks excitedly, “That would explain a lot actually…” he trails off.
Derek huffs but he doesn’t reply.
Stiles eyes bug and he tries to turn around but Derek acts on it first by tightening his hold on Stiles, preventing him from moving, “Oh my god are you a vir-”
“No, Stiles,” he says firmly but clearly entertained.
“Oh… Okay,” Stiles stops trying to roll around and is now glad Derek can’t see his face.
Derek chuckles, probably at Stiles embarrassment. He thought he had something here, but nevermind.
“Sorry,” He mumbles.
“It’s fine.”
“So was it Kate?”
“What?” Derek asks, shocked.
“Your first time,” Stiles elaborates.
Stiles could feel Derek tense up again and he winces at himself.
“Sorry, that was insensitive,” he says while he thinks to himself accusingly, how stupid are you!?
To Stiles’ surprise, Derek answers him.
He talks real slow, and strained, and Stiles cringes at himself for forcing Derek to talk about anything to do with Kate, “No… no she wasn’t… she uh… tried to force herself… onto me… but werewolf….”
Stiles' heart drops, “I am so sorry,” he tries again to roll over so he can look at Derek and apologize but Derek holds him in place again, but this time he doesn’t try and fight it, “Derek, I had no idea, I’m so sorry!”
“Why would you?” he chuckles sadly, “I’ve never told anybody… people just assumed… and she told people we did… and I never denied it…”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he whispers.
“No it’s not Der, that’s terrible!”
“Did you just call me ‘Der’ ?”
Stiles chuckles a little embarrassed, “Short for Derbear. It stuck and I’m not sorry about it,” he says matter of fact.
Derek chuckles as well and shakes his head, his beard scratching the back of Stiles’ neck ever so slightly, sending goosebumps down his arms again.
“I’m sorry,” Stiles says again.
“I thought you weren’t.” Stiles can’t see Derek but he can tell that he’s smirking, pleased with his own joke.
“No. I’m not. Not about that anyway. I mean about-”
“I know,” he says, cutting Stiles off, “It’s okay,” he says assuredly. I’m okay, Stiles thinks he means but he doesn’t say it. Even if he is okay, it’s not. No one should have to experience that.
“Derek,” Stiles whines.
“Stiles,” Derek mocks.
Stiles groans, annoyed and it makes Derek laugh at him and Stiles can’t help but laugh too.
“Well who was your first then?”
Derek chokes behind him, probably not expecting Stiles to continue their conversation, and Stiles is disappointed that he can’t see his, probably, reddening face.
“Do you really wanna have this conversation while I'm spooning you?” Derek says low and suggestive in Stiles’ ear.
His heart starts thumping and he swallows the lump in his throat because yes, he is aware of their proximity, but now he’s aware that Derek is also aware of just how close they are. They are basically touching head to toe, everything in between, everything. It’s overwhelming, a little comforting, definitely arousing, but Stiles is trying his damndest not to think about that part.
“Thought so,” Derek whispers into his ear and Stiles prays to whatever God is out there and listening to him that Derek can’t tell just how sexy Stiles thinks Derek’s voice is when he talks into his ear like that.
Stiles tries to distract himself and fiddles with Derek’s arm hairs again and tenses when he feels a hot and damp pressure on the exposed skin where his neck and shoulder meet and… “Did you just bite me?”
Derek chuckles.
It wasn’t hard. Nowhere near, in fact. It was merely a slight graze of something warm, hard, and wet, against his shoulder. The slightest pressure of teeth against skin before it was gone. But it’s the implication of what could happen if Derek were to bite him that makes him nervous. He knows Derek wouldn’t do that. Not without Stiles giving him explicit permission anyway. Which he doesn’t. And Stiles trusts that Derek would never without his consent. But he can’t help the slight panic that washed over him for the second it happened.
Stiles fidgets with his own fingers now, picking at the skin around his nails, and Derek releases him, rolling onto his back. Stiles follows and rolls all the way over so he’s on his other side, tucking himself under Derek’s arm, his head resting on the soft tissue under his collarbone. Derek’s right arm behind Stiles, his hand resting on his waist, and his other arm on his own stomach. Stiles wriggles closer and timidly sneaks his arm over Derek’s stomach too, cuddling closer to him. Derek laughs softly and places his hand on top of Stiles’.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
Stiles has his eyes closed again, comfy, and mumbles, “Mhm.”
Derek tilts his head so his chin is resting against Stiles’ forehead and Stiles’ breath hitches, waiting for, not sure why he was even expecting, Derek's lips to press into the skin there… but they don’t, and he only feels a little disappointed.
“Your dad’s home,” Derek whispers but neither of them move. Stiles continues to lay next to Derek peacefully, with his eyes shut, content. If he concentrated his hearing, he could just make out the sound of the engine shutting off, followed by the closing of the cruiser door, then nothing until the soft click of the front door opening and closing, then the jingle of keys hitting the kitchen bench, followed by the progressive sound of footsteps ascending the stairs, growing louder and closer, until there's a soft knock on the open door.
Stiles opens his eyes and cocks his neck to look at his father. He greets Stiles with raised eyebrows and watches his gaze shifting between him and Derek.
“Greetings, father,” Stiles says and holds up a hand, his fingers spread displaying the Vulcan salute, but it’s backwards and, it doesn’t have the same effect, he thinks.
“Afternoon. I brought home a cake. I’m gonna change and then open it if you boys want a piece.”
Stiles resists the automatic urge to berate his dad but today is a pass for all things unhealthy, “okay.”
“Thank you, sir,” Derek replies, as polite as always.
His dad nods then walks off down the hall. Stiles sighs then sits upright and rubs his face. He swings both legs over the edge of the bed but makes no effort to get up. He feels the weight shift behind him followed by the sound of a yawn and then Derek scoots over so he’s sitting next to Stiles. Stiles drops his head to Derek’s shoulder and they sit like that for a moment.
“Thank you,” he says.
“Of course.”
Stiles sighs and Derek chuckles softly, “are you okay?”
“Yeah… I just… Thank you. For today. I really do appreciate it.”
“You shouldn’t thank me. I will always be here for you. Whatever time, wherever you are.”
Stiles looks up at him and they share a small, soft, sweet smile that melts Stiles heart before he slaps his legs and stands. Derek follows him as they make their way down stairs and take a seat each on the stools at the kitchen counter, waiting for his dad.
When he joins them he grabs three plates from the cabinets, a knife, three forks, and a small white box from the fridge; a small store-bought vanilla sponge cake with a fresh cream center and swirls on top decorated with a mix of fresh berries, just what his mom loved.
His dad cut three slices, a big piece for him and Stiles, and a smaller one for Derek advised by Stiles, “if you couldn’t tell he’s all about healthy habits,” he says gesturing to Derek’s muscles.
His dad snorts at that and Derek’s cheeks tinge with the lightest shade of pink, “it’s fine really,” Derek protests but thanks him regardless.
“So, what was wrong with the Jeep?” His dad asked, leaning on the counter opposite the boys. Stiles laughs loudly and it turns into a coughing fit, slightly choking on his mouth full of cake.
“He forgot to fill it,” Derek turns him in, resulting in a ‘ traitor ’ stare from Stiles, still trying to swallow the food in his mouth.
His dad shook his head, “how do you forget to put fuel in your car, Stiles?”
Stiles shrugs and takes another big mouthful of cake, talking around it, “I was distracted.”
“Have you been taking your medic-”
“Oh my god- YES,” he cuts off loudly, preventing him from finishing the sentence, “yes, dad, it’s fine, I’m fine.”
His dad nodded, backing off but Stiles leant his head in his hand, elbow on the counter and fiddled with some crumbs on his plate, moving them around with his fork. He’s not really sure why it embarrasses him, but he also hasn’t explicitly told Derek about his ADHD, even though he’s pretty sure Derek has a vague idea. If his dads question wasn’t obvious enough, anyway.
He’s pulled out of his thoughts when Derek’s knee knocks into his and he holds it there for a moment before pulling away. He looks over to Derek who isn’t looking at him, but he gets it, it’s okay.
He tries to brush off the embarrassment with another mouthful of cake, but the uneasy feeling is still situated in the pit of his stomach. His dad scoffs at him and smiles down at his own reasonably sized spoonful.
By the time they polish off their plates it’s a little after two. Stiles opts to wash the dishes so his dad could sit down. He doesn’t argue, and plants himself in the armchair, his reading glasses perched low on his nose and today's newspaper in his lap.
Derek remains in the kitchen, drying the dishes Stiles places in the rack and putting them away. Stiles only has to help him with a few things, but otherwise Derek knows where most of it goes. He can’t help but feel warm and gooey about that.
“Scott is almost here,” Derek says as he puts away the last dish. Stiles nods, feeling a little disappointed that his day with Derek has come to an end. He didn’t think Scott would be here until after practice.
“I’ll walk you out,” Stiles says as they make their way out of the kitchen, Derek grabbing his phone, wallet, and keys off of the bench and pocketing them.
“See you later, Derek,” his dad calls from the couch without looking up.
“See ya. Thanks for the cake, sir.”
“You’re welcome,” he replies, this time lifting his gaze to share a small genuine smile and a wave goodbye.
Stiles escorts Derek outside and onto the front porch where they say their goodbyes. He pulls Derek into a hug as soon as the door shuts behind them and Derek immediately wraps his arms around Stiles, pulling him tight against him.
“Thank you,” Stiles whispers into his shoulder and Derek squeezes him just that little bit closer, “of course.”
They hold their embrace for a moment longer before Stiles pulls away first. Derek lets him go as Scott pulls up the driveway on his bike.
They share a private smile before Derek nods a goodbye and climbs into his car. Stiles watches as he backs out and drives off while Scott walks up the driveway to stand next to him.
“You didn’t answer my text… I thought I’d drop by anyway and bring the work you missed…”
Stiles smiles and takes the pile of paperwork Scott digs out of his backpack, “Yeah, sorry… I turned my phone off… Thanks, man.”
Scott claps him on the shoulder and asks, “How are you feeling?”
Stiles nods and puts his hands in his pockets, “okay… yeah… I had a rough morning but I’m good now. Better…”
Scott nodded, “Derek…?”
“Yeah… we hung out…”
“Good…. That’s… good.”
Stiles rocked on his feet awkwardly. The tension between him and Scott could be cut with a knife… or was he jealous? He’s not entirely sure, but he is sure that their friendship hasn’t quite been the same since he stood up to him for how he treats Derek. Scott hasn’t said one ill-worded thing to him about Derek since so at least he’s trying to be supportive. Probably just to avoid being yelled at again… Either way he was here.
“Yeah. It was actually.”
“That’s good.”
Stiles smiled awkwardly, not really knowing what else to say.
“Well. I gotta get to practice, anyways. I take it you’re not coming?”
It was more of a statement than a question, but Stiles answered anyway with a shake of his head.
“I’ll let coach know.”
“Thanks.”
They shared a hug and said their goodbyes, and Stiles watches as Scott rides away before heading back inside.
“School work?” His dad asks as Stiles walks past, heading for the stairs.
“Yeah,” he sighs and waves the pile of paper in his hands. He trots his way upstairs and sets the pile down with a thunk on his desk. He then grabs a dry bag from his closet and makes sure to put his essay in there now, ready for tomorrow morning before taking a seat at his desk and catching up on the day's work he missed.