Chapter Text
Stiles wakes up violently, opens his mouth wide to breathe, scrambling at his neck to pull away at phantom tendrils of ink black, greedy hair. His back arches, body convulsing painfully, and somewhere to his right he hears the sound of clattering metal. Vaguely, he realizes there's nothing around his neck, there's no demon over him or under him and all he can see is white. He's fucking blinded, and he can't fucking breathe, no matter how many times he gulps in for air, mouth wide like a fish out of water. But there are—there's an aching in his limbs that's deep and a pressure on his chest and he's so cold, painfully cold—
He's panicking, and he knows it, can't do anything to stop it as he lets out a choked-off whimper, as he attempts to curl up only to realize his limbs aren't moving how he wants them to. His heart is going to jump out of his chest it's beating so hard and he can't stop any of it.
"—Stiles! Shit. Shit. Shit." He's not going to say it's Scott, even though it sounds like Scott, because the last time he heard him he wasn't there—couldn't have been there, and Stiles doesn't know which way is up anymore. "Deaton! Derek! Someone get in here he's awake!"
Stiles turns his head, and there's a figure—shadowed, blurry—standing over him, and his throat closes up. He manages to scramble backwards, adrenaline and something else, probably, helping him to move, and suddenly he's falling, catching himself at the last minute on hard concrete with his elbows, pain vibrating up his arms and he cries out again, this time the nose high and child-like. If he cared about anything other than the confusion and the pain he would be embarrassed.
(He doesn't care about anything else other than the confusion and the pain, so he's not.)
"Stiles," Scott's voice says again, and a pair of arms grabs at his, and he's looking at the ground in all its grey, blurry, polished glory, but he manages somehow to lash out, hit the… the whatever it is in the stomach with his shoulder as he tackles it to the ground, and then his hands are around its throat and he's right back to where he was before everything went black.
"St—get off, dude! It's me! Scott. It's Scott!" It's Scott's face that's looking up at him, eyes wide, wolfed out but he's not doing anything, so—maybe…
A pair of arms wraps around his middle from behind before he can decide what to do, and then he's yanked up, deposited on something that's cold and metal before he can even think about struggling.
"Stiles," Derek says. Stiles is squeezing his eyes shut, not really caring if it is Derek or not because all he can concentrate on is the too-fast fluttering of his heart and the burning in his lungs and the way his throat is closing up, and how he's already half collapsed on the metal something— he thinks it's a gurney, so he's 90 percent sure he's at Deaton's, inside one of the sparse examining rooms because why not—arms trembling as he tries to hold himself up.
He's a mess, and he doesn't know why, doesn't even know what's happening, and god everything is confusing and he just wants answers. Except maybe at the moment he wants to be able to breathe first. That would be nice. To breathe.
Breathing is good.
"Mr. Stilinski," Deaton says from somewhere close by. "I—"
"—He's having a panic attack, Deaton. The sedative; you said you had a sedative if he woke up having a pani—"
"—As a last resort, yes, but I'd prefer not to medicate him just yet. I think he's had enough medication, don't you?"
"He's going to hurt himself if we—"
Stiles lifts up a hand, palm out, hoping they know that it means he wants them to shut the fuck up. He curls into himself, leaning down despite the pain until his cheek is against the cold metal—so he has something to concentrate on, other than himself—and then he just breathes.
He thinks about anything other than the sound of his heartbeat or the way his breath is rattling in his chest or, you know, that he doesn't know what's happening and that he thinks, maybe, that he killed someone, killed them with his hands wrapped around their throat and he can still feel the warm wetness of their blood and—
Okay, no there's… he left his laptop on, he's pretty sure. Before Scott called him. He was watching some stupid video on Youtube about—he can't remember. But he was watching it. He was. He was laughing, he remembers, or snorting, at least, glancing at his phone every couple of minutes because he had texted Derek three hours ago—some inane question that he can't remember at the moment; maybe it had something to do with food—and he still hadn't texted back.
Right. He had nothing to do, because it's summer and the only thing he has, commitment wise, is the ghostwriting job he started last year for some extra cash. It's good because he's not actually required to report to a physical job location—means that if supernatural shit goes down, he doesn't have to spend half the day worrying about what excuse he's going to use if he's maimed—and he gets free research on a shitload of stuff he would normally never think about.
Yeah, he was sitting in front of his computer, and—
"Stiles," Scott says, and Stiles twitches at the sound, realizes he's not breathing hard anymore, that his heartbeat is just quick and not dangerously fast, and that he's okay. Relatively.
He's alive.
Hopefully.
"Hey," he grunts, shifts so that it's his forehead against the cold metal now, and not his cheek.
"You need to sit up, Mr. Stilinski," Deaton says. "Scott, Derek, maybe help him."
A pair of hands that he recognizes as Scott's grips at his shoulders and pulls him upright. His eyes are still closed, and he gives himself a couple of seconds—a couple of breathes—before he opens them. Or, attempts to open them. Really, he gets halfway there and the light is too much so he just stays like that, squinting.
Derek and Scott are standing in front of him, with Deaton a little to his right, and their faces are kind of blurry but not enough that he can't make out their expressions. They actually look a little similar, which is terrifying. Both of them are clean, as in it's been more than a couple of hours since he lost consciousness clean. As in they both had time to take a shower—recently, if the still damp quality to Derek's hair is anything to go by.
They look good. Definitely more corporeal than… before. When he—
Stiles gulps, looking at where he's still wearing a pair of dirtied jeans, gripping at the edges of the metal gurney with hands that won't stop trembling. "Did I—" he starts, and then has to clear his throat because his voice is hoarse, "Did I kill someone?"
"What?" Scott asks.
"You were—" Derek tries.
"Hallucinations, Mr. Stilinski," Deaton says over them, and Stiles blinks, watches as he takes a step closer, shines a light in Stiles's right eye. "They're powerful things."
It takes maybe a couple of seconds for the dots to connect, but when they do, Stiles makes a noise—a whimper, fine, okay—at the back of his throat. He doesn't know if it's a sound of relief or terror. "I felt—I broke its neck. It was choking me. Deaton, I felt that, how—?"
"You attempted to… engage with others multiple times," Dr. Deaton says, takes a stethoscope out of his pocket and slides it under Stiles's shirt to press down on his spine, and if Stiles wasn't so weak he would mock Deaton's word choice, because really? Engage? "Breathe in, please." Stiles breathes in. "I gave you a sedative that restricted your movements. Even then your vitals were at dangerous levels for around seven hours, around there. You—"
"—Dad? My dad?" Stiles interrupts.
"Called away three hours ago," Deaton says, "to process the hunters you helped capture." He makes a noise of doctorly approval, and then the stethoscope is gone, and Deaton is doing something to his neck. Doing something to the bandages on his neck.
(He remembers a dull pain. An acute pinching. Fading consciousness and being carried and then—)
Stiles snorts at that. "Right," he says, "Helped. Sure. If—"
"You killed someone?" Derek asks, quietly, almost quiet enough that Stiles doesn't hear him. "In your dream?"
"Hallucination," Deaton corrects.
"Isn't there a taboo about asking what someone what they saw in a hallucination?" Stiles asks. He can't let himself look directly at Derek because all he remembers is getting carried through the forest and his mouth spewing shit that he hadn't meant to say and… and he knows that wasn't a hallucination.
The whole speaking without thinking thing.
He's just hoping if he doesn't look at him maybe they'll both forget it.
"Just a nightmare," Stiles says, and he can hear the plaintive lilt to his voice even as he does. "Turns out I didn't—" he still doesn't believe that. It had felt real. Still feels real. His neck hurts and his hands ache and he just feels heavy, so how is he supposed to believe it was only a dream (a hallucination) when it had felt so real?— "so it's good. Stupid, even. Just some… what did it, anyway? What did they shoot me with?"
"A hallucinogenic," Deaton says, and wow, no shit. "There's magic in it, but what kind I haven't been able to find out other than, for once, it's not wolfsbane."
"Glory be," Stiles mutters, and Scott lets out a bark of laughter that definitely sounds forced. He pushes forward, not in Deaton's way but definitely hovering, and gets a hand on Stiles's shoulder, grips hard enough to distract Stiles from the whirlpool of shitty thoughts he's five seconds away from thinking about.
He wonders if they can smell the fear on him, wonders if he smells like prey. He feels like prey; small and paranoid and beaten (not the first time he's felt this way). He's tired, and he knows if he starts thinking about whatever it is that happened, he's going to find something that makes it all worse.
He always does, but whatever; he's safe now. Relatively.
Or was he ever in danger.
Fuck.
"What happened," —he waves his hand at Derek and Scott— "while I was… out?"
"Brought you here," Scott says, but Stiles doesn't miss the look he shares with Derek before he talks. Ugh. He kind of misses when the two of them didn't like each other.
(Not that they're best friends now. Not that any of them are best friends now. It's just—years of fighting against enemy after enemy after enemy brings people closer, you know?)
"Brought you here," Scott says again, "or Derek did. Erica and Boyd and I—we got the hunters. Called your dad. Uh, we've been taking shifts—"
"—you seriously have not been watching me?" Stiles interrupts, and when Scott looks at him, unapologetic, he just sighs and scratches at his nose.
His hands are covered in dirt, just like everything about him, actually. They're still trembling, and Stiles catches the way Derek is watching him.
Carefully. Derek is watching him carefully, and he hates it.
"You were in pain," Deaton says. He's not examining Stiles any more. Just standing in front of him, flanked by Derek and Scott, looking… Deaton-like. "Physical pain, which makes this whole thing evenstranger. It wasn't just mental, what happened. We're calling them hallucinations but that's only because we don't know what else to call them."
"So I—" So I did kill someone thing, Stiles wants to say. He doesn't. "Can I go? Maybe sleep it off, some?" Hah. Like he's going to sleep again. Sure. "Or maybe go see my dad. If the hunters see me they'll start talk—"
"They dragged me to a shack in the woods and tried to saw my arm off," Derek interrupts. "I don't think they're the type who need a reason to do something."
"What does that have to do with me going to see—"
"It has everyth—"
"You just woke up from seven hours of… an ordeal that has obviously taken a toll on your body, not to mention your mind, Stiles," Deaton interjects. Derek's face looks apoplectic. It's kind of funny. "I don't think it's necessary. But if you'd rather go home, then I suggest someone stay with you for at least the first five hours."
"I can—"
"No, you need to go see Allison," Derek interrupts. "I'll take him. It's not like I'm going to be any useful tonight. They screwed my arm up and it's not" —he clears his throat— "it's not healing right.
Scott gives Derek a look, but Deaton is poking at the bandage over his neck again, and Stiles fists his hands, lets the pain of his nails digging into his palms distract him from the nasty sick muscle memory of wire-strong tendrils squeezing, slicing into his skin like a thousand scalpels.
"My dad will probably be home in a couple of hours," Stiles says, when Deaton's done. "Right? You don't need to—"
Scott says, "he's staying with you, assface," at the same time Derek says, "I'm staying. Shut up."
Stiles feels nostalgic for sophomore year, when it was easy bossing Scott around. With both of them looking at him, it's… not an option.
And maybe he's not looking forward to being alone again.
"I said I can do it," Stiles seethes, gripping at the handrail a little harder than necessary. "Fuck, dude, it's not like I've got a broken limb or anything. Just… back off."
"You're sweating. And shivering." Derek is pulling at his shoulders, trying to help him up the stairs to his room, but Stiles dealt with the way Derek's body fit against his when he walked him to the car at Deaton's and again when he walked him to the front door, held Stiles up as Derek got the spare key Dad keeps under the welcome mat and unlocked the door.
Just… space. It would be nice.
"Would you just—" Derek stops, and Stiles can feel his eyes roll, hears the exaggerated exhale that means he's giving himself a pep talk— "let me help? It'll be much easier; for both of us."
"Fine. I can walk, though. No need to carry, thanks," Stiles says, after a minute of silence that he uses just to show Derek he can make him wait for a minute.
God, he's immature.
Derek sighs. "Right," he says, and then his hand is on Stiles's shoulder, not pushing, just… there. It's a distraction from the weakness in his limbs and the pounding in his head, and Stiles manages to walk up the stairs, even though by the time he's in the hallway in front of his room he's dizzy, his vision swimming, colors coalescing into bright astral shapes, like when you close your eyes and press your fingers, hard, to your eyelids.
He doesn't let Derek open his door though; doesn't let him push Stiles towards his bed. "Bathroom," he says instead, when Derek reaches for the handle. "I need to wash this" —he gestures at the dirt and blood and viscous… stuff that's all over him— "off."
Derek sighs again. "Right," he says (again), "that makes sense. You need me to get you clothes or anything?"
"Look at you dude." Stiles grins, pats his shoulder as he hobbles past. "Nursemaid Hale, to the rescue."
"Fuck off."
"Go turn down my bed or something, Nurse Hale." Stiles pauses before he opens the bathroom door. "And yeah. New clothes would be… good. Thanks."
In the mirror, his skin is sallow, smeared with dirt and blood, shadows under his eyes and hair matted and disheveled. He must've bitten his lip at one point or another, because there's a fresh scar there that starts to hurt as he looks.
At least he's not stuck in magical Roman armor. At least there aren't blue, glowing lines carved into his skin. At least he never touched that thing. The yokai. He's glad he didn't touch it, even if it still feels like he did. Glad it doesn't exist—glad none of that was real.
He's never going to fucking watch The Ring again.
It's not as difficult as he thought it was going to be to get undressed. His hands are still shaking, yeah, probably some side effect from whatever he was shot with and whatever Deaton gave him, so the buttons of his jeans are a problem, but everything else is fine.
He only gets stuck in his t-shirt for like, five seconds, panics for three, and then he's naked, pointedly ignoring his reflection in the mirror and hobbling over to the tub. He takes a shower, makes the water just-shy-of-scalding hot, scrubs at his dirty, bloody skin and ruins the bandage over the puncture wound on his neck because he forgets it's there in the first place. When his fingers are wrinkled and his head dangerously light, scrapes and cuts stinging from the soap he scrubbed himself with, he turns the water off and grabs the first towel he can reach.
There's a pile of clothes—sweat pants, an old track t-shirt, the lone pair of Batman boxer briefs he fucking forgot he even owned until now—on the toilet, which means Derek came in while he was in the shower. Which means he didn't lock the door.
Oops.
And for fucks sakes, he had to pick the Batman ones?
Asshole.
Stiles still puts them on, anyway.
His neck is black and blue, the discoloration spreading out from the puncture wound—it's not a normal puncture wound; the skin is inflamed, edges of the actual wound raised and cracked—that's scarily close to his jugular. It's bleeding, because he scrubbed the scab away along with the dirt that was caked… everywhere, and he has a terrifying moment of vertigo when he sees the blood dripping down to his collarbone.
Pressure on his neck. Pushed down into strangely porous ground until it feels like he's being swallowed. A gaping maw inches from his face. His arms aren't strong enough to push it off and he's not used to fighting like this, not used to being so close. There's black hair stinging and stabbing and—
"Stiles?" Derek is outside the door, and Stiles realizes his heart is beating hard in his chest. "You're uh—can I come in?"
Stiles snorts. "I'm fine," he says. "Just getting dressed."
There's a pause, and then, "you know I can hear lies, right?"
"Perfectly aware," Stiles says. There are bandages in the cabinet underneath the sink, and he grunts as he bends down, his thigh muscles burning like he just hiked ten miles uphill. "I'm good, dude. Just go downstairs and wa—"
The bathroom door opens, steam billowing out past Derek as he just… stands there, looking down at him. Stiles doesn't know what the hell his expression means. "What are you doi—you're bleeding."
"Yes," Stiles says, "Observant."
He pulls the first aid kit out and sets it on the counter, pushes himself up to stand with only minimal grimacing. It's an accomplishment, as far as he's concerned. He's tired and he wants to (doesn't want to; is going to, because he's having trouble keeping his eyes open as it is) sleep, and at the moment the dexterity it's going to take to open the bandages and then put them over the wound seems daunting.
Really fucking daunting.
"Uh," he says, glancing at Derek, who's still standing in the doorway, although he's relaxed in the seconds that Stiles has been staring at the bandages. "Do you think you could help with this?"
"Sit down," Derek says, gestures at the toilet with his chin.
Stiles sits, looks at the tiled wall opposite him and cringes as Derek opens one of those alcohol swabs and wipes at the skin of his neck(he's pretty sure it's clean, but whatever).
"What did you see?" Derek asks, and Stiles could ignore him—could even tell him he doesn't want to talk about it—but Derek looks (sounds, feels, whatever) like he thinks this is his fault. And god Stiles has enough to deal with; a guilt-ridden Derek he does not need.
(There are still deep red grooves on Derek's arm, and his fingers are clumsy, swollen even. Stiles wonders what happened to him.)
"I'll tell you if you tell me," Stiles says, eventually, then gestures at Derek's arm. "Why's it not healing quicker?"
"Chainsaw had wolfsbane—"
"—fucking of course," Stiles mutters. "Fucking wolfsbane."
"They ambushed me while I was running," Derek continues, shrugging. "Fought them off; they got me with something that knocked me out. Shit happened, then Scott showed up."
"Eloquent," Stiles says. Derek has a casual hand splayed over his Adam's apple, holding his neck still while he presses down the bandage over Stiles's skin with his thumbs, and it's distracting. In a good way. Which is probably bad.
It's not like he wants to think about the other option—razor sharp hair wrapping, tightening, choking, demonic eyes and pain, a lot of fucking pain—but it would be convenient if he didn't smell like arousal. He is only in sweatpants at the moment.
It's inconvenient.
"You?" Derek asks, clearing his throat. He's breathing through his mouth, which is just making it all worse. Goddamnit of course he has to smell it.
"I was—" Shit how does he explain it? The armor shit was weird. The cat shit was weirder. But the demon— "Ever heard of something called a harionago?"
"No," Derek says, standing to put away the first aid kit, his movements precise and a little too controlled.
"Me neither. Or I thought I did," —Stiles pauses and wrinkles his nose, combs his fingers through his hair because it's plastered to his forehead and there's water dripping in his eyes— "I'll look it up later. It just—there's sentient hair—"
"Sentient hair," Derek says.
"Barbs at the end," Stiles remembers, "black and fucking long and it has this skin that's… grey and leathery, clammy to the touch and teeth that, uh… are sharp. It's strong."
"And it's Japanese?"
Stiles snorts. His shirt is on the counter, and all he has to do is reach for it and get it on, and then he's one step closer to being done with… this.
He needs to call Dad, though.
"Apparently so was I," Stiles says, "Or no, I was a… a tsuki no something. A warrior of the moon." It sounds stupid now. It feels stupid now. God, he was kidnapped by a talking cat.
Stiles reaches for the shirt and manages to get it on after a shorter struggle than he anticipated, and then he stands, closing his eyes against the vertigo.
When he opens them again, Derek's face is pinched, eyebrows furrowed and mouth slightly open like he's trying to remember something. Or stopping himself from saying something.
"I'm, uh…" Stiles motions at the open door and slides past Derek, although he's walking slow enough that Derek catches up to him and puts a hand on his back before he even gets to his room. "Thanks for helping, dude," he says. "You were supposed to be the damsel in distress this time, though. You know… and not me."
Derek grunts, and then Stiles is falling into bed, sighing a little at the soft sheets and the softer pillows, curling his toes into the mattress and using his good arm—the arm opposite the neck… thing—to pull his comforter over his head.
He wants to sleep—he doesn't want to sleep. Or he wants to sleep if and only if someone can guarantee him he won't remember his dreams.
He still needs to call Dad. Maybe Derek will…
Derek clears his throat; Stiles doesn't move.
"Senshi means warrior in Japanese," Derek finally says, and that gets Stiles's attention. He grunts to show he's listening, and Derek continues. "I—uh. Have you ever watched Sailor Moon?" It's an… anime."
Stiles blinks.
No.
No no no.
"I—" he tries, but his throat is closing up. He's probably going to laugh. Laugh hysterically or cry hysterically. One of the two. "Oh my fucking god," he manages, not lifting his head from where it's smashed into his pillow.
Derek makes a noise, like a whimper, loud enough that Stiles turns his head, pushes the covers down enough that he can peek over, and Derek is—his hand is over his mouth, and the room is dark, but his shoulders are shaking, and—
"Oh my fucking god, are you laughing at me?" Stiles croaks.
Derek meets his eyes, looks away, and snorts out a laugh. Then another, and then he starts laughing so hard he has to sit down at Stiles's desk so he doesn't collapse on the floor. Or at least, that's how it looks to Stiles.
Stiles's cheeks suddenly feel hot, and he pulls his pillow over his head. Doesn't press it down though; Derek laughing isn't a common occurrence. And it's nice to hear, even if he is definitely laughing at Stiles's expense.
"It was terrifying, okay," Stiles mutters. "You had to be there."
"You—this isn't—I'm sorry," Derek gets out, still laughing, head in his hands, elbows resting on his thighs. It's a good thing the blinds to Stiles's window are closed, or else the early morning light would be casting shadows on Derek's face, and Stiles… doesn't want that.
(He does.)
"Was there a—" Derek sputters out after a minute. "Was there a talking cat?'
Stiles sighs. "Diana," he says, and that sends Derek into another fit of hysterics. It's kind of… catching. Stiles is smiling, at least, and he figures it's better to smile than it is to, uh, not.
He never watched Sailor Moon. He's heard of it, of course. Fuck, he had an anime phase back in middle school, plastered some generic anime dude decal on his wall in 8th grade and didn't take it off for years. He knows anime.
"It's so you," Derek chokes out, mid-laugh, after a little bit, "Fuck, I mean, it's horrible, but it's—"
"I was wearing a skirt," Stiles is laughing now; he can't help it. "Or, you know, armor? Those Roman leather things—" He stops because Derek's eyes are bulging and he's pressing his lips together so they make a thin line. Maybe it's shock that's making him so susceptible to the whole laughing thing. "You can laugh, dude. This is kind of hilarious, in hindsight."
Derek laughs.
"I didn't have any, like, key phrases, though," Stiles says, lifts an exhausted arm to scratch at his chin. "And to be fair, the cat was pretty convincing. And the yoka—the demon thing was pretty terrifying."
"The hunters, or one of them" Derek says, eventually, once he's calmed down enough to speak. "Bill. Talked about himself in the third person."
"Like—" Stiles snorts. "Bill doesn't like this one. Bill thinks we should check the perimeter? Bill's got a hankerin' for some bacon?"
"Pretty fucking much," Derek says, "He was the one that did the—" he gestures towards his arm, still a little limp, hand curled in Derek's lap. "I told him my name is Derek, not Bill."
Stiles groans, laughs a little. "That's a horrible comeback."
"He didn't seem to think so," Derek points out, shrugging. "Got a reaction out of him."
"You're fucking nuts."
'I'm not the one who managed to turn Sailor Moon into a nightmare," Derek says.
"…Touché."
"I, uh—I won't tell anyone else, if it's—"
"Nah, dude," Stiles says, "Scott's just going to keep asking. I'd rather it be funny then, like… damaging, you know?"
"Okay," Derek says, and then it's silent for long enough that Stiles knows he's not going to be awake for much longer. There was something, though, that he still needed to—right.
"Dude," he says (mumbles, more like), "I'm gone any minute now, but before you leave could you, uh, call my dad? Just tell him I'm sleeping, or…" he trails off because he doesn't know what else to say. His brain is already sleep-addled.
Stiles shifts, turns slightly and manages to finagle his pillow so it's under his head again, curls his right leg up until he's comfy and lets out a sigh because mattresses are fucking amazing.
"You said something," Derek says, and his voice is closer—close enough that Stiles startles, turns his head to see that Derek is standing in the middle of his room, arms crossed over his chest nervously. "Things. You said things while I was carrying you—do you remember?"
"Did I finally call you out on the tight jeans thing?" Stiles grunts, feigns sleepiness even though nope, those words just fucking took away any hope he had of getting comfortable any time soon. Maybe if he doesn't technically lie, Derek won't notice? If he just pretends ignorance? It's worked a couple of times with Scott. "Did I make weird references or something, dude, you gotta help me out here."
Derek sighs, rolls his eyes dramatically even though he still keeps his arms crossed, still looks uncomfortable and slightly pissed off. "You told me you wanted—"
Stiles cringes at the way his heartbeat is already speeding up, tries to shift to hide his face, but Derek stills, looks over at him with sharp eyes.
"You remember," he says, and Stiles sighs, glances at the window to see that the light shining through the blinds is more orange now, brighter than the dull blue it had been previously. "Stiles, would you—"
"Something about—" Stiles wrinkles his nose and squeezes his eyes shut— "wanting. Things."
The pause following that is long and thick and god Stiles knows he's in bad shape because he's making everything into an innuendo without even trying.
"Did you mean it?" Derek asks, and his voice is stilted; careful. Closer, too.
Stiles opens his eyes and looks up at where Derek's taken a step closer, is looking down at him with something that's between a frown and a pout.
He—
Fuck.
"Yes," Stiles says. "Remember? You can hear it when I lie."
Derek blinks, looks at him, looks away, adjusts his arms so they're crossed even more tightly across his chest. He takes a shuddering breath, and Stiles doesn't know what any of it means except he's kind of hoping it means something good.
"Oh," Derek says, and the word is soft, said like Derek still thinks he's lying.
"Come on." Stiles turns around to lie on his back, runs his hands through his hair. "It's been kind of fucking obvious, dude. What's with the—" he makes his voice a high falsetto— "oh."
"It's just an oh, it's a—a—it's a response," Derek says.
"… oh," Stiles says, and only half because he's a spiteful little shit. He sits up, crosses his legs and rubs at the corners of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. For a while, it's silent, and Stiles should use the time to think—make up some excuse or find out a way to respond—but his mind remains stubbornly blank. "You don't have to—" he says. "You don't have to do anything, I mean. It's not like we—"
"Me too," Derek interrupts, expression determined (almost comically determined). Stiles blinks.
"Me too… what?"
"What you said. Me too. I want… those things," Derek finishes lamely. Stiles's chest does a little squeeze and flutter thing.
"Interesting," he manages, then clears his throat. "Are you trying to make me feel better about the whole—"
"No, for fucks sake, I'm trying to say that I want—!" Derek stops, looks away. "You."
Stiles is blushing again. It's not like he's a virgin. It's not like he hasn't heard anyone say something like that, not like he hasn't gotten a blowjob in the backseat of his jeep, hasn't, ya know, accrued some experience, but this is Derek, and shit, as long as Stiles has known him he's never seen Derek look so unsure of himself.
It's adorable.
"You want to catch a movie sometime, then?" Stiles asks, because he doesn't know what else to say, and false bravado has gotten him this far.
(I'd like your lips on mine, please. As soon as possible. Could we like be touching? Is this a confession or like a pre-confession? Am I interpreting this the wrong way? Would it be wrong to tell you about all the times I've gotten off thinking about how your Adam's apple bobs when you swallow?)
Derek looks taken aback for a second or two. "Like on a date?"
"No like an interview, yes a fucken' date. That's what two dudes who, uh…" Stiles runs out of steam before he can get to saying 'want each other' and just stops to cringe.
"Yes," Derek says, and even though he's feigning nonchalance Stiles can see the way his shoulders are tense.
"This is awkward," Stiles says, and Derek laughs at that.
"Yeah," he agrees.
"You wanna like kiss now or wait until we're sure we want to go steady? You know, seal the deal." And yeah, okay, Stiles is joking, except that he's also not, so when Derek laughs—it's kind of a desperate 'what the fuck did I get myself into' laugh—and walks over, Stiles isn't particularly surprised.
Excited; aroused; not surprised.
(A little surprised, maybe.)
Derek leans down, expression shuttered, shoulders tense, and Stiles ignores the little voice that's telling him to freeze up and listens, instead, to the louder one that's telling him to grab at the collar of Derek's shirt and pull until their lips smash together.
He lets out a laugh and Derek huffs out what is probably amusement, and then he tilts his head and kisses into Derek's mouth. He's had practice with the kissing stuff, but this—it's different. Derek's stubble is rasping against his jaw and his lips are surprisingly soft, a little moist. His eyelashes keep tickling Stiles's face and he keeps moving, running his hand up until it's in Stiles's hair and shifting until they're close, so close.
"Okay," Stiles breathes out, and Derek murmurs something, eyes closed, breath hot against Stiles's skin, and pushes in for another kiss that… it's—.God, it's fucking sensual, and Stiles can't help but reach out and get his hands in Derek's hair, grasping at it and pulling him forward until he's got a knee in between Stiles's legs, is moaning into the kiss (little hums and gasps, barely there tremors in his fingers where they're pressing into the skin just behind Stiles's ear).
His skin is suddenly warm, pulse racing, exhaustion forgotten in the face of something better, much better, and Derek is pushing forward again until Stiles has to lean back on his elbows, shivering at the sensation of Derek's chest against his, at the way their bodies are suddenly so fucking perfectly aligned and—
"Fuck," Derek gasps, breaks off the kiss for no reason and rests his forehead against Stiles's, opens his eyes until Stiles gets the horrible urge to spout poetry about twin whirlpools of green and brown and yellow that sink into endless black.
"Right, yes, good idea?" Stiles offers, and his voice sounds wrecked.
"You're exhausted," Derek says, but he says it like he's trying to convince himself, pushes forward to press a kiss at the corner of Stiles's lips, and okay, Stiles likes that.
"I—" Who the fuck is Stiles kidding. He groans, falling back until he's lying down, head sinking down into his pillow, and scrubs at his face. "God I am, dude. Aren't you?"
Derek shrugs. "Used to it," he says. He hesitates, and then, "I could stay, until Sher—until your dad gets back."
Stiles laughs. "You want to?"
Derek sits back, clears his throat and gets a hand around Stiles's wrist, presses his fingers down where Stiles's pulse is fast and erratic. "I want to," he says.
END
