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Stiles leans forward, squinting into the darkness, and Derek has to physically restrain himself from dragging him back by his scruff. Which he manages by digging his nails into his own palms, feeling his claws lengthen. Blood drips from between his fingers.
Stiles’ mouth pushes to the side while he shines his cell phone’s illumination into the mouth of the hollow. He presses closer, his nose disappearing inside the cave while he lights up the muddy sides.
Derek digs his fingers into Stiles’ shoulder and hauls him back.
Stiles scowls. “A simple, ‘your overt bravery – while making my nether parts all tingly – has also got my nerves doing the Chubby Checker twist,’ would have been fine.” He brushes his hand down the front of his shirt, getting rid of a few leaves that had been clinging to it. He levers back onto his shins, digging his palms into his knees. “I don’t have the same syrupy-sweet taste of infants or the chubby, nubile little limbs made for nibbling so I think I’m in the clear.”
Derek’s eyes inadvertently slip down Stiles’ arms, which are lean and strong and capable. He snaps his gaze back up to where Stiles is frowning into the small burrow and raises a dark, judgmental eyebrow. “You know how infants taste?”
Stiles shrugs. “It’s got to be like Nerds Rope, right? Taffy-y and sweet and impossible to resist, otherwise I doubt even erlkings would eat them.” Which is all supremely disturbing imagery. Stiles doesn’t seem to notice. “I’m sure you’ve eaten your fair share of youngins, you tell me.”
Derek glowers at him. “I don’t eat children.”
“I’m pretty sure that was the whole point of Little Red Riding Hood,” Stiles points out contradictorily.
Derek’s expression sours even further. “I hate you.”
“I’m taking that as a compliment,” Stiles says, looking smug. He sniffs, staring back into the dark face of the opening before cutting his gaze over to Derek almost accusingly. “You really can’t catch its scent? Because that is totally too big for even, like, a badger.” His brow furrows. “Wait. Do badgers burrow?” Derek rolls his eyes but Stiles doesn’t seem to notice as the crease between his brows gets even more pronounced. “I’m making the executive decision that they do. There’s going to be a complete overhaul in Mustelidae behaviors if they don’t. Tomorrow, badgers will burrow,” he announces in a deep, decisive tone.
Derek tries to dredge up the annoyance he would have felt over these same ramblings only a few months ago. Now it just causes a knot of something warm and almost painful to form in his gut. He clears his throat and hopes his expression is sufficiently unimpressed rather than desirous – or, worse, fond. “You have no idea if they burrow but you know their biological classification. Of course.”
“I can’t control what I retain from my regular late night sessions with the Discovery Channel,” Stiles retorts, almost defensive.
Derek clenches his hand in the back of Stiles’ collar and yanks him to his feet. “We’ll come back and check it out tomorrow during the day, Scott and Isaac and I,” Derek clarifies sharply at the eager expression on Stiles’ face.
He positively pouts but doesn’t fight Derek as he drags him out of the woods. At least until they’re nearly at the edge of them, then he flails, trying to break Derek’s grip, which leads him into a thicket of branches. Which only makes him flail harder. He ends up panicking and getting tangled in his own plaid button-up.
He finally struggles out of it and slaps it to the ground, creating a little whirlwind of leaves in the direction of Derek’s ankles. He affects a shiver, punctuating it with a noise of disgust. “It’s creepy the way erlking arms look like branches. That totally could have been like twenty little goblin hands.”
Derek’s nostrils flare in amusement. “You handled it exceptionally well.”
Stiles flips him off and Derek lets out a snort. Stiles leans over to snatch up his shirt and Derek’s eyes narrow, catching a scent that irks him more than any other.
He grabs Stiles by the jaw and yanks it closer so he can get a good look. “You’re bleeding,” he growls, voice low and dangerous.
“Huh?” Stiles blinks, reaching up to swipe his hand over the place Derek’s staring at. He brushes a thin line of red off his cheekbone. He holds his fingers out in front of him and stares at them with a scoff. “It’s a scrape, dude.”
Derek purses his lips. “The Sheriff made it clear I was to return you in the same condition you were lent out in.”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “I don’t think my dad’s going to pull out the wolfsbane bullets over a scratch on my cheek.” Derek ignores him, grabbing his wrist and leading him over to the trunk of his car. The first aid kit’s shoved down along the side and Derek pulls it out roughly, searching for the antibiotic ointment and Band-Aids. Stiles rolls his eyes harder as he catches sight of Derek’s medicinal paraphernalia. “Why do you even have that?” he whines. “You regenerate like fucking Wolverine and I’m the only squishy human ‘round these parts.”
Derek knows his cheeks are flooding with heat but he can’t seem to stop it happening.
Stiles swallows in sudden understanding and says softly, “Oh.” Derek turns towards him, not meeting Stiles’ eyes as he cleans the cut and bandages it. Stiles, however, is staring at Derek enough for the both of them. He sucks his lower lip into his mouth, biting down and turning the skin redder and Derek bends over the trunk and pulls in deep, steadying breaths through his nose. “So the creepy, overprotective thing, we’re still doing that?”
Derek clenches his jaw, not answering.
Stiles leans in, balancing himself with a hand on Derek’s shoulder and Derek feels soft lips brush his cheek in a brief, slight press. “I appreciate it, y’know?” he says softly, squeezing his fingers before letting go.
Derek couldn’t have stopped the shit-eating, slashing-Peter’s-throat-good grin from spreading over his cheeks even if he’d wanted to.