Work Text:
Working during the holidays is always shitty because some dumbass manages to set something on fire or crash into something every time. Maybe Derek shouldn’t be so unsympathetic about it but he’s been on cases which were, frankly, caused by grade A human idiocy. And it seems to be worse during holidays. So, he’s not particularly surprised when they get called in for a fire at some store.
The fire hasn’t been noticed until flames and smoke started rising through a broken window. It doesn’t help that it turns out to be a copy shop with lots and lots of paper that easily catches fire, so by the time they get there, the building is ablaze. Their priority is, as it turns out, to get out the animals from the bordering pet shop.
It doesn’t come as a surprise that the heat is noticeable in the pet store already, and the cats, locked in metal cages, are letting out sounds of distress. Erica and Boyd are taking care of the rodents and birds while Derek tries to find a key to the locks of the cat cages.
Thick smoke is creeping into the shop. Derek vaguely hears his squad moving around outside of the store, working on getting the fire under control. He can’t find any keys, decides to fuck it and just get the pliers.
On his way back, Erica stops him with a hand on his arm, balancing a box with mice in the other. “Hurry, the ceiling is getting unstable.”
Derek nods shortly, hurries back inside to hear a suspicious creaking from above. The cats are meowing pitifully. The heat and smoke are taking a lot out of them, and they’re desperate to get out. Derek sets to work, wrenching open the first cage. He sweeps the cat up. Erica appears at his side, takes the small body off him before Derek cracks open the next cage. They work in silence, Erica hands off the cats to Boyd when he comes over.
There’s a loud crack above them when one of the support beams starts to give.
The cats’ fur bristles as he pulls them out one after another. Most of them don’t struggle against him when he grabs for them. They curl into his hand, then into Erica’s body. Except for the second to last cat. It hisses and buries its claws into Derek’s glove before jumping up. The cat makes a pained noise, hisses again when it almost barrels into the wrenched open door of the cage. Derek grabs the pet, tries to be as careful as possible but it jumps again and knocks his helmet off. The cat falls to the floor and makes for the door, Erica doesn’t even bother to catch it.
Derek’s just getting the last cat out of the cage when the support beam finally gives. There’s an echoing crack before it comes falling down. He trips stepping away, falls and hits his head on some counter. The last cat is still in his arms, trembling, and Erica’s yelling his name. He blinks up at the ceiling, several noises blurring into one indistinguishable, contorted sound. For a moment, he doesn’t realize what’s happening, touches his head to notice that he’s not wearing his helmet.
Slowly, he sits up, and Erica comes into his periphery. “I’m fine,” he answers. One end of the beam looks like it’s been burned through but now it’s just black and slightly glowing. Derek carefully steps over it and hands the cat over to Boyd while Erica puts a steady arm around him. He feels dazed, head throbbing with a dull ache. The other members of the squad are rushing in to secure the building, probably make sure the beam doesn’t catch fire.
“What the hell was that?” Erica’s yelling at him, voice sharp, and Derek winces. “Do you have a deathwish?”
She presses a sterile white cloth against his forehead. Derek instinctively grabs for it, and it comes back away bloody. “I forgot to strap it,” he says, pressing the fabric against his head, absentmindedly, because everything seems a little hazy, out of focus.
Erica motions to smack him hard in the head but catches her hand at the last moment. “By now it should be an automatism. How could you forget this?”
“The animals are all safe, right?” he asks instead of answering what he thinks is a rhetorical question anyway.
“Someone might get the feeling you’re doing this job to save animals instead of people,” Erica snaps but she rolls her eyes fondly at him. “Come on, we have to get you to the hospital.”
Scott meets them at the ambulance. “You okay?” he asks as soon as he sees Derek, hands flying up to check for his head.
“He forgot to strap his helmet,” Erica explains crossly while Scott leads Derek into the back of the ambulance.
Isaac’s curly head ducks around one of the ambulance doors. “Who did?”
“This giant moron right here.” Erica points at Derek, and Derek flips her off. “He hit his head on a counter and didn’t get back up right away but he didn’t lose consciousness.”
Scott is examining the injury but he doesn’t cry havoc, so Derek assumes the damage can’t be that bad.
“Let’s get him to the ER,” Scott says then, and Isaac nods. “Do you want to come with?” he asks, looking at Erica.
She waves him off. “Nah, I’m sure he’ll find a nurse to hold his hand.” There’s a wolfish grin on her face. Erica winks before she wishes them a happy New Year, and the turns and dives back into the action.
Isaac drives without turning the siren or the lights on, and Scott runs a few checks on him, asks him a couple of questions. Derek winces when Scott shines the lights right into his eyes.
“So, what’s the diagnosis?” Derek asks as Scott scribbles something down on a form.
“You have a concussion,” Scott informs him matter-of-factly. “And that cut needs stitches.”
Derek feels exhausted suddenly, energy draining out of his body like on cue, and he sags against the wall behind him. There’s still the dull, throbbing ache from before in his head. He wants to close his eyes for a moment, but then the car comes to a halt, and Scott’s opening the door for him.
Scott keeps him steady as Derek climbs out of the car, swaying precariously. Derek takes a deep breath, unable to stop his pulse from picking up its pace. He should be used to this by now, and yet it’s always hits him anew, and Derek can’t even get used to the force of it.
Stiles comes rushing out through the doors of the ER just as Derek’s straightening himself out next to Scott. He’s in his light green scrubs, hair falling loosely over his forehead, and he manages to look furious, concerned and relieved all at once. Derek can’t help the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth at the sight of him.
“Stop smiling, dumbass,” Stiles snaps, rolling his eyes in a way Derek’s learned is just show. “Let’s get you inside.”
He leads the way, casting quick glances over his shoulder every now and then, while Scott steadies Derek walking. Derek doesn’t even get to go into one of the trauma rooms; instead Stiles just guides them into the acute treatment area, pulls back a curtain around one of the beds and gestures for Scott to lower Derek onto the bed. Scott has been giving Stiles an update on Derek’s condition on their way over, though Derek hardly paid attention to it. He was too busy staring at the broad expanse of Stiles’ shoulders, of the way the fabric of his scrubs bunched around his waist; admired how well the pants make Stiles’ ass look.
Derek lies down on the bed while Stiles and Scott resume talking like they both have nothing better to do, nowhere else to be.
Derek clears his throat. “Are we in a hospital or on a talk show?”
Stiles simply covers Derek’s face with his hand and pushes his head down on the bed, voice unwavering as he talks to Scott. They end their conversation though, hug briefly.
“Happy New Year, buddy,” Stiles says as Scott is already turning to go. “Don’t forget dinner tomorrow!”
Scott throws his head back and snorts, like the implication is the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. Stiles laughs at him, shaking his head when he focuses his attention on Derek. The easy look is slipping right off his face.
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Stiles asks, getting out a tiny flashlight. “What the hell were you thinking?”
Derek’s about to answer when Stiles makes an aborted motion with his hand, catches Derek’s chin, and Derek’s mouth opens on it’s own accord, words dying on his tongue. “Nothing, apparently. Finstock is so going to rip you a new one as soon as he hears about this,” Stiles adds shining a light into Derek’s mouth.
“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t remind me about it. I’d like to spend the time until he hears about it in peace.”
“If you want peace, you got the wrong address, buddy,” Stiles informs him as he puts away the flashlight and snaps on gloves before starting to clean the cut of dried blood. “I’m gonna make your life hell--”
“I’m sorry,” Derek interrupts him, looking up at Stiles who’s leaning over him, bright eyes focused intently on the injury. There are lines of worry creased in Stiles’ forehead, and Derek wants to smooth them out with the tips of his fingers, with the promise he’s never going to do something like this again. Stiles’ gaze snaps to him, and they lock eyes for a moment.
Stiles relaxes visibly when he seems to have deemed Derek’s apology earnest and serious enough. The line around his mouth softens, and he leans back, fingers gently pushing Derek’s hair out of his forehead. It’s an easy touch, a simple gesture, but as always it feels like it means so much more. Derek closes his eyes for a moment, willing the frantic beating of his heart to slow down.
“I’m gonna inject the anesthetic now,” Stiles says. Derek nods minutely in answer, eyes still closed, before he feels Stiles’ pushing the needle under his skin. It’s over fast, and though the wound itself didn’t really hurt, Derek still feels numbness spread through his forehead.
“What happened anyway?” Stiles asks, and Derek opens his eyes to see him leaning over Derek’s head, utensils in hand. “I mean, the fire.”
“I don’t have any details yet. A fire started at the copy shop on Mayfair Street, didn’t get noticed right away, and when we got there the store next door was catching fire too.”
Stiles stills for a moment, cuts a short glance at Derek as he resumes patching him up. “The pet shop?”
Derek answers, “Yes,” and watches the crease between Stiles’ eyebrows deepen. He doesn’t stop working on the stitches though, moves his hands in careful, precise motions.
“We got the animals out, though,” Derek adds just as Stiles draws back, finishing up the stitches. “I think they should be fine.”
Stiles is putting away his utensils. Derek can’t be bothered to learn what all of it is called even though Stiles has told him at least a hundred times.
“How did you lose your helmet, though?” Stiles asks as he carefully puts Steri-strips over the stitches.
Derek frowns, and Stiles flicks his nose, eyes sharp, and Derek relaxes his forehead. “One of the cats panicked and knocked it off when I tried to get ahold of it.”
Stiles strips off his gloves while Derek tries really hard and fails even harder not to stare at Stiles’ long fingers, his capable hands. “You lost your helmet saving cats.”
Derek’s unsure how to respond to that, if to respond to that, but Stiles blinks at him for a moment, and then shakes his head. “Can you get any more lovable?” he mutters under his breath.
“What?” It’s a reflex, really, because he heard exactly what Stiles’ said. Derek’s heart lurches, stupidly, and he sits up too fast. His head spins, blood rushing loudly in his ears. Stiles smiles wryly at him, hands him a glass of water and some painkillers. He doesn’t comment further on it, doesn’t do anything, though for a moment the air between them is loaded with--anticipation, promise maybe.
Derek takes the painkillers, swallows some of the water, and Stiles says, “Come on, big guy, let’s get your head checked.”
It’s not the first time Derek gets a CT scan, but Derek says, not for the first time either, “This is really unnecessary. I’m fine.”
Stiles doesn’t even acknowledge him, just lets Derek undress and gives him a gown before ushering him inside the room the scanner occupies.
“If I had a dollar for everytime I heard you or any other police officer or firefighter say that to me, I could probably buy my own hospital,” Stiles says while he pushes the panic button into Derek’s hand. He walks out of the room as soon as the couch is in the right position.
Stiles picks him up sometime later, leads him back into the acute treatment area and indicates Derek to sit on one of the free beds. “Your scans are clear,” he says while he scribbles something on a form. “But given that you’re concussed we’re gonna keep you here for observation for a couple of hours.”
Derek knows better than to argue. It’s not like he has anything better to get to, and besides--what else could be better than spending time with Stiles.
Turns out, Stiles saunters away shortly after to take care of other and new patients, skips from bed to bed while other nurses mill around. Occasionally one of the doctors appears to check in, stops to chat with Stiles or one of the other nurses.
Watching Stiles work is something Derek could probably do for hours. Stiles moves easy and confident through the ER; hands steady on swaying patients and voice calm and soothing when he talks to crying children and their distraught parents. They bring in a guy who has a deep gash on his face, starting on his left temple and running down to his chin. He’s bleeding profusely, and Derek watches how Stiles rushes to him, leads him away, and orders one of the nurses to page the doctor.
It gets hectic sometime later, loud, when EMTs bring in victims of a car crash, and Stiles disappears into a trauma room with an attending. There’s a lot of frantic yelling, stretchers being pushed through the ER entrance and wheeled into trauma rooms, doctors and nurses rushing in to tend to the patients.
Derek watches, intently, how the staff moves around, seemingly random and uncoordinated. But they’re precise and they work fluidly together, and it isn’t so much different from Derek and the members of his squad. It’s a routine, a dance if you like.
Derek dozes off when the hectic dies down in the ER, when the doctors and nurses treat the patients in the trauma rooms or take them up to other wards.
Stiles returns sometime later, drops a magazine in Derek’s lap and sits down on a chair next to his bed, filling out some paperwork.
Derek lifts his eyebrows. “Cosmopolitan?”
“I figured you might find tips on how to groom your eyebrows in there,” Stiles answers without looking up.
“You might find some fashion advice.”
Stiles snorts. “My fashion sense is just fine, thank you very much.”
“I don’t know, I wouldn’t exactly say plaid is fashionable.”
“You’re just jealous because you can’t pull it off.”
“There’s not much to pull off,” Derek deadpans. “Unless you mean that literally.”
He becomes suddenly aware of the unintentional innuendo; looks up to meet Stiles’ dark gaze on him. The air comes rushing out of Derek’s lungs at the sight of Stiles, half-lidded and lips slightly parted. Stiles looks like a living wet dream on a good day, he’s downright offensive right now. His tongue shoots out between his parted lips to wet them, and Derek’s helpless to track the movement with his eyes.
“Are you offering?” Stiles asks, voice low: an open invitation.
Yes, Derek wants to say, Yes, I am. Instead, his vocal chords give out, no sound leaving his lips, and by the time he manages to scramble together enough of his brain to form a response, the moment is gone, and Stiles turns back to his form.
It’s almost always like that: Derek finds himself in a suggestive situation with Stiles, something that clearly invites more than playful ribbing and flirtatious banter, and yet he’s never crossed the line. Neither did Stiles, though, and Derek’s been trying to parse out forever what exactly this means. He knows Stiles enjoys this--whatever it is that’s going on between them--and that it’s not simply a game to him. There is a kind of purpose behind everything they do, nevermind that neither Derek nor Stiles ever acted on it.
Derek is afraid to lose this, to lose the easy companionship he has with Stiles if he ever decides to cross that invisible line between them. Relationships aren’t the same as friendships and he knows it can turn out bad. He’s not trying to talk himself out of it--he couldn’t if he tried. Stiles has carved out space for himself between Derek’s lungs and his heart, behind his ribcage, and it’s unlikely he’s ever gonna leave. Maybe this is all the answer Derek needs for his dilemma; maybe he should stop worrying so much about it.
He just wishes he knew what’s going on in Stiles’ head.
Derek surrenders to the magazine in his hand and starts flipping through it. He’s not particularly interested in the contents, raises his eyebrows and quirks his mouth at some of the fashion ensembles displayed though, and casts a look at Stiles.
“On second thought, you might want to stay away from the fashion advice in here. It might give you even worse ideas,” he informs Stiles, and Stiles snorts again with a roll of his eyes. He smiles though, small and fond, and Derek’s heart lurches.
Derek stumbles upon a test then, towards the end of the magazine, and before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s reading out loud, “Are you good in bed?”
Stiles drops his pen. He bends down staring at Derek, distractedly fumbling for the pen, and Derek looks down at him, eyebrows raised. Stiles clears his throat when he sits up straight again.
“Hit me,” Stiles says then, voice level and face unreadable, although Derek’s sure he can see glee dancing in Stiles’ eyes.
“How often do you try different sex positions?” Derek reads, glad that several beds next to him are free, and he keeps his voice down while he decidedly steers clear of picturing Stiles laid out naked in his bed. “Rarely--you prefer the tried-and-true. Sometimes, but you’d love to do more. Or, nightly, you love switching it up.”
Stiles taps the pen against his lips in consideration. “Well, given that my sexlife has basically been non-existent for way too long now, I’d say rarely. But actually, I’d go for nightly. I love variety.”
Derek tries not to choke on air as he grabs for Stiles’ pen and circles his answer. He puts a cross down for his own.
“Do you ever spend solo time pleasuring yourself?” Derek continues, and he can feel heat wallowing up inside of him at the mere thought. “Sometimes your digits will wander...when you’re super horny. Never--that’s his job. Damn straight, you’ll also get ‘hands on’ in front of your man.”
“What kind of question even is that?” Stiles ponders out loud. “I’ll take damn straight.”
Derek loses himself for a moment picturing Stiles in his bed, skin in stark contrast to his dark grey sheets, cock flushed red, and lazily jacking himself off while Derek watches.
“Oh my god,” Stiles says and snaps his fingers in front of Derek’s face. “Your whole face just glazed over. You’re totally picturing it, aren’t you?”
Derek bites on his tongue before he can tell Stiles he’d look good in his bed. Instead, he marks down the answers, doesn’t let himself get baited by Stiles’ knowing smirks and continues with the questions. He almost smacks himself in the head when he reads the next one.
“Your idea of giving your man a sexy surprise for his b-day is: treating him to a sensual massage, or a homemade dinner and new R-rated DVDs, or sporting a whipped cream bra and lustily saying that for each candle he blows out on his cake, you'll spring a brand-spanking-new Cosmo move on him.”
Stiles laughs then, covering his face with one hand. “I’m sure I’d look good in a bra made of whipped cream,” he says when he calms down. “No, seriously, actually none of these. I’m rather spontaneous about birthdays.”
“You have to choose an answer,” Derek says, mouth bone-dry. For Derek’s birthday this year, Stiles took him on a lazy day out which ended with both of them falling into the huge fountain in the park, and Derek had a hard time willing his boner down at the sight of a completely drenched Stiles. He still sometimes vividly recalls how his clothes had clung to his body, clearly outlining his broad shoulders and defined biceps; the sinew forearms and his narrow waist with the flat planes of his stomach down to his long legs, and the way his pants hid nothing--It’s been in Derek’s spank bank material ever since, he has no shame admitting it.
“I’d say the massage then,” Stiles replies, sighs dreamily. “Strong hands moving down your body? Sign me right up.”
Derek breathes out deeply, focusing on putting the answer down. He clears his throat, catches Stiles looking at him with such scrutiny it makes Derek want to squirm. Trying to ignore it, he turns back to the magazine.
Derek’s halfway to Massive Boner City, population: him, when they’re done with the quiz, and he starts evaluating Stiles’s answers first.
“You are an Inhibited Babe,” Derek announces when he’s done, caught between laughter and disbelief. “There's so much holding you back in bed, we're surprised there aren't harnesses on your headboard! (Well, that would be too kinky for you!) You don't try new positions, barely make a peep when your guy isn't turning you on, and constantly worry that your carnal abilities aren't up to par.”
“You’re lying,” Stiles accuses, outraged, and yanks the magazine out of Derek’s hands to get a look himself. He quickly reads through his evaluation and snorts indignantly. “That’s what you get when you rely on Cosmo tests. They’re worth bullshit. What’s your result?”
Stiles doesn’t hand the magazine back, just snatches the pen from Derek and starts doing it himself.
“Vixen on the Verge,” Stiles reads to him once he’s finished, and does a poor job not to laugh. “You're on your way to being a sheet-twisting maven, but you still have a few more bedroom hurdles to hop. ‘Most women fall into this middle category,’ says Logan Levkoff, a sex educator and sexologist in New York City. "You feel pretty confident about your body and are fairly open to exploring new positions, but self-consciousness often sinks in when you're with a new guy or when it comes to asking for what you want in detail.’”
Stiles reaches out to scratch his fingers lightly through Derek’s scruff. “Let me assure you, Derek, you’re certainly not like most women. No other has such a pretty beard like you.”
Derek rolls his eyes at him and swats at his hand while Stiles laughs joyously, his whole body shaking. It’s contagious, though, watching Stiles laugh and enjoy himself so much, and Derek can’t--and doesn’t--stop the smile that spreads across his face. And Stiles leans into him, knocks his forehead against Derek’s shoulder, gasping for air.
Once he’s calmed down, Stiles leans back, and his eyes are still bright with amusement. His mouth is curved in a smile that warms Derek to the core. He looks content, face open, and Derek thinks it could always be like this; he could have this every day: Stiles by his side, smiling, laughing; wrapping Derek in contentment. Whenever Derek’s with Stiles it feels like something just--clicks into place.
Stiles is quiet now, eyes locked on Derek like he’s searching for something. Derek doesn’t avert his gaze, let’s Stiles look his fill until his eyes flutter shut for a moment, lashes fanning it like black wings on his cheeks. Derek reaches for Stiles’ hand to entwine their fingers, brushes his thumb over Stiles’ knuckles.
“Go out with me,” he finds himself saying, and it’s easy, so easy. He should’ve known. Stiles doesn’t look exactly surprised, but he smirks wolfishly.
“Is that an order, Lieutenant?”
“Absolutely,” Derek answers, deadpan. “It’s in your best interest.”
“Oh, is it now,” Stiles muses, shifting closer. “Not in yours?”
Derek smirks. “Just checking how well you are at taking orders.”
Stiles’ mouth drops open, but he recovers fast enough, a smirk of his own spreading slowly over his face. “In this case, I don’t have to worry about how well you take orders,” he drawls, tipping his head up a little which makes him look ridiculously smug.
“It’s a win-win, then,” Derek summarizes as he leans in, Stiles mouth only inches away.
Stiles jerks when his pager goes off, scrambling to get a look at it. “Dammit,” he mutters, and takes off without a second glance.
Derek sighs put upon. It’s his luck that the moment he decides he wants to go for it, the universe decides it’s time for a cockblock. He can’t believe he’s thinking this word, but it’s what it is, and Derek really can’t help it. He blames it on the concussion.
Stiles is gone for way longer than Derek anticipated, and he falls asleep before he can stop it from happening.
When Derek blinks awake, he feels disoriented for a moment until he notices Stiles across the hall standing at the counter. He’s wearing a red, long-sleeved shirt under his scrubs now, and his hair looks like he’s been running his hands through it a lot. Derek sits up and rubs the sleep out of his eyes feeling exhausted even though he’s just woken up.
Stiles comes over smiling at him. “Happy New Year,” he says.
Derek blinks up at him, and then looks around until he spots a clock on the opposite wall. It’s half past two on the first of January. He stares, horrified, and can’t believe that he’s slept through midnight. He had plans for midnight. Well, plan, singular, really, but he knew this year he wanted Stiles’ lips on his, for a change, and not a bottle of beer. Or Erica, because she took pity on him, again.
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
Stiles shrugs one-shouldered. “You looked so peaceful,” he explains softly. “I didn’t want to disturb you. Besides, you get grumpy when someone interrupts your beauty sleep.”
Derek huffs, remembers how one time Stiles glued a cut-out moustache on Derek’s face while he was sleeping. Derek had to shave back then because he hadn’t been able to get the glue out of his scruff. Stiles laughed and laughed at him after he’d found out.
“How are you feeling?” Stiles asks and steps closer. He fishes a small flashlight out of his pocket, brings his fingertips to Derek’s chin to tip it up. Derek complies obligingly, patiently waits while Stiles checks his pupil reaction. After, he blinks against the white spots blurring his vision.
“Okay,” Derek answers eventually. “Just--”
He glances at the clock again and decides on a plan. Derek gets up, walks swiftly over and takes the clock off the wall. He’s sure he isn’t supposed to do this, it’s probably very counterproductive for the staff but it’s New Year and he can’t be bothered. Meticulously, he sets the clock back to one minute before midnight before he hangs it up on the wall again.
Stiles is staring at him with open surprise on his face as he walks back over. Derek looks at him, takes him in: the warm, smart eyes; the quick mouth, and the moles dotted across Stiles’ skin like a game of connect the dots. They’re a vast map, Derek’s seen them all scattered across Stiles’ back, and he wants to figure it out the pattern. He’s radiant and strong and everything Derek never knew he needed, or wanted.
They both watch the clock, watch the sweep hand tick closer to twelve.
Stiles’ hands are sliding over Derek’s chest, crumpling up the shirt between his fingers when he buries them in the fabric.
“Any resolutions for the new year?” Stiles asks, ten seconds to twelve. He’s pressed up close, mouth barely an inch from Derek’s.
And Derek barely manages to confess, “Being happy with you,” against Stiles’ lips before it’s midnight again, and they’re kissing: slow and dry. Derek curls a hand around Stiles’ nape, buries the other in his hair; something he’s wanted to do for ages.
The kiss turns hungry, filthy in no time, and Stiles’ flicks his tongue against Derek’s with a dirty little twist that should come with a warning.
Derek’s about to suggest they take it to the on-call room when another nurse clears her throat next to them. Stiles draws back reluctantly to look at her.
“There are two ambulances with three patients ten minutes out,” she informs him, and then she adds, “Firecrackers,” with a knowing eye roll.
Stiles sighs and untangles himself from Derek. “Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year,” Derek says as he steps away and sits down on his bed. Stiles hurries away with the other nurse, but he casts a look over his shoulder grinning. His lips are reddened and he looks rumpled, and Derek can’t wait to see more of that; find out how much more debauched Derek can make him look.
Oh, and what a happy New Year it is, being able to openly ogle the way Stiles’ ass fills out the scrub pants.