Work Text:
“What would be your hypothetical reaction if I were to hypothetically tell you that I hypothetically just saw a dragon? Hypothetically.”
Derek stared.
“Are you trying to tell me you just saw a dragon?”
“I said this was hypothetical.”
He stepped aside to let Stiles into the apartment, noting his red eyes, jittery movements, and overwhelming smell of coffee that clung to his everything.
“When was the last time you slept?”
“Just answer the question.”
“You first.”
“I just finished my last final, I’m fine.” He dropped down on the couch and pulled his laptop out of his backpack like he hadn’t just started Christmas break. “I promise I’ll sleep for three days when I’m not being stalked by a giant fuck-off dragon. With horns—actually, more like antlers. Kind of reindeer-y, but not the cute Santa kind of reindeer-y.” He stabbed at the keyboard, eyes already scanning the screen for information, text reflected back on his glasses. Derek sighed and sat down on the coffee table to face him over the stupid computer.
“Did you drive home like this?”
“Duh.” He didn’t even look up. “Where do you think I saw the dragon, in my bed?”
He wasn’t helping his case.
It was a three hour drive down to Berkeley, and if the series of panicked and frankly confusing texts at four in the morning was anything to go by, Stiles hadn’t actually slept last night. Like he hadn’t slept the night before that, instead reviewing for his junior seminar final on the posthuman body by talking Derek through every single aspect of the concept in exhausting detail until Derek fell asleep with the phone propped up on the pillow. He vaguely remembered something about robots as the sun rose.
“I thought you were waiting to drive with Scott tomorrow.” The ‘after you’ve slept for twelve hours’ was implied. That had actually been the plan; pick up Scott on the way back and not hallucinate out of exhaustion while driving sixty miles per hour on the highway.
“He’s staying an extra couple days to finish off a project, now can we please focus on more important things?” He turned his laptop on his knees to show a Chinese ink painting of a wide eyed black dragon. “Picture this, but with more of an underbite and really bushy eyebrows. Like, Groucho Marx bushy eyebrows. I'm pretty sure they were sentient.”
“You saw this.”
“Yes, out on Alameda. Do you speak Mandarin?”
It wasn't a good sign that the non sequiturs didn't even phase him anymore.
“No, Stiles, I don’t.”
“Damn. I wonder if Lydia is coming back for Christmas.” He felt around his pockets and the couch on instinct, but didn't actually find his phone. Because it was on the coffee table next to Derek. Which he normally would have remembered. “Remind me to ask; this document is all in Mandarin and Google isn't helping.”
“Stiles, please just take a nap or something.”
He waved away the suggestion. “Yeah, in a minute.” That never meant in a minute; that meant 'fat chance, asshole, stop distracting me'.
Derek glared at him, frustrated with his complete lack of self-care. As if to prove his point, Stiles tensed, shivering slightly before continuing with his reading.
“Are you shivering? Are you sick?” He held his hand to Stiles’ forehead because that was what humans did, but he couldn’t tell if there was a fever. Normally he would’ve been able to smell enough aspects of an illness to tell, but finals had left everything Stiles buried under coffee and stress and crowded rooms of strangers.
Stiles ducked his head around until Derek’s hand slipped down to his shoulder instead, clearing his view of the computer screen.
“It’s fine, it’ll go away after I sleep. It says dragons control the weather, has it rained here recently?” He shivered again.
“No. Will you at least get in bed under the blankets?”
“If you’re lying, I’ll know. And it’s fine, worrywolf, my laptop will keep me warm.” He rubbed his hands together and held them out over the keyboard like a campfire, then started typing again.
That god damn laptop. Scratched and dinged and always looking on the verge of falling apart, but holding together under the sheer force of will and Stiles' pleas for it to keep working. Both the backbone of their lives and research, and the cockblock of the century. For someone who liked sex so much, Stiles was near impossible to drag away from the screen once he got going. Like now, for example.
“I’m making you tea and if you’re not in bed and ready to sleep when I get back, I’m throwing that thing out the window.”
“I will literally punch you in the throat if you do.”
Derek pulled in Stiles to press a quick kiss to his temple anyway and headed to the kitchen, frustrated but happy that he was finally back from school for longer than a weekend.
When he returned, both Stiles and his laptop were gone; no doubt to the same place.
Sure enough, when he stuck his head into the bedroom, Stiles was sitting there on the blankets—he wasn't even humoring Derek by lying down, the bastard—with his laptop open in front of him like he hadn't even noticed the location change.
"No." Derek shut the computer before Stiles even had a chance to protest and swiped it away. "This is not sleeping."
Stiles had an eye roll that was both incredibly infuriating and incredibly impressive. Lesser men would have folded under the condescension and disgust held within such a well practiced move, but years of this had left Derek immune.
"Derek, I'm not tired. Therefore, I should be trying to figure this out." Stiles made a few attempts at his laptop, childish grabby hands and all, but Derek held it out of his reach and set the mug of tea on the bedside table.
"No, you're exhausted whether you know it or not. Therefore, go to sleep."
"You don't understand,” he shot him a patronizing look, “I'm pretty sure I've moved beyond the need to sleep—the X-Men can suck it, I'm the next stage in human evolution!" His red eyes had a manic quality that wasn’t convincing anyone.
Derek walked around to his own side of the bed and shoved the laptop underneath, watching Stiles watching him the entire time.
"No."
"Come on! You really think I can sleep when there's a damn dragon in town?"
"I think that if you don't sleep now, while you can, you're going to pass out and get attacked by a damn dragon." Derek was trying to keep the scepticism out of his voice, he really was, but the last time Stiles was at this point of exhaustion he kept seeing the black dust balls from My Neighbor Totoro all over the place.
At least Derek had gotten a clean apartment out of it all. He didn't see that kind of perk this time, and until Stiles slept and got his mind back firing on all cylinders, there would be no dragon hunting for anyone. He informed Stiles of this.
“That better be a euphemism for sexy times.”
“If I say yes will you go to sleep, or are you trying to distract me so you can grab your laptop and run?”
Stiles blinked up at him innocently. “This lack of trust isn’t healthy for our relationship, Derek, it’s tearing us apart.”
“That’s what I thought.” He laid down on his side, standing guard between Stiles and the computer. Stiles just sat there, staring down at him frustratedly with narrowed eyes and shivering occasionally. "Drink your tea."
"Fine.” He picked up the mug. “But only because I'm cold."
"Then get under the covers."
"No. I'm not tired."
“Then stay awake under the covers.”
They had a brief stare off, then Stiles rolled his eyes and gave in. Derek didn’t even try to hide his smug smile as he picked up where he last left off in his book. Stiles sipped his tea vengefully, letting his glasses fog up every time.
Like Derek predicted, it didn’t take long before Stiles started to inch down under the blankets, incrementally moving towards lying down as he finally let himself relax. A few minutes passed and he put his mug down. Then he wormed his way over to using Derek’s shoulder as a pillow, the frames of his glasses digging into his chest.
Finally, after a hour of squirming and rearranging himself and jabbing Derek in the side with his bony elbows, Stiles fell asleep in his original position. Drooling on Derek’s shirt.
Stiles had varying levels of sleep; the light nap in the middle of research or homework, the worried and constantly moving sleep that was never restful, the usual not-quite-constantly moving sleep of the average night, and then this: the three days of stress and intense focus that finally drained his resources and left him dead to the world and unmoving for at least twelve hours.
The first time it happened, Derek had thought he'd hit his head at some point and slipped into a coma until Scott came over and assured him it was normal. Well, normal for Stiles. He would have to remember to text the sheriff later to let him know where his son was and why he wasn’t moving anytime soon.
He carefully pulled off Stiles' glasses and stowed them on the table before returning to his book and the peaceful silence of the afternoon, broken only by soft snoring. Neither of them moved until that evening when it had grown dark and Isaac stopped by.
Derek could hear Isaac’s heartbeat on the stairs, but waited until he knocked on the door to get up and let him in. He’d found out the hard way that his neighbors got suspicious when he always knew who was coming and when before they even got to his apartment, and that led to whispers about secret security cameras, and whether or not Derek was a paranoid recluse. This theory disappointed him the most out of all he’d heard in his life, because it just didn’t make any sense, considering the steady stream of people who were constantly knocking on his door at odd hours.
“Hey...” Isaac had the usual portfolio of papers under his arm that held the working designs and ideas for the new Hale house he was working on with one of his professors, but he was staring down at a shiny black disc in his hand instead.
“Something wrong?”
“Professor Soo had some new ideas for the house, she suggested going more Tudor revival with some half-timbering in the gables, but what the hell is this?” He held up the object. “I found it on the ground next to Stiles’ Jeep.”
Derek took it and frowned. The disc was heavier than it appeared, the strangely dense material chipped along one edge. It curved, with a sharp ridge running down the middle.
Almost like a scale.
No doubt from a Chinese dragon with an embarrassing underbite and Groucho Marx eyebrows.
“Fuck.”