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Stiles is done. Seriously. Done. This is the third time this month he’s gotten a perfectly good hoodie ruined by monster innards, the fourth time his Jeep has taken the brunt of the battle to the point of lying on its side in a ditch, and the ninety gazillionth time Derek Hale has given him that same pleading look when the latest life or death situation was all said and done.
Derek looks fucking beseeching. He looks like Stiles needs to borrow words from out of Jane Eyre to adequately describe. Stiles is done.
“Oh my god just spit it out already!” he erupts, effectively stopping everyone in their tracks and startling Derek’s expression into something half bewildered and half scowly. “Whatever it is that you have to say to me, dude, just freaking say it. And stop looking at me every time we almost get ourselves killed like I’m about to leave you all in a box on the side of the road. I haven’t ditched you guys yet, have I?”
“Stiles,” Scott says slowly, hair still dripping monster goo into his eyes, “what are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Derek’s stupid face and the stupid things it keeps doing at me!”
Derek huffs. “You realize I’m standing right here.”
“Stiles, exactly how hard did you hit your head when the Jeep rolled?” Scott moves to Stiles and starts checking his eyes for signs of a concussion, flashing his alpha red glow at them like a penlight. They’ve been walking down the side of the two-lane highway by the preserve for the last twenty minutes, and this far out at three in the morning there’s little chance of being seen. Lydia should hopefully be showing up any minute now to give them a ride home.
While Scott’s concern is appreciated, Stiles is not in the mood and bats his hands away. “Are you guys seriously not seeing this?” Stiles looks to Kira for support, who’s the only one of them currently not covered in questionable supernatural fluids and is carrying her huge ass sword at her side like it’s a normal thing to do. Apparently in Beacon Hills it is, because no one’s ever questioned her about it. They question Stiles about his freaking baseball bat all the damn time, but a blood-soaked katana? Nah.
Kira shrugs a shoulder apologetically. Stiles feels like he’s losing his mind.
“I am not making this up,” he insists, and points an accusing finger at Derek’s chest. “You have been five seconds away from White Fang-ing me every time we end up on the other side of ‘almost dead.’ It’s freaking me out.”
Derek gives him a flat look. “Dog jokes. Really.”
“For once, no. I am completely out of jokes, Derek, even canine-related ones. All I have left is the desperate urge for a very long shower and for you to fucking explain yourself, man. If you let me stew on this in silence anymore than I already have I’m gonna start coming up with insane conspiracy theories à la Santa Claus being real or you being secretly in love with me.”
The way everyone around him suddenly freezes at that makes Stiles’ head spin.
Which is right when the taxicab pulls up. Jesus Christ, of course Lydia just called a cab. Of fucking course. She’s been loudly complaining all week about the suspicious stains they left in her back seat the last time she let them near her car. Stiles is already composing a very strongly worded text message in his head about how at least her car isn’t in a ditch.
The cab honks twice at them to signal he’s ready to go, and Stiles really wants to know what Lydia told the guy to get him to look for the four kids covered in gunk walking along the side of the highway near the preserve at ass o’clock in the morning. But more than that he really wants to know why suddenly everybody but Derek is now staring at him.
“What, do I have something on my face?” Stiles forces the joke, and makes a show of ineffectually swiping at the goo on his chin.
Meanwhile Scott’s glancing surreptitiously at Derek like he’s afraid the guy’s about to have a breakdown.
Stiles blinks and tries not to choke on his own tongue. “No. Fucking. Way,” he enunciates so clearly he might as well have speech bubbles above his head. “Are you people all on drugs? No. Just... no. Derek, you’re not in love with me, oh my God.”
For a long time no one even breathes.
Stiles flails his arms. “Seriously, guys, cut it out. This is the opposite of funny.”
“Maybe we should talk about this in the morning?” Scott offers, gesturing at the waiting cab.
“No, we are not talking about this in the morning, Scott. That is not the plan. That plan sucks. I vote for the plan where someone actually gives me a direct answer.”
“You should be dead,” Derek practically growls through gritted teeth. “Is that direct enough for you?”
“Oh, yeah, well that-- that sums things up nicely. Thank you for that, Derek. I’ll just go fuck off then and--“
“You should be dead a hundred times over, Stiles," Derek interrupts, "and every time you’re not, I just... I feel that much closer to the time when you will be.”
Stiles swallows hard. “I know that you care about me. I get that. I mean, we’ve established that we both-- Look, obviously I’d sell a kidney and kill a man to help you out of a tough spot, and I know you’d do the same for me. There is a mutual caring for each other’s safety that is our jam, and if that’s all this is, cool, but--“
Derek suddenly lifts his head up, jaw set, chin jutting out, determined as he meets Stiles' eyes. “That’s not all it is. I... I care about you beyond reason.”
Stiles gapes. “Uh. What.”
“I don’t expect anything in return.”
“You what.”
“And I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. I can back off more if you--“
“No. What? No. I-- What. Stop talking, you’re giving me a migraine. Scott, you knew about this?”
Scott shuffles his feet. The cab honks at them again. “I really think we should all maybe sleep on this,” he says diplomatically. “And also shower.”
“No, fuck that, this team needs a new plan. And phase one of that plan should be me and Derek getting into the back of that cab and hardcore making out for the next fifteen minutes.”
Derek looks so startled by this that he stumbles back half a step.
Scott slaps a hand over his eyes and groans.
“If that’s really the new plan then I’m walking home,” Kira chimes in cheerfully.
The rest is surprisingly easy. Kira drags Scott away to walk with her back into town. Stiles gets into the cab without looking back, just hoping Derek will follow. It takes a heart-stoppingly long moment before he does. But then Derek slips in next to him and stares at him like he’s worried he’s imagining this.
Stiles is a little worried, too. This was not how he saw this night going when he got Scott’s call about the monster of the week while he was playing video games in his underwear.
It occurs to Stiles after several silent minutes that they’re basically just staring at each other like two idiots while the cab driver pointedly ignores them, but he can’t look away. And then Derek places a hand in Stiles’ hair, thumb petting back and forth along the hairline by his temple, and Stiles leans into it. He’s not a virgin and he’s not in the habit of putting on a show, but the first hint of Derek on his lips has him starry-eyed and gasping. He feels like someone else’s cliché and he can’t seem to help himself.
It’s just a soft, chaste thing. But it’s warm and giving and Stiles chases after it with a whimper as Derek gently pulls back. “We’re not making out,” Derek tells him plainly.
“Asshole. Why not?”
“You’re sticky and you smell disgusting.”
Stiles grabs one of the few semi-clean parts of Derek’s shirt and pulls it up to wipe off as much gunk as he can from his left cheek. “There, just smell that part of me.”
Derek huffs a laughs, rolls his eyes, but then presses his nose into Stiles’ cheek anyway, snuffling into the skin and then tilting his head sideways until their lips meet and they can resume with the kissing. It’s still sticky, sure, and where Stiles’ clothes have started to dry it's gotten kind of hard to move with how stiff they’ve become, but Stiles does not even remotely care right now.
Derek slips his tongue into Stiles’ mouth and that is it, game over, Stiles has never been this turned on by a kiss before. His lizard brain thinks it’s a great idea to just rut against each other right here and now, but Derek tugs on Stiles’ bottom lip with his teeth and then whispers into their mingled breaths, “If you can keep it in your pants until we find a shower, I promise you won’t regret it.”
“Pinky promise?” Stiles asks cheekily.
Derek flicks congealed monster goo at Stiles' forehead, and then goes back to nuzzling the semi-clean space of Stiles’ cheek.
“I can’t believe this is actually happening,” Stiles sighs, sinking back into the seat and watching the dark woods pass by around them.
Derek reaches across Stiles’ lap to grab his hand and carefully lace their fingers together, resting them on Stiles’ knee. “It’s okay though, right? I wasn’t sure if you—“
“Jesus, are you kidding? I’ve been in love with you since I had to leave you to die down in Mexico. Which, by the way,” Stiles punches Derek’s shoulder with his other hand, “do that to me again and there will be fucking hell to pay.”
Derek just hums in acknowledgement. Brings their linked hands up to his mouth to kiss each of Stiles’ knuckles in turn. “Don’t die on me either, then, yeah? Please.”
Stiles swallows thickly. “Well since you asked so nicely.” Everything feels suddenly so huge and life-altering, and he doesn’t feel prepared in the slightest.
But then Derek kisses his wrist and sets their hands back down. He runs his thumb across Stiles’ hairline again, so reminiscent of how Stiles’ mother used to sooth him whenever he was sick. And Stiles knows he’ll probably never be prepared, but winging it is his fucking forte.
“Phase two of the plan,” Stiles says quietly, as the cab makes a left and the surroundings start changing from woods to buildings, “is we shower at your place and then stay in bed for the next three days.”
Derek smiles into Stiles’ cheek and huffs a soft laugh. “You have school.”
“I have college acceptance letters already pouring in, is what I have. High school can bite me. I have more important things to attend to.”
Derek starts to protest, “This isn’t more important than--”
“But it is important,” Stiles interrupts. “You are important. And I’m really fucking glad that you think I am too.”
Derek doesn’t respond in words, just tilts his head to give Stiles another brief kiss, and then settles in for the rest of the drive.
Stiles smiles and grips Derek’s hand tighter. Something settles in his gut that he didn’t even know was there. He’s still done, sure, done with all of this mess, but also so completely thrilled to get started on what comes next.