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The thing that no one seems to realize is that Stiles has a serious edge on all the other people in the program. He grew up with a cop for a dad. He's used to being up at all hours, bringing him dinner at three in the morning and keeping him company in the station overnight over the summer. In addition to that, Stiles could probably survive only on coffee and vending machine snacks. While everyone else has been moaning about their lack of energy, or how they're breaking out from all the MSG in their corn chips, for Stiles it's business as usual.
Then there's Melissa, who's a serious asset to both Stiles and Scott. She's been the head charge nurse for the ER for years now. All those years cleaning out her gutters and mowing the lawn with Scott have paid off in the form of their names always being at the top of the paging list for any incoming surgical trauma.
"That's favoritism." Jackson agues, standing in front of the nurses' station as Stiles and Scott strip off their gloves from the last vehicular trauma they had to assess,
Melissa cocks an eyebrow at him, turning to Parrish at her left. Parrish shakes his head, "You're on thin ice, Whittemore."
Jackson clearly doesn't understand a warning when he hears one because he presses forward, unheeded by their attending physician. Parrish rolls his eyes and steps away from the nurses' station. He drops a hand on to Stiles' and Scott's shoulders on his way down the hall to the staff lounge where he'll pass out on a couch until the next call comes in. "You're starting to get it, boys. At least this time you didn't stab each other with the IV needles."
To give them credit, that mix up with the stabbing had happened on their first day when he and Scott had been so jittery with nerves that they had both grabbed IV kits and promptly run full force into each other. It hadn't been pretty.
"I don't care." Jackson growls, sending a sidelong glance at Stiles especially. "You're interfering with my education."
"Am I?" Melissa counters. And Stiles has seen that look before, but it usually only happened in high school when she caught Stiles sneaking in through the bathroom window in the middle of the night for some Halo action with Scott. "You know what, I've got a few patients for you Dr. Whittemore."
Jackson smirks, holding out his hands their charts. Melissa pins him with a sunny look, passing the binders to the young man.
"10 to 1 it's rectal." Scott mutters.
Stiles shakes his head. "This late at night?" Jackson sets off towards a curtained off area where they brought in a patient while Stiles and Scott were working on their head trauma from before.
Jackson pulls open the curtain, heading inside only to jump back a few seconds later with vomit down the front of his scrubs. "Projectile vomit! Are you kidding me?"
"Would I joke about projectile vomit? Miss. Travis needs IV fluids." Melissa barks at him. Jackson makes a particularly put-upon face and stomps off towards the supply closet, muttering about nurses and brown-nosers.
"Outbreak of food poisoning from Dairy Queen." Melissa tells Scott and Stiles, frowning. "Prepare to throw out your shoes. Go get some sleep."
Scott and Stiles wave, passing through the doors out of the ER. Stiles pulls the door to the resident lounge closed. Parrish is passed out on the floor because the couch is currently occupied by Morrell, also asleep.
"So what is your badass, genius girlfriend up to?" Stiles asks, yawning into his hand.
Scott smiles in a way that lights up in his eyes, "She's with your boyfriend, holding the retractor while he saves the life of a 9 year-old, generally being a goddess and flawless."
"Derek is not my boyfriend!" Stiles argues, his voice rising in the empty hallway. A janitor pops his head out of an empty patient room and glares at them. "He's a boy-shaped person who backs me into the walls of on-call rooms and stairwells. I don't even know what his middle name is."
"For a dude who is not your boyfriend, you sure spend a lot of time together." Scott says, shaking his head.
"Typically without our pants on. Or in increasingly creative ways with our pants on." Stiles grumbles. "So what? Not all of us have incredibly gifted ladies who ignore the fact that we're emotionally stunted and have no social lives. I'm about to sleep in a bed that smells like iodine and Doritos. I'll take what I can get, especially from Dr. Eyebrows, formally known as Dr. McCreepin, also known as the Savior of the Tiny Humans."
"You're starting to sound delusional." Scott says, opening the door to an on-call room and pushing him inside. "Get some rest before you start diagnosing people with midi-chlorians."
"Dude." Stiles says, "I'm so happy you finally watched Star Wars with me."
Scott shakes his head and shuts the door on Stiles, leaving him in a pitch black room. He pulls off his jacket and lays his pager on the floor next to one of the bunk beds. Stiles drops onto one of the bottom bunks, no longer wary of the scratchy hospital blanket and the weird fabric covering the lumpy pillow. He's starting to get that jittery feeling of coming down off the natural high of running a trauma with Parrish. The dude is seriously hardcore. Nothing phases him, not Axe in the Chest Guy, Exposed Tibia Girl, or Woman Giving Labor in the Backseat of a Limo.
Stiles shivers against the air conditioned room. He forgot his thermal shirt at home this morning when he showed up at work and all of the shirts in his locker either have blood or food on them. So he only has his scrub top on. It's a little too chilly now. There was nothing clean enough to pass off as freshly washed. Lydia would have kicked him off of service for the day to catch up on charts. He pulls the blanket over his shoulder, huddling in toward the wall.
He can't tell how much later, but the door opens and instead of another tired intern climbing up onto the top bunk, the lock clicks on the door and a warm weight settles onto the edge of his bed.
"Savior of the Tiny Humans." Stiles grumbles in a sleepy voice. Derek chuckles back. Stiles hears the rustling of a jacket joining his on the end of the bed. "How fares the patient?"
Derek snorts. Something that Stiles never thought he would hear from someone who looks so miserable all the time. Derek's resting bitch-face is seriously out of control. "It's a little soon to say, but I'm optimistic."
"Mmm." Stiles returns, feeling a little woozy from lack of sleep and too much sugar. Derek settles into the tiny bunk behind him, wrapping an arm around his waist, hooking two fingers into the vee of his scrubs as he's want to do. They fit somehow, pressed together from knees to shoulders. It should feel way too claustrophobic, instead it's kind of calming and warm.
"You're cold." Derek mumbles.
"Mmm." Stiles answers, tucking his cold chin against Derek's hand. He must seriously be tired, because by now he usually has his shirt off. "Out of laundry. Just give me a minute."
It's nice the way that Stiles can feel Derek's chest rumble with his reply against his back. "I'm exhausted." Derek sighs. His arm around Stiles tightens. Stiles doesn't dwell on the fact that he hasn't fallen asleep fully clothed in the same bed with anyone besides Scott in his whole life. "I live across the street."
Stiles' reply comes out garbled between his face being smushed against the pillow and sleep taking over once again. "Good for you."
Derek rolls his eyes. Stiles can't see him do it, but it's usually what happens whenever Stiles answers Derek in any way. He rolls his eyes and usually there's sighing. "I just meant- ugh- you could run across the street and change, or shower, or whatever. I just--"
Stiles blindly throws out an arm behind him and clumsily covers Derek's mouth with the palm of his hand. "No talk now. Sleep now. Tell Stiles about your shower later."
"Okay." Derek grumbles, settling down behind the younger doctor. "Are you sure you don't want to just make out a little bit?" he asks in an amused tone.
"Shut up, you beautiful genius!" Stiles growls, reaching back again to poke Derek right under the ribs. "I'm about a minute away from going against the Hippocratic Oath so that I can strangle you."
Stiles feels Derek's nose pressing between his shoulder blades as the older man laughs into his back. They both settle down, Stiles still jolting a bit every now and then as his muscles try to relax. He's never been a peaceful sleeper, prone to thrashing and kicking. But Derek hasn't complained yet. The dude is built, he probably doesn't even feel it if Stiles kicks him in the shins.
He sends a little prayer up to Melissa that she'll page Jackson for any incoming trauma. He deserves some serious sleep at this point.
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Stiles is so soundly asleep that when the door opens and Jackson bodily throws himself onto the bunk bed across the room, Stiles bolts awake in a split second.
"That woman had me tending to every single vomiting patient in the ER tonight!" Jackson growls. "They're out of blue scrubs in my size! Look at me!"
Stiles squints in the darkness. And yes, that would be Jackson Whitmore dressed in the pink scrubs that the Obstetrics department all wear.
"There's nothing wrong with a dude who can show his feminine side." Stiles grumbles, his voice scratchy from sleep. Jackson just grumbles some swear words.
"And rounds start in an hour. Great." Jackson sighs, rolling over and facing the wall.
Stiles sits up in his bunk, feeling the spot behind him where Derek had fallen asleep. There's no warmth there anymore. He left a while ago. Stiles shrugs to himself. Derek probably realized that absolutely nothing was going to happen between them last night and went home to sleep in an actual bed.
He moves to sit on the edge of the bed, reaching for his beeper on the floor, instead his hand knocks into something metal and it falls to the ground. Stiles reaches for his phone and turns on the flashlight function. The thing he knocked over appears to be one of those super expensive metal coffee mugs that locks in all the heat for hours at a time. Derek probably forgot it last night when he left.
Stiles reaches down and picks it up, surprised that it's heavy and warm to the touch. It's almost like someone filled it with fresh coffee and left it for him. And next to his pager there's a folded shirt on the floor and a granola bar. Jesus. Either he's been visited by hospital fairies or Derek went home, made him coffee, picked out a shirt of his own for him to wear, and then came back to leave it all for him.
"Shut that fucking thing off!" Jackson yells. "I'm in no mood right now!"
"You smell like soft serve and vomit Jackson, what do you think Lydia is going to do with you if you don't shower before rounds?" Stiles asks in a bored tone.
"Fuck!" Jackson yells, slapping the wall with an open hand. He bolts out of bed and leaves the door wide open on his way out into the hall. Stiles hears his sneakers squeaking against the floor as he runs for the intern's locker room.
Stiles adds that to the mental tally of all the times he's gotten one up on Jackson.
He smiles to himself, scooping up the shirt, granola bar, and the coffee. As predicted, Jackson's muttering to himself in the shower connected to their locker room when Stiles gets in moments later. He strips off his scrub top and pulls on the shirt Derek's left for him. It's a grey henley like Derek usually wears, ultra soft from how many times it's been washed. The shirt's too big for Stiles all over. Stiles may have filled out since high school, but he still doesn't have the bulk that Derek has.
When he's found himself a new scrub top (hidden away in his locker for times like these when laundry is running a bit late with their order) and brushed his teeth, Stiles goes looking for Derek. This early no sane person is actively awake, but Stiles heard from one of the nurses that Derek likes to let himself into the PT center to run on the treadmill before rounds.
Because he's a psycho.
That's where Stiles finds him, looking fresh as a daisy and jogging while he watches reruns of M.A.S.H. on the TV mounted to the wall.
"You're awake." Derek says, totally able to run and speak at the same time like his insides aren't on fire.
"You brought me a shirt." Stiles answers.
Derek shakes his head. "You have a habit of stating the obvious at me. I feel like I should tell the chief that your observational skills could use some work."
"And you brought me coffee." Stiles says, holding up the fancy travel mug.
"So what?" Derek says, shrugging. "Call me crazy but I don't want you passing out when your assisting in surgery. I know that makes me a party pooper."
"Jesus." Stiles mutters under his breath. "You're like an enigma."
"I'm really not." Derek says, stopping the treadmill. "I brought you a shirt because you were cold. I brought you coffee because I made some for myself."
"You told me about your apartment last night." Stiles cuts in. "That's strange and alarming."
"Is it?" Derek answers, skirting past Stiles on his way to his gym bag on the floor.
"Yeah." Stiles yells, "You're strange and alarming!"
"Am I?" Derek asks, digging through his things. "Think fast."
Then something silver flies through the air in an arch towards his face. Stiles catches it on instinct. He's a surgeon. Quick hands are a big part of the deal. "This is a key." Stiles says dumbly.
"So you can make yourself coffee and get your own shirts if you need them." Derek says, laughing at the way that Stiles is staring dumbly at the palm of his hand like he just grew an extra ear there.
"You keyed me." Stiles replies. "I've been keyed."
"I think you need an MRI. You keep repeating things that are obvious." Derek says, slinging his bag over his shoulder. Derek standing there in his stupid Harvard Med 'Swinging Surgeons' baseball shirt and basketball shorts at 6 a.m., it's enough to convince Stiles that his life is the product of a kid staring into a snow globe like in Saint Elsewhere.
"I'm about to agree with you." Stiles says, his fist closing around the key in his hand. "You keyed me." Derek opens his mouth to reply, but Stiles cuts him off. "Shut up. I need to process this. We're not boyfriends."
"I know that, Stiles." Derek replies, "I've got to get ready for rounds. Cream and sugar's in the coffee. Is that right?"
Stiles nods dumbly.
Derek leaves and Stiles walks, nearly in a fog, until he meets Allison and Scott at the coffee cart where they usually congregate for caffeine.
Allison points at the mug in Stiles' hand. "Where did you get the coffee?"
"He's not my boyfriend!" Stiles exclaims at the top of his lungs.
Allison locks eyes with Scott, smiling. "That sounds like something someone with a boyfriend would say." She reaches out and tugs on the neckline of his henley. "Nice shirt."
Stiles slaps her hand away, stomping his foot like he hasn't been through 20 years of school so far in his life. "Not my boyfriend!"
Allison puts her hand on his forehead, checking for a fever, unheeded by Stiles trying to bat her hands away. "No fever."
"No," Scott laughs into his coffee. "But he's certainly hot for someone."
"Stilinski's hot for someone?" Isaac asks, appearing out of nowhere with his giant eyes and hair that looks perfect. He makes even Allison look awful in comparison. Stiles has never even seen him sleep. He probably just powers down standing up in a closet like an android.
"No!" Stiles splutters, taking a sip of his coffee just for something to do with his mouth. Dammit. The coffee is perfect.
"Is it Derek?" Isaac asks, pointing at the mug in Stiles' hands. Stiles shakes his head, still drinking down the glorious coffee. "Then why is his name on that travel mug?"
Stiles nearly chokes, coughing into his arm. Scott takes the mug from him with one hand and pats Stiles on the back with the other. "You okay, buddy?"
Stiles wheezes something unintelligible at the ground while his whole body feels like it's burning from the inside out. Scott hands him back the mug. Stiles looks pointedly away from it. "Let's move on, shall we. Isaac, how is the kid with a Lego person in his stomach?"
Isaac blinks at Stiles for a few seconds like he didn't just act like a total freak of nature in front of all of them. "He's fine. It was an Aqua-Man."
They all ohh and ahh appropriately, filling each other in on what's been going on since yesterday's rounds. As usual, Lydia's waiting for them in her bright red clogs and her hair up in braids across her head like she's a milk maid and not a scary doctor.
"I don't know who was charting last night, but you are a disgrace to me and to your fellow interns." Lydia says, flipping through the charts in her hands. Jackson arrives a moment later, his hair still wet. "It was you, wasn't it Jackson?"
"Me what?" Jackson shoots back. Lydia raises an eyebrow.
"Your charting. All of it is unintelligible. It's sloppy. You're sloppy. Why are you dressed like an OBGYN?" Lydia rants, finally realizing that Jackson's dressed in pink scrubs.
"Laundry's late!" Jackson yells back. "I was up all night cleaning vomit and pushing fluids on people with food poisoning."
"So you can take it easy today." Lydia says, smiling. And that usually means something bad is about to follow. "By redoing your charts for me before you leave, while the rest of your fellow interns save lives and interact with actual patients."
Jackson turns a really unfortunate shade of red at that, picking up the charts and storming off towards a free area of the hospital.
They all take off behind Lydia as they begin their rounds. Scott nudges Stiles on their way up the stairs.
"It's Harrison by the way." Scott informs him.
"What?" Stiles asks around a mouthful of granola bar.
"Derek's middle name." Scott answers cheerfully, running up the stairs to be with Allison.
Stiles stops in his tracks, staring down at the travel mug in his hands. Clearly engraved across the middle is the name "Derek Harrison Hale".
Of course.