Work Text:
It starts as an afterthought, really, with Derek lingering in Stiles’ bedroom after stopping by to check on research on the latest supernatural threat. He traces the spine of a worn copy of The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe on Stiles’ cluttered bookshelf, lost in a hazy memory of drinking chocolate with Cora, huddled under blankets while Laura read to them. He never found out how the story ended, with Laura heading off to college and then Cora insisting she was too old for stories.
"Oh, hey, Narnia. One of my old faves. Yours?" Stiles looks up from his research, a smile dancing on his lips.
"Never read it," Derek grunts. He starts to make for the window to leave, but he’s suddenly blocked by Stiles pressing the book into his hands.
"No way, that is a tragedy, okay? You can borrow mine," Stiles insists, smiling brightly.
Derek takes the books and leaves, not sure what to make of the gesture of kindness. Books were precious, weren’t they? Favorite stories shared between people, like pieces of the soul. Surely this book is treasured, with the faded inscription Property of Claudia, Age 12 scribbled into the cover. Derek is a little awed at being trusted with this piece of Stiles, and handles the book gingerly. He soon disappears into a world of fauns, witches, and magic and the adventures of Peter, Susan, Lucy, and Edmund and before he knows it he’s returned to Stiles to borrow the rest of the series.
In the weeks that follow, it has become a regular thing, every few days Derek returning a novel and Stiles pressing his favorites onto Derek, in between hunts and pack territory disputes and other supernatural drama. Spending time with Stiles has suddenly become what Derek looks forward to all the time, a startling normal thing that he actually likes. They’ve never really interacted much outside of the life-threatening werewolf related activities, and its probably why Derek enjoys it so much, because it’s so normal, just guys talking mundanely about books.
Derek likes the books, he really does, but his favorite thing is the idle nights spent in Stiles room, sprawled out on the floor, talking and discussing the books, Stiles’ face lighting up and body flailing as he acts out the characters.
Derek doesn’t really know how to let Stiles know how much he has come to appreciate his relentless work ethic, what it means to the pack, and how Stiles is willing to risk his life for those he cares. He doesn’t want to jeopardize the friendship that had grown around books to talking about Stiles’ concern about his dad, Derek reluctantly opening up about his family, sharing a pizza, Derek idly helping Stiles with his calculus homework, laughing over videogames. Derek can’t quite put into words what Stiles means to Derek, when Stiles was the one who reached out and treated him like a human being.
It’s been a few months, and Derek abruptly realizes when he returns Stiles’ copy ofGood Omens that he’s read through Stiles’ entire bookshelf. There will be no more books to borrow, no more excuses to return here and hang out with Stiles.
Derek settles into his usual spot on the floor, as they start their usual post-book discussion, Stiles all arms and legs and enthusiasm for the book. Derek tries to memorize the warmth of his eyes, the slope of his neck and the fluidity of his movements as Stiles acts out his favorite quotes by the angel Aziraphale.
It’s late at night, the time when Derek usually leaves through the window, a new novel in his hand. A heavy sinking feeling sets in Derek stomach as he gets up to leave.
"Thanks," Derek says simply. "This was nice." He doesn’t know what to say. Laura was always the eloquent one.
Stiles gets up and reaches for something in his bag. “Here.”
Derek looks at the carefully wrapped book in his hand.
Stiles looks up at him, nervous. “You don’t have to return this, okay— its for you.”
Derek nods, an emotion he can’t quite describe building in his throat. He leaves before Stiles can see the expression on his face.
Later that night Derek unwraps the book. It’s a brand-new copy of Pablo Neruda’s100 Love Sonnets. Stiles’ untidy scrawl on the front page reads, “For Derek” and then “Love, Stiles.”
It’s bookmarked to this page:
“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.”
Derek’s heart is pounding as he races into the night.
He raps gently on Stiles’ window pane, and barely waits for Stiles to open it when he hurls into the room, tackling Stiles to the ground in a tight embrace.
Derek nuzzles his face into Stiles’ neck, breathing in his scent, and whispers, “I love you too.”