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It’s nearing midnight and he’s still lying alone in the bed he and Derek share, and Stiles isn’t even surprised. He’s been alone in the apartment since he got back from class at two, and Derek hasn’t texted or called or told him anything. Normally, he’d be worried, he’d call Talia and Laura, get the troops out looking. Normally. Except, this is the sixth night in a row that Derek’s been late home, and not just thirty minutes or an hour. Derek was supposed to be home at 6. So, no, he’s not surprised.
What he is is devastated. He’s not stupid; he can understand the signs that come when someone is cheating on him. Stiles knows that he’s not anybody’s wet dream, that he’s loud and obnoxious, that he’s an asshole, and a sarcastic one to boot. But, he never thought that Derek would cheat on him, never thought that Derek would think he was stupid enough to not notice.
Stiles rolls over, watches the glowing red numbers on the clock turn over to midnight, and finds all of the fight draining out of him. He’s done. He sits up so quickly his head spins, swinging out of bed, and crossing the room to their rickety old dresser. Stiles strips the shirt he’s wearing up over his head, realizing belatedly that it’s Derek’s, and that he put it on out of instinct. He all but flings it across the room, puts one of his own on and stuffs his feet down into a pair of sweatpants. He grabs his duffle from under the bed, covered in dust, and throws in his phone charger, his Adderall and the first few pieces of clothing that he can reach from the clean laundry hamper.
He’s out of the building, the keys to his Jeep dangling from one finger, in less than ten minutes. He’s the kind of angry that makes your hands shake and yours eyes water, the kind angry that bubbles up in your throat and tightens it up until you think you’ll never be able to breathe again. His throat clicks painfully when he swallows, and when he blinks tears track their way down his cheeks. He starts the Jeep, a sob breaking free of the iron prison of his throat. He squeals out of the parking lot and into the street, cranking the radio with shaking fingers until he can’t hear himself think.
He doesn’t consciously make the decision to go to his dad’s but he’s pulling in the driveway before he can think about it, killing the engine and letting his head fall forwards against the steering wheel. His phone dings in the passenger’s seat, and he reaches over for it, tears dripping onto the screen as he peers down at it.
Derek:
Where are you?
Stiles curses, flings the phone across the middle console so it clatters noisily against the passenger door. He leaves it there, grabs his duffle and tips out of the Jeep. He lets himself in the front door, and his dad is already standing in the entryway, leaning against the wall.
Stiles stops, and they stare at each other for a moment before Stiles swallows hard, “Have you filled up my bed with another, equally annoying kid yet?”
His dad laughs, reaching forward to pull him in for a hug, “No such thing.”
Stiles spends two hours lying in his childhood room, the same save for the fact that all of his things are gone, before he hears the rumble of the Camaro’s engine. He gets up and snaps the blinds closed on the window, crosses the room to the door. When he opens it, his dad is emerging from his room across the hall.
“Don’t you dare let him in,” Stiles says firmly, “Just don’t, Dad.”
“Give me some credit, kid,” His dad says, disappears down the hallway. Stiles stands in the doorway, listens as his dad opens the door.
“John,” Derek says, having the gall to sound concerned, “Is everything okay? Stiles didn’t answer my texts and-”
“Go home, son,” His dad says, his Sheriff voice in full effect.
“What?” Derek asks, “I need to see Stiles.” He sounds a little pained, and Stiles has heard that voice before. He grits his teeth, presses his hands to his face in an effort to muffle the tears that are threatening to break free.
“You don’t need to do anything but leave,” His dad says, and Stiles has never been more grateful for his father, “I don’t know what you’ve done but you’re not coming one step inside this house.”
“I-” Derek says, then there’s a tangible pause, “Okay.”
The sound of the door closing drifts up, and Stiles steps back into his room, clicks the door shut, and curls into bed. He hears the familiar sound of Derek leaping up onto the roof outside his window, hears the soft rapping on the glass. Stiles doesn’t move, grinds his teeth together and doesn’t even turn towards the sound. After a moment, there’s a soft scrambling, and then nothing. Stiles drifts off not long after, grateful for sleep.
--
Derek drives mindlessly around the block a few times, his breath coming in short snaps that hurt his chest. He doesn’t know what happened to make Stiles so angry as to hide out at his father’s house. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s done.
He drives to the edge of the Preserve, calls Laura with shaking hands.
“Derek, if this isn’t important I am going to rip out your spleen,” She hisses as soon as she picks up, “It’s almost three in the morning.”
“I got home and Stiles was gone,” He says, the words falling clumsily out of his mouth, “He’s at his dad’s and I don’t know what I’ve done, Laura. He won’t even talk to me.”
She doesn’t respond for a few minutes, but Derek can hear her rustling around, “What time did you get home, tonight, Derek?”
“Around midnight,” Derek says, absently, “Why is that relevant?”
“How many nights have you been home that late?” Laura asks, slightly accusatory and it has Derek’s hackles rising.
“Most of the week,” Derek snaps, “If you’re not going to help me-”
“What would you think if Stiles was always home late for reasons he wouldn’t tell you?” Laura asks, exasperated, “God, Derek, I told you this would happen. I told you to be quick, and to be subtle.”
“I can’t rush this Laura,” He says, opens the driver’s door and gets out into the crisp night air, “It has to be perfect.”
“I know, Derek, I know,” She says, softly, “Derek, he probably thinks you’re cheating on him.”
Derek laughs, a harsh bark that echoes back to him from the trees, “Are you serious? I’ve never even looked twice at anyone else. Besides, he knows what being my mate means.”
“Derek,” Laura says, voice thin and strained, “What did he watch me do last month?”
Derek freezes, eyes widening, “Fuck. You left Alice.”
“Exactly. He knows that sometimes mate instincts are wrong, Derek. He probably thinks you’ve gotten tired of him,” Laura says, “You’ve got to tell him, now. Screw perfection, screw surprises. You’re going to lose him.”
Derek doesn’t even say goodbye, just hangs up and climbs back into the Camaro. He knows that, tonight, Stiles won’t listen, won’t answer the door (or the window), so he drives home, as much as it kills him.
When gets there, he sees his own shirt, discarded in the corner of the room and smelling like Stiles. He breathes it in, even though it smells like an angry Stiles, a dejected Stiles. Derek collapses into bed, wearing his Henley and his boxers, with that shirt crumpled in his fist, pressed against his nose.
--
It’s eight a.m. when Stiles wakes up, hears the insistent knocking on the bedroom door. He pushes his head out of his cocoon of blankets, “What?”
“Get dressed and come downstairs,” His dad says through the door, and Stiles immediately knows something is up.
“If Derek is down there, I’m not leaving this room,” Stiles snaps, knowing he sounds like a pouty child.
“Yes, you are,” His dad says, “You’re going to act like an adult and talk to him, Stiles. It’s not what you think.”
Stiles lies there, listening to his dad thump gently down the stairs. After a few moments, he gets up, pulls on a pair of worn, soft jeans and a t-shirt. He walks down the stairs barefoot, wanders into the kitchen to see Derek looking small and empty at the dining room table. He looks like he didn’t sleep well, his hair is all mussed and his eyes are sporting bags underneath them. Stiles knows he doesn’t look any better.
“I’m going to work,” His dad says, claps Stiles on the shoulder as he walks towards the front door, “Talk.”
Derek just looks at him, eyes wide, hand clutching the edges of the table like he’s trying not to put his hands on Stiles.
When the door closes, Stiles clears his throat, “If you’re fucking someone else I’ll understand. I’d just really prefer it if you didn’t insult me by assuming I was too stupid to notice.”
Derek is standing in a second, hovering a few feet from him, “You’ve got it all wrong.”
“Do I?” Stiles asks, “Then enlighten me, Derek, because I’ve been sleeping alone a lot lately. You know how much I hate that.”
Derek makes an animal whine, “Please. Let me show you.”
Stiles throws up his hands in defeat, words escaping him. Derek looks so surprised at his lack of response, that Stiles feels a little victorious for a second. Derek hesitantly leads the way outside, holds the passenger door of the Camaro open for Stiles. Stiles climbs inside, ignoring how Derek tracks his movements like they’re a seven course meal and he’s starving.
Derek drives them out towards the Preserve, turns them down a pretty looking path that he doesn’t remember being there. Sun filters through the trees, sparking off of the Camaro’s fancy paint job and making Stiles squint. The path opens up to a small, quaint lot, with a half built house on it. The frame of the house is there, relatively small but cozy looking.
“I don’t understand,” Stiles says, eyebrows furrowing.
“It’s got four bedrooms,” Derek says softly, “Two bathrooms. The kitchen is going to be the same as the one you liked at IKEA. Scott helped with building the frame, and Lydia and Allison were going to help decorate.”
Stiles turns, looking at him with his mouth hanging open, “You’re building us a house?”
“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Derek says softly, “It was supposed to be a present.”
“A present for what?” Stiles asks, turning back and looking at the half built house, can already see them in it.
“An engagement present,” Derek says, and Stiles looks at him sharply. Then, Derek is pushing a small, soft box into his palm. Stiles looks down at it, flips it open impatiently and sees a plain silver band.
“Oh,” Stiles says softly; it’s more a rush of air than a word.
“Stiles, will you marry me?” Derek says, and his voice shakes.
Stiles nods wordlessly, fumbles getting the ring onto his finger, “I ruined everything.”
“No, you didn’t,” Derek laughs, and then he’s hauling Stiles across the middle console and burying his face against his neck. Stiles winds his arms around Derek’s neck, and the gearshift is digging into his hip and his elbow is about two inches from smacking the horn, but he doesn’t care whatsoever.
Derek is almost purring as he breathes Stiles in, running his hands up and down his arms, his back, and his sides, “I hate sleeping without you, too.”
“Then don’t do it again,” Stiles laughs, “You suck at surprises.”
“You’re an asshole,” Derek grumbles, holds him tighter.
“Yeah, but I’m your asshole,” Stiles reminds him, presses a few kisses to his jaw.
“Yeah,” Derek sighs, “Forever.”
--
The house is cozy and warm and bright. Stiles spends days wrapped up in sunshine by the window, reading, while Derek sits behind him, chest to his back. They fill one whole room with books and their own with a bed so big the room is almost overflowing. Scott and Allison claim one of the guest rooms as their own and one day, in late May when Stiles is 24 and Derek is 31; they fill the last room with a crib for a little girl.