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Stiles hadn’t meant to crash on Derek’s couch. It’s just that it had been a long day – no, a long week – and when he’d sat down, he’d somehow just slumped over and fell asleep. No one could reasonably fault him for it. First it was finals week, junior year of college, which knocked him on his ass. Then there’d been the trolls. Why trolls? They were big and hard to take down.
So much for relaxing and partying after finishing his tests.
Yeah, instead of being out at Jungle or wherever with his friends, here he was, down for the count on Derek’s couch. Stiles knew that’s where he was as soon as he started surfacing from the best sleep he’d had in a long time. He hadn’t slept nearly enough since before Finals, and the trolls were just the icing on the cake. Derek’s couch was nice, though. Buttery soft leather, and just the right amount of stuffing to cradle his body perfectly. Though, come to think of it, he was pretty sure he hadn’t actually stretched out before he fell asleep, and certainly he hadn’t bothered with a pillow, let alone a proper bed pillow with a proper, freshly-laundered pillowcase. He wiggled his toes, which were not crammed into his Converse. There was also a blanket draped over him, and… yep. The button on his jeans had been undone, though he was still wearing the jeans.
He smacked his lips and shifted slightly, still not quite ready to open his eyes and move. He was just so comfortable here. He felt warm and safe and happy. Sure his muscles were still a bit sore after all the running and fighting yesterday, but it was a good ache.
“I know you’re awake,” Derek’s voice drifted over from the general direction of the kitchen, soft and… if Stiles didn’t know better, he’d think there was a hint of fondness in his tone. The usual growling was gone, at least. Maybe there was fondness. Fondness would be nice. It was a start, anyhow.
“Nope. Not awake,” he disagreed. Deny something enough and eventually it becomes true, right? Right. He could pretend for a while, anyhow. Denial and pretense were old, familiar friends.
He heard Derek’s footsteps cross the distance between them, stopping nearby. He tapped Stiles lightly on the shoulder.
The rich aroma of hazelnut coffee hit Stiles, and he made a whimpering noise. His eyes popped open.
Derek was sitting on the coffee table, holding a large mug of coffee in his direction, waving it back and forth, fanning the steam towards Stiles.
“Gimme,” he said, sitting up and reaching for the mug. He took a sip, letting the flavor sit on his tongue for a moment. It was just perfect – the right amount of syrup, the right amount of sugar, real cream rather than creamer. Even the right intensity of coffee. He moaned in pleasure, his eyes closing again the better to savor the sheer perfection.
“Oh my God, see, this is why I love you,” he said.
When his brain caught up with his mouth, he froze. Shit, did he really just say that? A spike of panic speared him, tensing all of his muscles, heartbeat going into overdrive. Shit, shit, shit. For a wild moment he considered playing it off as just a flippant comment, but that wasn’t going to work with a werewolf who could smell his sudden panic. “Shit, fuck, shit.” He shoved the coffee mug back at Derek as he scrambled to his feet, tangling briefly in the blanket before he fought his way free. “Didn’t mean to say that, ohmygod, shit.”
He dared a quick glance at Derek. What he saw made his heart sink to his toes, and tears sting the back of his eyes. His face was carefully blank, the sort of face he made when he didn’t want to reveal anything.
“Yeah, I’ll just – “ He vaguely gestured towards the door, scooped his keys up from the bowl on the table, and stumbled his way out. He didn’t know where he was going to go next. It didn’t matter. He just needed to get out. Away.
He couldn’t listen to Derek be kind or understanding in the face of his humiliation. He couldn’t take an actual rejection, not right now. He just… couldn’t.
He was almost at the Jeep when Derek called after him, “Stiles – no, come back!”
Stiles looked back involuntarily. Derek was running after him, bare feet, sweatpants, and all. He caught up far too quickly. Damned werewolf speed. He pushed his hand against Roscoe’s door, preventing Stiles from opening it.
He looked… well. He looked as terrified as Stiles felt, which was an improvement over the blank slate of earlier. Derek took a shallow breath, then nodded his head once, sharply. “Come back,” he repeated, more softly. “I made breakfast, not just the coffee.” The tips of his ears were pink. “Just, don’t go.” He bit his lower lip, then darted in to kiss Stiles on the mouth, quick, tentative.
Oh.
Oh.
“…Okay.”