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“Can I give you some advice?” Jackson says, and Derek knows regardless of his answer, Jackson’s going to offer his wise words.
He sighs but doesn’t say no.
“Leaving out your weird taste in crushes,” Jackson continues, stretching out on Derek’s couch and propping his feet on the arm. Derek growls and Jackson at least has the sense to move his feet back onto the floor. “Instead of mooning over Stiles, you might try just telling him. The dude’s not exactly a stud and you’re a badass alpha that anyone would trip over themselves to get with. He’s not gonna get a better offer. And he totally wants to roll on his back and give you his throat.”
There is a very distinct possibility that in the last year, Derek has lost complete control of his life.
“Don’t you have to head home?” Derek asks, crossing his arms. “If you’re going to treat my place like a hotel, I’m going to charge you rent.”
“Fine.” Jackson stands up, still with that knowing smirk plastered on his face. “But it’s true.”
Derek doesn’t say anything. Jackson leaves without another word.
-----
“If you’re going to crawl through my window in the middle of the night when there aren’t lives at stake--” Stiles says, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with one hand and holding his sheet up to his chest with the other. He’s completely awake in an instant, his eyes widening. “There aren’t lives at stake, are there? Is Scott okay?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Derek says, standing at the side of Stiles’s bed. He shifts from foot to foot and cannot believe he’s, dear god, nervous.
“Whew,” Stiles says, and if anyone was going to actually say whew, of course it would be Stiles. “If you’re going to keep making a habit of this, then, can you at least text me ahead of time so that I can make sure I’m not--”
Stiles’s hands fly around and Derek has a few too many incredibly vivid mental pictures of what Stiles is implying.
“Hello? Derek?”
Derek blinks. “You want me to text before climbing into your room. Fine.”
“Thank you.” Stiles lets the sheet fall--he’s got on a t-shirt and so Derek’s not even sure why he tried to cover up in the first place. “Um, so, why are you here?”
Jackson’s words are echoing in Derek’s head and if that jackass was just messing with him, Derek is going to give him a crash course in recovering from traumatic injuries.
“Seriously. Derek.” Stiles throws one of the pillows from his bed and it smacks Derek in the face. “Are you poisoned again? Did you get hit on the head and forget who you are? Someone mind-controlling you? You’re staring at me and it’s starting to really freak me out.”
Seriously, his life.
“I--” Derek has no idea how to continue that sentence. ‘I was wondering if you liked me?’ just sounds … no. But before he stops again and probably freaks Stiles out a third time, he makes up his mind.
Derek sits on the side of the bed, never taking his eyes off of Stiles’s face, watching for any sign that this is a spectacularly bad idea. As he leans forward, he can see Stiles’s eyes widen, his pupils widening further in the dim light, his mouth falling open to an “oh” as the reality of the situation sinks in, a thin sheen of sweat beads Stiles’s upper lip.
“What? Are you? Is this a dream, no, of course it’s not because if it was you would be -- you’re usually not wearing that shirt in my dreams and you usually go a lot faster and ohmygod you’re really...” Stiles says all in one breath, his eyes still wide and his hands fisting the sheet at his lap.
Derek’s lips are barely brushing Stiles's, they’re breathing the same air. “So can I --”
“What? Oh God, yes please, don’t let me. Shutting up now.”
“Thank you.”
Given Stiles’s everyday personality, Derek expects him to kiss the same way--all movement and energy and going eight directions at once. But Stiles is almost completely still as Derek closes the distance and kisses him.
Derek can feel Stiles’s racing pulse underneath his fingertips as he wraps his hand around the nape of Stiles’s neck, his thumb skimming along Stiles’s jaw. Stiles shudders and slowly, almost as if he might be unsure what to do exactly, Stiles’s hands move from his sheets to hold Derek’s face. Derek licks at the bow of Stiles’s mouth and Stiles responds, parting his lips as Derek deepens the kiss.
“Back,” Derek says, pulling back. He toes off his shoes and pushes Stiles backwards.
“Bossy,” Stiles answers and obeys, leaning back on his elbows and watching as Derek shrugs off his jacket and lets it drop to the floor.
Derek puts his knee on the bed and then he’s leaning over again, shifting as he drapes himself over Stiles.
“Can I just say yessss,” Stiles says, hooking his arm around Derek’s neck and kissing him.
-----
“You can growl at me all you want, Derek, I am not afraid of the big bad wolf,” Stiles says, swinging his legs onto the couch, his socked feet bumping against Derek’s knee and thigh.
“Remember: Throat. Teeth,” Derek answers, giving Stiles a glare--albeit one with zero actual threat in it, it’s more habit than anything.
“Empty threat.” Stiles grins.
“I think he’s got your number, Derek,” Scott says, looking up from his phone and, most likely, a text from Allison.
There’s a snort from Jackson’s direction, but Derek ignores it, instead glaring at Scott. “Do I need to go over the hierarchy of the pack again?”
“No. Hey are we done? Allison...”
Derek sighs. Some things really haven’t changed.
“Go.”
“Stiles?” Scott starts to ask.
“I’ll drive you, McCall,” Jackson says, sauntering over. His smile can only be described as shit-eating, and Derek cringes inside a bit. That kid’s going to be insufferable.
Scott grins, his mind already on his date no doubt, and Stiles’s toes push into his thigh.
Derek looks over at Stiles, who looks at Jackson and then at Derek, his eyebrows raised and there will be talking before any sort of making out, Derek knows.
This, Derek realizes, is his life.