Work Text:
Stiles wakes up to his leg throbbing in pain. Scrunching up his face, he rolls onto his stomach and groans into the soft pillow. It’s not the first and certainly won’t be the last time Stiles is forced to confront his humanity while they’re hunting for yet another monster of the week, but having his calf ripped open by a werejaguar is a very special kind of torture. Luckily, the injury wasn’t bad enough that he had to stay at the hospital, but there, at the very least, he would have had the chance at better pain meds. But going to the hospital means questions will be asked, his father would be called — his age doesn’t matter, okay? Beacon Hills hospital will call the sheriff even when Stiles is fucking forty — and he would have to suffer his dad’s lecture and Derek blaming himself for Stiles’ idiocy at the same time; something he’s decidedly not going to do with his leg hurting like this.
The mattress dips and a hand appears on his shoulder. “Stiles,” Derek says in a low voice, “do you want me to take some of your pain?”
All of his pain would be the preferred option, but Stiles needs a bit of a reminder that he’s actually having an injury. He is the living embodiment of out of sight out of mind; a sentiment that applies to all of his senses it seems. Something Stiles learned the hard way. Sighing, he raises his head just enough to say, “yes, please.”
Even a fraction of less pain is going to help him out a bunch. Tomorrow, he can go to the drugstore, buy some painkillers, and be yelled at by his dad for being — once again — way too involved in supernatural shenanigans he’s apparently way too breakable for. It’s going to be delightful. Derek will sweeten the whole thing by simply standing next to him and looking like a puppy caught doing something he shouldn’t. It’s not like they all know Derek would have to lock him in the Hale vault to ensure Stiles won’t be involved in the hunt.
Sighing, Derek grabs Stiles’ wrist. No matter how often he’s done it in the past few weeks, how often he intertwined their fingers, traced his moles, or touched him in any other way, it still gets to him. Every time Derek’s hand as much as brushes against Stiles’, his heart goes crazy. There’s no fucking way he can be casual about anything any longer. Never. Every touch feels as if his life finally makes sense. Derek taking his pain away makes everything so much better right now.
“Maybe this time you learn your lesson,” Derek mutters, brushing his thumb over the back of Stiles’ hand. “You can’t just throw yourself in danger every time we’re on a hunt.”
Stiles huffs. “I was trying to hit it with a bat. If Jackson hadn’t yanked me aw—”
“It would have caused a lot more damage.” Derek pulls his hand away and crosses his arms over his thighs. “You can’t keep ignoring the fact that you’re human, Stiles.” His face is partially in the shadows, the moon illuminating just enough to make out the deep scowl on his features.
They had this conversation before. Multiple times. It’s not like Stiles has done it over and over again regardless of the warnings, conversations, and various stern talking-to from his dad. Narrowing his eyes, Stiles sits up. “I won’t sit on the sidelines.”
“I don’t want to lose you.”
“Derek—”
“We’re not discussing this.” Derek’s voice is sharp as he gets to his feet, clearly ending the discussion. “Go back to sleep.” And with that, he walks away and towards what seems to be a makeshift bed on the bed — that consists of nothing more than a blanket as a poor excuse for a mattress, a pillow, and another thicker blanket.
Stiles glances towards the couch, finding Isaac sprawled there, a heap of clothes on the ground next to his arm. He was in too much pain to realize what was going on last night, and Derek probably used that to his advantage because he knows Stiles would’ve demanded he sleep in the bed with him. Something Derek was weird about when his betas are around. For some werewolf reasons. “Derek,” he says, now that he knows, he’s so not going to let him sleep like that, “you can’t seriously sleep on the floor.”
Derek looks back at Stiles, drawing his brows together. “I lived in a train station for months.”
“But you don’t anymore.”
“Isaac’s sleeping on the—”
“Derek,” Stiles snaps as quietly as possible, “come to bed.” He pulls his blanket back. They both know that their relationship progressed past the state of not sleeping in the same bed. As nosy as Erica is, Stiles wouldn’t be surprised if she’s monitored them enough to know exactly what’s going on between her alpha and Stiles. “Please, don’t make me get up and drag you over here.” No matter how much his leg might hurt standing up, he will walk over to Derek.
Something Derek seems to know as well. With a long sigh, he returns to the bed. The mattress dips and Derek looks at him, furrowing his brows. “I don’t really mind.”
“Well, I do.” Stiles scoots to the other side of the bed, knowing Derek’s not going to sleep between Stiles and the wall. “Now, shut up and lie down. I’m tired.” Chuckling, Stiles drops the snuggles into the covers again, back turned to the alpha. To his surprise, it doesn’t take a second for Derek to slip under the blanket and curl around his back.
Stiles grins. “Was that so hard?”
Derek huffs. “Shut up.”
“Rude,” Stiles whispers, but he closes his eyes and relaxes into Derek’s warmth.