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It’s nine o’clock on a school night when Stiles gets the SOS text from Isaac. He’s halfway through the world’s most boring paper on the Ottoman Empire, and it’s due in two days, and Stiles really doesn’t have time for this.
He knew this week had been too quiet. They haven’t even had a pack meeting thanks to the extra long lacrosse practices Coach has been bogging them down with. Derek hadn’t been happy about that, but Stiles isn’t the one who will suffer next week when Derek makes his little wolfy wonders run extra drills to make up for lost time.
There are worse things, he supposes, than an extra rushed history paper that will have to be finished tomorrow. He packs up his things, prays his dad’s shift doesn’t end early, and heads out the door, backpack in tow just in case Isaac is exaggerating.
Specifically, the text that Isaac had sent read SOS come to loft dont tell anybody . Stiles finds that to be highly suspicious, but it’s hard to say no to Isaac. If it had come from Derek, Stiles would have called Scott first thing. But Isaac so rarely asks for anything, and also he can actually be nice sometimes, unlike a certain alpha, so Stiles is inclined to go see what’s up and ask questions later.
What’s up , Stiles soon discovers, is less of a supernatural threat and more one very miserable alpha wolf curled into the fetal position on the floor, and another very anxious baby werewolf hovering over him.
Stiles pokes Derek with the toe of his shoe and gets a pathetic, feeble moan for his troubles. He looks to Isaac for explanation.
“You remember the uh… the special wolfsbane?”
Stiles nods, slowly, understanding starting to dawn. “The stuff that Deaton kept. The stuff he locked up ?”
Isaac has the good sense to look ashamed. “He didn’t leave it locked up for long.”
It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together at this point. “I thought that stuff just got you guys high. And how’d you get Mr. Responsibility over there to even try it?”
“It was actually pretty easy. Everyone needs to let go sometimes. But the wolfsbane didn’t cause this. At least, I don’t think it did. I’m fine. I think it might have been the chocolate cake.”
“I’m sorry, the what now?”
“Yeah. Did you know the grocery store delivers? Derek didn’t know until I told him–” Isaac looks so proud of himself, “–and we got super hungry. Like, soooo hungry. So we ordered a bunch of stuff and Derek ordered a whole entire cake and ate the whole thing and now… yeah. Uh. That .”
They both look at the miserable ball of Derek, still on the ground, still curled up and occasionally twitching like a fresh caught fish on the deck of a boat.
“You said a chocolate cake?” Stiles clarifies.
Isaac nods. Derek moans.
“We should call Deaton, and for once not for supernatural advice. What our wolf-man here needs is a regular ol’ veterinarian.”
From the floor, Derek groans out something that almost sounds like words.
“What was that, Mr. Sick Puppy? Your advice, as always, is indispensable, Stiles? Thank you for saving me from myself, Stiles?”
“I think,” Isaac chimes in. “He said ‘Don’t call Deaton’.”
“Ok, but he’s literally on the ground, writhing in pain. I’m not sure he’s operating under his best judgment right now.”
Derek snarls out a series of curses, which Stiles actually takes as a good sign. If he’s got the wherewithal to cuss out the good name Stilinski, he’s probably not dying.
Isaac fixes Stiles with the puppy dog eyes. “Do we really have to tell Dr. Deaton?” He pleads.
You’d think running with a pack of werewolves Stiles would be immune to the puppy dog eyes by now. Unfortunately, no one is immune to Isaac’s puppy dog eyes. Not Scott, not Stiles, not even – and Stiles is guessing this is where the evening started going really wrong – Derek.
“Fine,” Stiles huffs. “But if he gets worse or things get messy, we’re making the call.”
Isaac bobs his head eagerly in agreement. Derek makes another pained sound, which Stiles also takes as agreement, though it’s just as likely him responding to his insides as they revolt.
Seriously, Stiles is not dealing with any kind of chocolate induced mess. Isaac can clean up and call Deaton himself at that point, because the moment Derek begins projectile anything-ing, Stiles is out of here.
What he’d really love to know is when he became defacto den mother, and more importantly, why him?
He’ll have to figure out the why later and just accept for the moment that that’s the way this cookie has crumbled. But for the record, he already has to spend an exorbitant amount of effort keeping his own squishy, human body safe. It doesn’t seem fair that he’s the one that has to extend that care to the rest of them.
He’s bringing this up at the next pack meeting. As much respect as he has for the trials of motherhood, Stiles ain’t nobody’s mama, least of all Derek ‘I’m the adult here so do as I say’ Hale.
Another pitiful moan sounds from the floor, and with a sigh Stiles doles out his orders to the only two people in the room capable of seeing them out.
He points a finger at Isaac. “You. Go find me ginger ale, crackers, and, I dunno, Pepto maybe? Unless you plan on breaking into the clinic again to get the good stuff.”
Stiles doesn’t even know what the good stuff would be, but it probably involves making Derek throw up whatever poison (haha, chocolate – of all the things to bring Derek to his knees) he’s ingested. Stiles doesn’t like that idea, and also he really doubts there’s any amount of chocolate that could actually kill Derek.
Like, someone definitely would have warned him about that as a kid. Right?
He can’t help the snicker when a picture pops into his head of a little Derek Hale, dressed up to go trick or treating. Sadly, Derek’s pitiful floor sounds overshadow much of the humor.
“I,” Stiles continues. “Am going to lug the big guy somewhere a little more comfortable. Come on, Wishbone, up on two legs. I know you can do it.”
And Derek does, in fact, do it, but it takes a whole lot of heaving and hoing on Stiles' part. In hindsight, he probably should have put Isaac on body hauling duty and done the supply run himself, but he also knows Isaac has one of Derek’s credit cards and Stiles is broke as a joke. And for a man who lived in an abandoned train car like the sad orphan he is, Derek is picky about brands. No generic store brand soda for this precious boxcar child, oh no.
Despite Stiles’ self assurances that he is no one’s mama, he helps a very wobbly Derek out of his damp, sweaty shirt and into something clean and dry before shuffling him into the bed and pulling just the sheet up over him. Then he runs a dish towel under some cool water and uses it to wipe down Derek’s face and neck. The rag comes away smudged brown, and if he hadn’t already known what went down, it all would have come to light now.
“I can’t believe you ate the entire cake,” Stiles laments over the huddled, sheet covered ball of misery called Derek. “I’m pretty sure that would kill me if I tried, and I have zero canine DNA.”
Derek must be feeling really bad if not even that earns Stiles some snark. He’s actually starting to feel capital B Bad for the guy.
Isaac returns with the supplies about the time Derek’s pained groans even out into the unsteady rhythm of troubled sleep. Fat lot of good they’ll do while Derek is unconscious, but it had given Isaac something to feel useful over so Stiles counts it as a win. He sends Isaac off to bed with a literal pat on the head and a “Good job, bud. But I’ve got it from here.”
Isaac goes easily enough and Stiles counts himself lucky that at least one idiot around here is willing to listen to him.
Immensely glad he brought his backpack, Stiles settles in on the floor next to Derek’s bed. Despite what he said about not dealing with the mess, he has the waste basket from the bathroom lined with a plastic grocery bag on standby near Derek’s head.
With an ear out for any signs of retching from Derek, Stiles studiously makes his way through the entirety of his calc homework and halfway through next week’s chem chapters before he drifts off. Beside and somewhat above him, Derek’s pained breathing evens out to something more natural.
~
Stiles comes awake to something tickling at his ear and the low timbre of a voice calling his name. His neck has a crick in it so bad he feels like he went head to head with a headbutting minotaur.
Which begs the question, are minotaurs real?
“Sort of,” says the voice that was just calling his name. “There’s legends of ancient Greek shifters who got stuck halfway, or were cursed maybe. I’ll lend you the book and you can figure it out for yourself.”
“Ow ow owww.” Stiles picks his head up from where it had been resting on the edge of the bed. The frame part, not the comfy, squishy sleeping part. “Derek?”
“Yeah. You need to get home before school.”
Stiles cracks open one bleary eye. Derek is crouched in front of him, blessedly blocking out the peek of rising sun with the bulk of his body. There’s a smudge of chocolate at the corner of his mouth, and before Stiles can think better of it he reaches out and scrubs it away with his thumb.
Derek scowls. Stiles hasn’t moved his hand so he actually feels it, the way Derek’s mouth turns down into a pout that’s softer than it looks, his brow furrowing.
“I will bite your hand off,” Derek says, and Stiles snatches his hand back before he can lose it.
Derek looks like he wants to say something else, and Stiles waits for it, even though there’s a cramp in his calf and his ass is more full of pins and needles than a porcupine.
Derek apparently thinks better of what he was going to say and stands, instead. He walks over to the bookshelf that Stiles is strictly forbidden from touching and pulls out a book. He holds it out and shakes it a little, like Stiles is a dog he’s offering a bone to.
For his part, Stiles is too excited to be annoyed at how Derek can be so condescending without even saying a word. He leaps to his feet, ignoring the cramp in his leg and tingling ass, and snatches the book from Derek’s fingers before he can rescind the offer.
Derek looks at him like Stiles grabbed the thing with his teeth, but he stays silent while Stiles admires his prize.
“It’s in ancient Greek,” Derek says after Stiles has flipped through the first dozen pages. “But there’s drawings and my mom always made notes in the margins.”
Stiles looks up at Derek, and he knows he must look like an idiot, eyes wide and mouth hung open. But, holy shit . This book belonged to Talia Hale. To Derek’s mother. It’s in decent condition, but it smells like smoke and ash, and Stiles knows this is one of the few unruined things Derek must have reclaimed from his old home.
“You don’t have to bribe me into silence,” Stiles says, even as he clutches the book to his chest – no take backs now. “I’m not going to tell Deaton about your tummy ache.”
Derek growls a little. He steps in close, and he smells like sweat and too much sugar and something that’s just Derek. Stiles’ traitorous heart beat picks up.
He’s never been good at hiding his crush. Derek has, impressively, always been good enough not to acknowledge it. Don’t ask, don’t tell.
“It’s not a bribe, idiot. It’s a gift.” Derek refuses to meet Stiles’ eyes. “A thank you.”
From Stiles’ pocket an alarm starts blaring, breaking the moment as Derek cringes away.
“Shit,” Stiles hisses. “That’s my wake up alarm. My dad’s gonna be home any minute.”
“Better get going then.” Derek steps in close again after Stiles has silenced his phone.
Derek’s so close now that Stiles could just… he does it. On impulse, he raises to his toes and takes the leap, brushing their lips together then bolting back, like Derek’s face is on fire.
It might be, if the faint red beneath his stubble is anything to go by.
Stiles shoves his things back in his bag and carefully cradles his gift under his arm. Every few seconds he looks back up at Derek, who could be confused for silently brooding except for the slightly slack jawed expression.
Stiles would be proud if he wasn’t so embarrassed. It takes a lot to shock Derek Hale, especially these days.
Derek trails after him to the door, and Stiles thinks this, like the crush, will be one of those things they just never talk about. Until Derek catches his sleeve and reels him around, pressing him against the front door.
“I’m going to hell,” Derek says, then he kisses Stiles for real, the kind with tongue and teeth, because Derek, it would seem, isn’t one to care about morning breath.
Stiles sure as hell isn’t the type to care either – he’s 17 and horny, after all, and he kisses back like he may never get this again, just in case it’s true.
“Not hell,” Stiles jokes when Derek pulls back and opens the door to shuffle Stiles out to the hall. “Jail, probably, if my dad ever finds out.”
“Fuck me,” Derek huffs. “Fuck my life.”
Still, he ducks in for one more kiss before sending Stiles on his way.
Maybe, Stiles thinks, being den mother isn’t so bad, after all.