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Sometimes Derek talks in his sleep.
Stiles doesn't ever tell him because it's the most he gets out of Derek, really. And it's funny, if he's being honest with himself (sometimes), other times it's sad, and sometimes it's just plain adorable. "No cats," Derek mumbles in his sleep one night, and it turns into a whine, "No cats, they scare me." Stiles also gets more of the honest-to-God truth out of Derek when he talks in his sleep (he's scared of cats, he hates the color blue, and he likes it when Stiles wears plaid button-downs). He kicks a foot out towards Stiles' ankle, flings an arm over Stiles chest and whines again, "Not cats."
Stiles pets a hand over his hair. "No cats," he agrees, flipping a page in his book.
Some nights are sad, urgent, and Stiles feels the need to protect him. "Laura," Derek will say frantically in his sleep, fingers curling around the edges of the sheets, knuckles turning white, a frown etching into his face even in sleep. "Laura, no." Stiles will stroke a hand down his back, lie next to him and watch him carefully.
He'll say, "I'm sorry," lips brushing against Derek's jaw, fingers trembling a little as he tries to comfort him. He'll listen to Derek's words turn from Laura's name to cries for his parents, and Stiles knows what that feels like. He knows the desperate pain of calling out for his mother in the night and not receiving a response, not expecting one. He knows the frantic tone in Derek's voice, the one that says he keeps calling for them, but he can't find them, where are they? So he will slide closer, press his body against Derek's, and whisper against him, "I am right here. Right here."
Sometimes Derek will cry, "My fault, my fault," and Stiles will shake his head; make sure Derek can feel it against his chest.
"Not your fault," he'll say, and he'll wonder if Derek understands any of this in his sleep, and hope he does, before he presses a kiss to Derek's sternum and says again, "Not your fault."
There are nights when talking in his sleep, Derek makes Stiles feel loved beyond belief. When Derek unconsciously reaches a hand out and strokes it down Stiles' side, breathes out, "Stiles," and clutches at Stiles' hipbone. Where he says, "Love you. Love you so much. Need you. Want you. Perfect. Amazing. Beautiful." Stiles feels - worshipped, treasured, and the only reason he doesn't tell Derek about him saying these things in his sleep, or ask him to say them when he's awake, is because he'd be embarrassed, and Derek is bad with words. During the day, Stiles fills up the room with enough words for the both of them. At night, it's Derek's job, and he's doing just fine with it.
On the nights when Derek says these things, when he loves him like this, Stiles will hold him back just as tightly, and he'll wait until Derek stops with his words for moment before he will whisper back, "You're perfect," and fall asleep to Derek's huff of breath.
Nights like tonight, when he's adorable, sleep rumpled and snuffling is nose into the pillow while he bats at the mattress with his hand, they are Stiles' favorite, though. "No cats," Derek insists again, and Stiles smiles. "Mean," Derek mumbles, hitting the mattress and turning into Stiles a little.
These nights are Stiles' favorite because he'll talk back and listen, but also because Derek is cuddly, turning into him at every odd moment, and so Stiles will sit in bed and read a book, stroke Derek's hair, talk back to him, and try to refrain from bursting into laughter that will wake Derek up and force him to question Stiles or worse - kick him out of bed for all of twenty minutes (before he seeks comfort again, he hates sleeping without Stiles. He lasted all of an hour the last time).
"No cats," Stiles agrees. "Maybe a dog though."
Derek lets out a snore.