Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

One day, Stiles’ impulsiveness is going to get him killed. Unfortunately, it looks like that day might be today as Stiles runs between trees, his legs burning. He’s going to die and it’s all because of his own stupidity. His arrogance to think that he could follow a pack of alphas without being seen or heard or smelled.

His eyes blur with tears as the cold autumn air whips past his cheeks. His limbs are numb and Stiles knows he won’t be able to run for much longer. His body is exhausted from lack of sleep and weak from lack of food. It’s been a month, or maybe more, Stiles doesn’t know exactly. He couldn’t keep track of the days in the dark room he had been locked in, but he knew it had been a long time. Long enough for the isolation to drive him slightly paranoid, wondering if his friends or his dad or anyone was even looking for him at all.

Twigs snap and footsteps that aren’t his own come from behind him and he pushes forward, a final burst of adrenaline coursing through his veins. He doesn’t know how the wolf found him. He had almost thought he’d got away, that he was safe, home, but of course, they must have been following him. After barely managing to escape his capture, he’d managed to hitch a ride with a kind old man in a truck who only slightly creeped him out. Just as they had been passing the Beacon Hills sign, something had landed on the roof, denting it, and the next second broken glass was falling around them as truck’s windscreen smashed. He had not had time to scream, the truck had veered off the road, crashing into a tree and then all he could do was run.

Screams told him that the old man was dead, also Stiles’ fault. The distraction had given him a second’s head start. But the alpha should have caught up with him by now. Stiles wasn’t a fast runner even for human standards and the alpha had not waited long to follow him into the woods. Stiles realises with a feeling of dread that the wolf is enjoying this, that he’s just playing with his food before he inevitably gets bored and pounces on him.

The woods are familiar now, but through his panic Stiles still has no idea where he is. He could be running away from safety for all he knew.

And then his foot catches on a tree root and he goes crashing to the ground, twigs and tree branches scraping his skin painfully. A stone scrapes the palm of this hand but the pain doesn’t register in his head. Because he’s going to die and it’s his own fault.

“Shit,” he mutters, scrambling forward, pain shooting up his leg as he crawls through decaying leaves and dirt, uselessly dragging his body over the earth, trying to get away from the approaching wolf. But he is only seconds behind him. Stiles’ panicked heart beats rapidly against his rib cage and he attempts to get to his feet, but before he can even push off of his hands the alpha is there, forcing him back to the ground, nails digging into his already throbbing leg. A growl rips from the alpha’s throat as his claws shred through Stiles’ already ruined jeans.

But the growl, Stiles realises, sounds too far away and much too familiar, but Stiles knows his mind must be playing tricks on him because he isn’t that lucky. But then a pained yelp comes, much closer and much less familiar, and then the weight on his back is gone.

Wasting no time and with adrenaline pushing him forward, Stiles continues his crawl through the dirt, mind set on getting as far away as possible. His limbs scream in pain as he tries to stand, stumbling to his feet and using the trees to make a pathetic attempt to run.

There’s a blood curdling roar and then silence. Stiles doesn’t have time to turn around to see which of his pursuers has been defeated because the champion is already running towards him. A whimper escapes his lips unwillingly as Stiles pushes himself from the tree, managing two steps before the wolf is on him, arms encasing him.

“No!” Stiles shouts, struggling against the hold uselessly. Another cry escapes his throat and his legs give out beneath him and all he can do is let his body slump into the firm chest at his back. But he doesn’t fall. Because the arms that are wrapped much too gently around him are keeping him up.

“Stiles calm down,” the wolf says, tightening its grip as Stiles twists his body. Stiles has to concentrate to understand the words. “Please. Stiles, it’s me. You’re ok, you’re safe.”

The voice is gruff but so familiar after so long with only stranger’s harsh words that Stiles’ breath catches. He turns his head, staring wild eyed at the man behind him, then breathes out a relieved, “Derek?”

What little fight Stiles had left in his body drains away and Derek’s hold loosens as Stiles stops trying to escape him. Stiles can’t help but twist in his around and wrap his arms around Derek’s shoulders. He’s so relieved to see a familiar face, to see Derek’s face, that he buries his head in his shoulder without hesitation. He closes his eyes, gulping deep breaths of air. His heartbeat begins to slow from its thundering pace and Stiles feels exhaustion seep into his bones. Emotion is embarrassingly bubbling to the surface and no matter how hard he tries to keep it down his breaths come out shaky and his grip tightens on Derek’s shoulders.

Derek is speaking again and Stiles’ mind keeps drifting off, shutting out all outside sounds and feeling. But his mind tunes back in as Derek strokes a hand over his hair and down his neck. “You’re safe. I’m here. You’re ok.”

Stiles forces himself to pull back from the embrace but Derek keeps his hands under his elbows, as if scared he will fall. He’s calm enough now to feel ashamed of how he had been clinging to Derek. He rubs furiously at his eyes, hoping Derek won’t notice the tears as they spread with dirt over his cheeks.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“Don’t apologise,” Derek says and Stiles flinches at the anger in his tone. Derek clenches his jaw, eyes searching Stiles’ body and his next works are spoken with careful gentleness. “Are you hurt?”

Stiles almost laughs. Everything hurts. His head has been pounding for about a week after running his mouth a little too much and being rewarded with a hit over the head, leaving a nasty cut that hadn’t healed. His stomach has been growling for longer, but mostly his body is bruised from head to toe, aching in every joint.

Derek is watching him, concern written all over his face and Stiles realises he hasn’t answered his question.

“I need to take you to the hospital.”

Stiles shakes his head. His eyes are drooping and he wants to go home, wants to sleep in his own bed indefinitely. “No. Please I just want to go home.”

The thought of a hospital bed, doctors asking him questions and having to think of a lie for why he’s in such a mess is exhausting. Derek is quiet for a moment but there is understanding in his eyes and he doesn’t press the issue.

“Can you walk?” he asks instead.

Stiles nods, though the thought of moving sends a wave of nausea through him. Sensing his hesitance, Derek pulls one of Stiles’ arms over his shoulders and wraps his around his waist. They barely take one step before pain is shooting up Stiles’ leg as he puts pressure on it. He attempts to hide his grimace, but Derek stops walking, a deep frown between his eyebrows.

“I’m fine,” Stiles chokes out.

Derek rolls his eyes at his stubbornness. “No, you’re not. You can barely stand Stiles.”

Stiles wants to argue but as he tries to take another step, tears burn the corners of his eyes. Derek sighs and pulls him to a stop.

“I’m going to carry you,” he says decidedly. It’s more of a command than a request, but Stiles protests all the same.

“No, I’m fine. You don’t need-” he’s cut off as Derek secures his arm more firmly around his back and the other goes under his knees to lift him up. A pathetically pained sound escapes him as Derek’s hand closes around an old scratch and Stiles latches onto his neck instinctively.

“This is humiliating,” he says, but makes no attempt to remove himself from Derek’s hold.

“It’ll be faster for me to carry you and if you won’t let me take you to a hospital, I’m not letting you hurt yourself more,” Derek says, rearranging his hand to avoid any of the scratches on Stiles’ back.

As he’s carried in what Stiles assumes is the direction of Beacon Hills, he takes a proper look at Derek. Lit only by the light of the moon, Stiles can see that his face and hands are covered in blood. Stiles only then registers that he killed the alpha. It had taken only seconds. Stiles didn’t even have time to run. The thought should scare him, remind him of the brutal violence of the past month. But with Derek’s strong arms wrapped so gently around him, all he feels is safe. That feeling, along with the rhythm of Derek’s steps, causes his eyes to droop and his head to feel heavy. When he doesn’t have the energy to keep it up any longer, he rests his head on Derek’s shoulder and closes his eyes.

Derek’s muscles tense but he doesn’t comment and Stiles’ thoughts turn sluggish, the warmth of Derek’s body a comforting contrast to the concrete floor he’d been made to sleep on. He remembers lying on that floor for hours, wondering if he was going to die there, wondering if anyone would hear if he screamed for help, but being too exhausted to try.

Stiles had assumed the alphas were going to use him as leverage against Derek, but then a month went by and nothing happened. Stiles thinks they might have told him they were going to take another member of his pack, deeming him insufficient due to his human status, but the memory is blurry now.

His mind absently drifts to Derek, appearing as if out of thin air exactly when Stiles needed him. Where had he come from? How had he known where Stiles was? It’s a stupid question, Derek’s a werewolf, Stiles knows he can hunt an animal down from miles away. But he’d almost assumed he had given up looking.

“How did you find me?” he thinks he asks into the crook of Derek’s neck. But he is already half asleep and, if Derek gives an answer at all, Stiles doesn’t hear it.

•••

Derek grows increasingly concerned as he carries Stiles towards his car. He’s too light. Derek can feel his ribs under his hands and, before he’d fallen asleep so quickly Derek had strained his ears to make sure Stiles still had a pulse, he’d been muttering. He wants to run, to get Stiles to safety as soon as possible - there might be more of the alpha pack hunting him - but Derek doesn’t want to hurt Stiles any more than he already is.

When they eventually reach the road where Derek parked his car, he places Stiles gently into the passenger seat. He deliberates ignoring Stiles’ protests and taking him to the hospital but decides he selfishly wants to check that Stiles is ok himself first. And though, besides the blood and dirt, Stiles doesn’t smell any difference than normal, he still wants to make sure he hasn’t been bitten. In the light of the car, he gives Stiles’ clothes a quick once over. There’s not too much blood, nothing to suggest a fatal injury. To the sheriff’s house it is then.

He expects to find the sheriff’s car in the drive, but as he pulls up in front of the house, the drive is empty. He must be working a night shift. Derek glances at Stiles, still asleep in the passenger seat and decides against waking him. He gets out and unlocks the front door before returning to the car and carefully lifting Stiles back into his arms.

He kicks the door closed behind him then settles Stiles’ slumped body onto the couch. He feels a little lost. His wolf instincts are telling him to go back into the woods, find the rest of the alphas, and kill them for harming a member of his pack. But there’s only one of him and they’ve been able to hide from him until now. He wouldn’t know where to find them, not yet anyway. Besides, he doesn’t want to leave Stiles, not until he knows he’s ok.

He needs to call the sheriff. That’s what Stiles needs right now, his father, not Derek’s clueless attempts at comfort. But before he can take his phone out of his pocket and dial his number, Stiles’ rumbling stomach interrupts his train of thought. He thinks of how light Stiles was in his arms and feels another spike of rage at the alpha pack for doing this to him.

He turns to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator in search of food for Stiles. He finds half a pizza stuffed in there and takes it out, then fills a glass with water and walks back to the where he’d left Stiles on the couch. Bending to set the pizza box and glass on the table, he doesn’t notice when Stiles’ eyes start to flutter open. But as the glass clinks against the coaster, Stiles’ eyes fly open and he sits up fast enough that Derek reacts instinctively, reaching out to stop him. His hands close around his wrists and Stiles yelps in pain. Derek lets go immediately, causing Stiles to fall back against the couch. The confusion and fear in his eyes sends an ache into Derek’s heart, unwanted images of how Stiles might have spent the past month and a half filling his mind. Guilt accompanies the ache, at having let this happen in the first place and for being careless enough to scare Stiles now.

But when Stiles’ eyes fall on Derek, he calms visibly, leaning back into the cushions and putting his head in his hands.

“Sorry,” he says, as if any of this is his fault.

Derek only watches him hesitantly, before picking up the half eaten pizza and glass of water from the table, sitting in their place across from Stiles. Stiles drops his hands from his face and when he sees what Derek is holding, he reaches for the water first, gulping it down in two seconds then taking the pizza.

A silence follows as Derek struggles to find something to say. But he comes up with nothing that that doesn’t sound extremely idiotic. Stiles is hurt and most likely traumatised and Derek struggles with words at the best of times.

Giving up, he gestures to the scratches and cuts covering Stiles’ arms and neck and says, “I need to clean those.”

“Oh.” Stiles looks down in surprise at the blood and dirt covering his arms as if he’d forgotten the state that they were in. He hesitates, glancing up at Derek then back down at his pizza that is now almost gone. He shakes his head, waving a dismissive hand. “I can do it. You don’t have to stay, I’m ok now. Really.”

His fragile smile is unconvincing. Derek rolls his eyes.

“Don’t be stupid Stiles, you’re a mess. Let me help you.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says sarcastically, and though it’s not the jabbering that Derek has grown fond of, it still makes the corner of Derek’s lips twitch up into an almost smile. He’s missed him so much. How it took Stiles being taken from him for Derek to realise how much he needs him, he didn’t know. He didn’t remember when his feelings for Stiles had started, he just knew that they had grown into something that scared him. Something out of control and irreversible.

Ignoring it was pointless. He’d tried that and look where it’d got him. He hasn’t spared himself any heartache and he’d let Stiles put himself in danger.  

“Come on,” he says when Stiles has finished eating, getting up and gesturing for Stiles to follow. Surprisingly, he doesn’t argue. Though Derek suspects its more because he doesn’t have the energy.

Derek helps him up the stairs and into the bathroom, more aware than before of where his skin is touching Stiles’ in the quiet of the empty house.

When they reach the bathroom, Stiles stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, wobbling on his feet. He steadies himself against the sink as Derek eyes his ruined clothes.

“I’m going to get you something to change into,” he tells Stiles, but he’s not sure that he’s listening as he catches sight of his reflection, fingers touching the bruise under his eye. Derek turns away, walking down the hall to Stiles’ bedroom.

•••

Stiles stares at his bruised and slightly sunken face in the mirror for what feels like only a second but when he looks up, Derek is gone. Before he can start to panic, his stomach twisting into a knot, the door opens again and Derek steps back inside. Seeing Stiles’ startled expression, he lifts the bundle of clothes in his hands in surrender. Only then does Stiles remember him saying he was going to get him some clean clothes to change into. He wonders if the hit to his head might have caused more damage than he’d thought.

Derek places the pile of clothes next to the sink. “You need to take a shower and I need to call your dad.”

Stiles nods absently, blinking at his surroundings blearily. “Yeah… ok.”

Derek pauses for only a moment, but when Stiles starts to unbutton his jeans, he turns to the door, fishing his phone out of his pocket. Stiles pulls his jeans down to his thighs then sits on the closed toilet seat so he doesn’t have to put pressure on his leg. But as he slides the material the rest of the way down his leg, he hisses in pain before he can stop himself and before Derek has a chance to close the door behind him. Without his werewolf hearing, Derek probably would not have heard him. Stiles wishes he hadn’t. But he stops, looking back at him with an apprehensive frown over his concerned green eyes. Stiles likes his eyes. He likes how softly they were looking at him now, but maybe that was just the exhaustion distorting things. He swallows.

Derek’s fists are clenched at his sides as he steps back into the room and asks, “Does it hurt?”

“A little.”

“Do you need help?”

Stiles pushes down the embarrassment rising in his stomach and nods.

Derek blinks at him for all of ten seconds, then, phone call forgotten, he steps back into the room and closes the door. Derek avoids his eye as he hesitantly moves to stand in front of him. “Tomorrow, after you’ve slept, you’re going to the hospital, ok? I’ll drag you there myself if I have to.”

Stiles starts to shake his head.

“Please, Stiles. You’re in pain, let me help you.”

“You are helping,” Stiles mumbles. “I just twisted my ankle. It’s nothing.”

Derek just gives him a stern look.

“Fine.” Stiles crosses his arms petulantly.

Derek swallows but loosens his clenched fists to reach forward to help. He crouches down and Stiles is vaguely aware that if this were any other situation, it would be extremely hot to have Derek crouched between his legs. Instead, his mind is filled with a rushing in his ears as his ankle lights up with pain. He breaths in suddenly, despite trying to keep quiet, and Derek’s eyes snap to his.

“Sorry,” Stiles says, not sure why he’s apologising.

Derek ignores his apology, returning his attention to his leg, wrapping a hand around the back of his calf as the other gently pulls the material of his jeans over his heel. His palm is warm against his skin and Stiles has to avert his eyes from the sight of Derek holding him so delicately. Instead of the pain returning as Stiles expected, there is only a numbness and when he looks down, dark lines are running up Derek’s arm as his hand follows the movement of his jeans and Derek slips them over his over his foot. He does the same to the other side, even though Stiles could have done it himself and then Stiles is sitting, half naked in front of Derek as he stands.

Stiles looks up at him and Derek makes a noncommittal gesture towards his shirt. He lifts his arms up and that’s all Derek needs to reach forward and take the hem in his hands. Stiles winces slightly as Derek pulls his ripped shirt over his head. Derek stares at the array of bruises, old and new, covering Stiles’ ribs.

“Stiles…”

Stiles folds his arms over his chest and looks away. Derek does the same, standing and clearing his throat. He considers the ruined clothes in his hands before deciding to leave them on the floor to deal with later

“Those are my favourite jeans,” Stiles says, a pathetic attempt to break the tension.

“Not anymore,” Derek says. “Do you need...” he trails off. Stiles’ cheeks grow hot at the implication that Derek is offering to help him shower. He may be slightly delirious, but he’s not crazy. Derek looks away from him and shakes his head. “Never mind.”

But as he turns once again towards the door and Stiles gets up to hop on one foot towards the shower, he wobbles, grabbing Derek’s arm to stop from falling over. Derek’s arms are back around him in an instant, steadying him. Stiles feels his touch like fire against his bare skin. He lets go but Derek still holds on firmly. “Sorry”

Derek sighs and looks at the shower warily.

“I’m going to stay here,” he says decidedly and when Stiles gives a slightly panicked look he adds, “I won’t look.”

Stiles feels a little stupid, standing in front of Derek, naked but for his underwear, protesting him being in the room as he showers. So he shuts his mouth and when Derek sits on the closed toilet seat, facing the door, he steps into the shower, pulling the curtain closed. He sits on the floor and slides off his underwear. It’s almost more painful, as the loose material passes over his foot, than taking off his jeans since he doesn’t have Derek to take some of the pain away.

He turns on the water, standing under the spray and letting it wash over his skin and the built up dirt from a month of being held in a concrete room. The heat of the water makes him feel slightly nauseous, causing him to sway on his feet, but it sooths his aching muscles all the same. He cleans his body, avoiding the cuts and scrubbing it of grime, hoping the memories might wash away with it.

Then he reaches for the shampoo, stepping forward under the water, forgetting about the wound on the side of his head. He holds back a hiss as scolding water hits the open wound. He turns from the water, holding himself up with a hand on the wall as his head goes fuzzy.

The fuzz starts to clear but not quick enough to stop his mouth from forming a quiet, “Derek.”

He doesn’t hear him get up over the sound of the water but when Derek says, “Are you ok?” his voice is closer than before.

“I can’t-” he cuts himself off, head against his arm braced on the wall. Is he really going to do this?

“Stiles?”

In the quietest voice possible, so Derek can only hear it because of his heightened senses, he says, “I need help.”

Derek is silent and Stiles almost thinks he’s left before he hears the rustle of the curtain.

“I’m coming in, ok?” Derek’s gentle voice says and only when Stiles replies with a reluctant “ok” does he hear the curtain push aside. He squeezes his eyes closed, pushing down the shame and hoping Derek never mentions this again.

Derek steps into the shower behind him and Stiles knows he can hear his heartbeat picking up again but he says noting, only reaching around Stiles, careful to keep his movements slow and not to touch him. He takes the shower head from its stand, spraying it over the uninjured side of his head. And when he lathers the shampoo into his hair, his fingers are so gentle that Stiles shivers under the touch. It has been so long since he’s been touched without the intent to cause harm. He closes his eyes, glad Derek can’t see his face.

Derek rinses the shampoo from his hair then shuts off the water and steps back out of the shower. Stiles finally opens his eyes, feeling ridiculously exposed and embarrassed, not sure what to do now, but Derek is back before he can move, a towel in hand. He dries off his hair, avoiding the cut, then wraps the towel around Stiles’ waist, letting go once Stiles takes it in his hands.

He slowly turns around but Derek is already gone and when Stiles draws back the curtain, he’s rummaging through the cabinets, paying him no mind. Stiles hopes his face isn’t as red as it feels as he steps shakily out of the bath.

•••

Silently, Derek looks through the cabinets until he finds what he needs. He glances at Stiles and finds him already watching him. Pointedly avoiding looking at the any exposed skin, he focuses his attention on piling what he needs onto the counter and pouring some disinfectant onto a cloth.

“Sit here,” he instructs, manoeuvring Stiles so he’s sitting next to the sink.

Stiles allows Derek to move his pliant limbs without any protest as he gently he wipes away the some of the blood from around the wounds that are yet to heal on Stiles’ pale skin. Suddenly conscious of how fragile humans are - though the shower has washed away most of the dirt - Derek pays extra care to make sure none of Stiles’ injuries will get infected.

He’s so engrossed in his work, wiping the disinfectant over Stiles’ hands, that he doesn’t notice Stiles’ eyes following his every move until he says in a whisper, “I’m sorry Derek.”

Derek’s eyes snap to his, pausing his work. Stiles’ eyes are sadder than they ever have any business being and Derek hates it.

“Why do you keep apologising?” Derek asks.

Stiles’ eyebrows draw together in a deep frown. “It’s my fault. I should have listened to you.”

Derek sighs. The last time he saw Stiles he was manically researching at his desk, claiming he was ‘onto something for sure this time’. Derek had left through the window he’d come through, telling Stiles not to do anything stupid without him.

“It doesn’t matter now,” Derek says, continuing with his task. You’re safe now. That’s all that matters. 

Stiles is shaking his head, staring at the gash on his palm that Derek is still holding. “I’m such an idiot.”

Derek can hear the emotion tightening in his voice and he swallows around a lump.

“You are an idiot,” Derek says. Stiles chokes a laugh and Derek’s lips curl into a smile. It gives him the courage to let himself be honest. “But you’re also the smartest person I’ve ever met.”

Stiles looks down and Derek can smell tears. Stiles says nothing, rubbing furiously at his eyes. Derek grabs his wrists, carefully not to hurt him this time and wipes his cheeks gently. 

“I’m serious Stiles. You shouldn’t have gone alone, but you were right and I should have listened to you.”

Stiles sniffs and forces a smile, finally meeting his eyes.

“Are you admitting to being wrong? Who are you and what have you done with Derek Hale?” he teases and Derek rolls his eyes, continuing his task.

“If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you,” Derek says but any threat is lost as he places Stiles’ hand on his leg and moves his attention to his face, holding Stiles’ chin between his fingers.

“Sure,” Stiles says quietly. Derek meets his eye for a moment, wondering how Stiles manages to make him feel like the one who’s exposed when he is the one sitting in just a towel.

Just as Derek is satisfied with his work, he finds a deep scratch on the back of Stiles’ neck. Stiles ducks his head to allow Derek to clean the wound, hissing as the liquid seeps into his tender skin. Derek can smell the last remains of adrenaline dwindling as he works and Stiles’ head slowly droops forward until it’s resting on Derek’s shoulder, wet hair dampening his shirt. Derek freezes but when Stiles doesn’t move, instead shifting his face into the crook of his neck, Derek lifts his arms to wrap around him. He turns his head to the side, breathing him in and just letting himself be surrounded by Stiles. Stiles grabs a hold of the material of his shirt and Derek steps forward, closing the little distance that was between them and Stiles shifts his knees to allow Derek to stand between them. 

“I’m so tired.” Stiles’ lips move against the skin of his shoulder.

Derek’s eyes squeeze closed and he curses his body for the way it reacts to Stiles’ closeness. But he lets Stiles cling to him because whatever comfort Stiles wants to take, he’s willing to offer.

When Derek doesn’t reply, Stiles pulls back, looking up at him with more emotion than Derek is prepared to deal with. He holds his gaze, suddenly very aware of where his knees are resting on either side of his hips.

Derek clears his throat and puts the dirty, blood stained cloth into the sink.

“Well you can’t sleep here,” he says.

Stiles just hums. Derek takes his hands and pulls him to standing. “Come on.”

With Derek’s help, Stiles limps down the hall to his bedroom and he sits down on his bed, clearly revelling in the comfort of his own room and bed. Derek moves to stands at the door, shifting uncertainly with one hand on the open door. He doesn’t want to leave Stiles alone, but he doubts that he wants Derek hanging around. As much as it pains him to leave him alone, Derek would never presume to know what Stiles wants. If he wants to be alone then Derek will suck it up and stay away.

“I’ll sleep on the couch…” he says. “If you need anything.”

Stiles stares at him, and Derek can hear his already rapidly beating heartbeat increase as he reaches for the door handle.

Derek clenches his fists, eyes flitting from Stiles to the floor. “Is that… ok?”

“Can you…” Stiles trails off. Derek takes a minute step into the room. “Can you stay?”

Derek doesn’t need convincing and he is already closing the door behind him, saying, “Of course.”

As Derek crosses the room, Stiles lifts his covers and lies down, staring at the ceiling. There is enough space for Derek to lie next to him but, losing his nerve, he sits down with his legs crossed and his back against Stiles’ bed. Stiles doesn’t say anything and Derek can see his face to know what he was thinking.

He has so many questions on the tip of his tongue, but he’s not sure that he wants to know the answers. He doesn’t want to know what the alphas had done to make Stiles the shaking mess he is now. So he asks a different question that has been bugging him since he found Stiles being chased through the woods.

“Why did they let you go?” Derek asks, shifting so he can see Stiles’ face.

Stiles turns onto his side, putting a hand under his cheek and giving Derek an offended look. “They didn’t. I escaped.”

Derek blinks at him. Of course Stiles escaped. Why would he assume otherwise?

“How?”

“By outsmarting those fuckers,” Stiles says proudly, though a little sleepily. He blinks slowly already giving in to sleep. “Why are you looking at me like that? You don’t think I’m capable of that?”

“No, you’re just-” Derek cuts himself off before he can continue his sentence and say something stupid. “I guess I just underestimated you.”

“Too right, you did,” Stiles says, eyes slipping completely close now. “None of you appreciate my talents.”

Stiles is joking, but Derek suddenly realises just how much truth is behind his words. None of them give Stiles enough credit for what he is put through because of them, without complaining. Well, maybe there is a little complaining. 

The point is, Stiles has proven to Derek that not all humans are as useless and irritating as he’d previously thought.

As Derek’s eyes roamed Stiles’ peaceful half asleep face, Derek takes him in. The bruise under his right eye, the cut on his chin and the way his hair is almost curling around his ears after not being cut for too long. But also the array of freckles, his dark eyelashes and his slightly pouted lips.

Stiles peaks one eye open and catches him staring but Derek doesn’t look away.

“Where are they Stiles?” Derek asks softly.

Stiles doesn’t need him to clarify who, and just as he falls asleep, Stiles mumbles out the rough location. Its not exact but its enough.

Derek looks down at him, glad to have him back and safe but his heart aching to see the purple bruises on his face. He looks to the window, at the pitch-black sky and walks over to close the curtains. He takes one last look at Stiles’ sleeping form then once again pulls his phone out of his pocket, dials the sheriff’s number, then turns to leave.

Chapter Text

Stiles wakes from a nightmare, not knowing where he is. His mind is still trapped in that room and when he feels the soft sheets on his skin, it only disorientates him more. There is a hand on his forehead and Stiles feels trapped under the weight of the comforter. As soon as he has use of his limbs, he sits up. It’s only when another hand grips his shoulder and his eyes focus on the person sitting on a chair next to him, that Stiles realises he is in a familiar bed.

“Dad?” he says on a gasped breath.

He barely has time to comprehend that his dad is right in front of him after a month apart, before he’s being pulled into a bone crushing hug. He doesn’t even feel the pain in the bruises littering his sides as his dad holds him tight. They cling to each other for a long time, probably the longest Stiles has ever hugged his dad, as Stiles mutters apologies into his shoulder and his dad shakes his head, telling him he’s just glad he’s ok.

Stiles had only seen his dad cry a few times in his life, and he hopes he never sees it again.

Eventually, Stiles drops his arms and his dad reluctantly lets him go so he can manoeuvre his legs over the side of the bed. He tries not to notice his dad’s eyes roaming his injured face, instead catching sight of the clock next to his bed.

“How long was I asleep?” he asks. He doesn’t even know what day it is.

“Only a few hours. Derek called me at one in the morning, saying he’d found you and that I needed to come home. You were asleep when I got here.”

Derek’s name sends a flood of memories, hazy enough to have been a dream, through Stiles’ mind. He almost wonders if he’d hallucinated the events of the night before, Derek looking after him, staying until he fell asleep just because he asked him to. The gentleness of Derek’s touch does seem a bit unrealistic in hindsight, even for Stiles’ fantasies. But his dad says Derek was here, so he didn’t imagine that, at least. Perhaps Derek had just dropped him home then left, the rest a dream.

“So where’s uh… where is Derek?” Stiles asks, trying for casual but his dad raises an eyebrow. “Not that I, like, need to know or anything. He just didn’t say goodbye. Did you see him last night? What did he say?”

“He just told me you were here and that he had somewhere to be.”

“Did he say anything else?”

The sheriff is standing now and he gives a noncommittal shrug before gesturing to Stiles. “He said that you needed to go to the hospital and get your leg looked at.”

Stiles groans. “It’s fine! I just sprained it or something.”

His dad gives him a look, not buying it.

“Really? Stand up,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Stiles glances down at his ankle, hesitating before shakily getting to his feet. His dad’s unimpressed expression falls into one of concern as he steps towards him with a hand reaching out. Stiles waves him away.

“Derek also said you’d refuse to get help,” his dad says, as if he and Derek were conspiring against him.

Stiles rolls his eyes. Did they think he couldn’t look after himself? He almost says as much but holds his tongue when he remembers that he’d just spend a month with a pack of alphas because he evidently could not look after himself.

Defeated, he says, “Whatever. Fine.”

Relieved, his dad moves towards the door. “Get changed, I’m going to grab my keys.”

Stiles blinks. “Now?”

“Yes now Stiles.”

•••

Almost immediately upon opening his front door, Stiles is tackled into a hug. One of the crutches he’d been given at the hospital is squished between him and his attacker’s body, but the arms don’t let go.

“Uh… Hi?” he says with a weak laugh, lifting his free arm to return the hug. He doesn’t have to turn his head to know that the body wrapped around him is Scott.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” he mumbles next to Stiles’ ear.

Stiles wants to say he won’t but he doesn’t want to make a promise he can’t keep.

Recovering from his surprise, Stiles looks over Scott’s shoulder to see his friends, or more specifically, his pack, all crowded at the living room door.

The hug soon turns into more of a group huddle as one by one they all join, telling him that they’d missed him as well as various threats to never do something like that again. The last person to hug him is Lydia but her’s is the longest besides Scott’s, telling him he should have told her as soon as he found the alpha pack. The overwhelming greeting has Stiles a little choked up as he makes his way into the living room. He’s still getting used to walking on the crutches but, despite his protests, walking is a lot easier with the support, especially with the cast around his ankle and he’s kind of grateful for them now.

Stiles’ dad had edged his way around them and disappeared into the kitchen, before returning to let him know he was going to buy some food, apparently having been living off take out while Stiles was gone. Stiles reminds himself to scold him for it later. He’d had offered to cook, but his dad adamantly refused, shaking his head in despair at his son’s refusal to just sit down.

Stiles ends up recounting the events of the last month in vague detail about ten different times as people bombard him with questions. It’s not until everyone but Scott has left that Stiles relaxes, sitting across from him on the couch.

“Dude, I thought Derek was going to lose his mind. Seriously, he went out looking for you every day and he wouldn’t talk to anyone, at least not without growling at them.”

Stiles ignores the feeling in his stomach at knowing that Derek was looking for him and instead asks the question that has been bothering him since he woke up. “Where is Derek?”

“He didn’t tell you?” Scott asks with a frown. “He took the pack out last night to find the alphas. It was like two am when he called us all, said we needed to come quick because he’d found you and knew where the alphas were. He didn’t tell us until we were on our way there that you were safe in your room.”

Stiles’ breathing picks up. “You went there? How did you know where to find it?”

“Derek said you told him.”

“I don’t remember.” Stiles frowns, probably less concerned about the gaps in his memory than he should be. “What happened?”

“We found one of them at the place you were held, he gave up their location, with a little convincing from Derek. They weren’t expecting us, it was almost easy. I think Derek killed half of them on his own.” Scott’s enthusiastic retelling of the night’s events are cut short and his face drops as he sees Stiles’ faraway look. “They’re gone Stiles. All of them.”

When Stiles just looks down, he places a hand on his shoulder, expression worried as he watches him.

“Are you ok?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

Scott doesn’t seem convinced, but he lets Stiles pretend and for the next hour, they catch up on everything Stiles has missed. Pointless stuff that helps take Stiles’ mind off everything else.

Scott is in the middle of telling him about all the supernatural things that had happened in Beacon Hills while he was gone - all of which Stiles notes down to research later - when the sheriff opens the front door, a bag in each hand.

“What are you doing awake?” he asks Stiles.

“What?” Stiles plays dumb, like he doesn’t remember the doctor telling him he needs to sleep a ridiculous number of hours to let his body rest. Apparently being locked in a dark room for a month, not knowing what time it is, can really mess up your sleep schedule. But Stiles doesn’t want to sleep.

“You know what I’m talking about,” the sheriff says on his way to the kitchen. “Sorry Scott, doctor’s orders. You can come back tomorrow but right now Stiles needs to sleep.”

“But it’s only five,” Stiles whines loudly so his dad can hear him through the open door.

“I don’t care, you need sleep to heal, so get your ass to bed,” his dad says, standing in the doorway now and ignoring Stiles’ pleading eyes. “I’ll wake you up when dinner is ready.”

Stiles pouts and crosses his arms, looking over at Scott. He expects him to support him like a decent best friend but he just nods. Stiles gives him a betrayed scowl.

“I mean… Stiles, you look exhausted.”

“Traitor.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Scott says and Stiles lets him hug him goodbye before he’s out the door and it’s just Stiles and his dad again.

“Bed,” his dad says, turning back to the kitchen.

Stiles groans and grumbles but forces himself up the stairs to his bedroom. For a split second before opening the door he hopes he might find a certain werewolf waiting for him, but his room is empty.

He flops onto his bed, above the covers and closes his eyes. He tries to fall asleep, he really does, but as he lies there, sleep evades him and all he can do is dwell on memories he’d rather forget.

•••

Derek knocks lightly on Stiles’ bedroom window, poking his head in when he gets no reply. The room is silent and when his eyes fix on Stiles, he finds him in bed, asleep. Derek isn’t surprised. He’d been half asleep when Derek had found him. He wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t wake up for at least a few more hours. But he wants to see that he’s ok. So, instead of slipping silently out the window, he swings his leg over the sill and climbs inside.

Stiles is lying on his stomach with his cheek squished against the pillow. Derek already knows that Stiles’ face is a mess, the image would probably never leave the back of his mind, but seeing him in the daylight, hours after he’d first found him, reminds him that he can’t heal in mere minutes. That Stiles’ life is fragile, and one day, he might lose him.

He wants to protect him, to never let him near another werewolf again, even if it means pushing him away. But he’s been pushing Stiles away. Been keeping him at arms length, never letting him get too close. The entire reason he’d left Stiles’ that night was because he couldn’t let himself sit in the comfortable quiet of his room without thinking about how much he craves to be closer. 

The alphas must have smelled him from a mile away, seen him as an easy target. The mix of werewolf and human scent would be intriguing to any werewolf and Derek is always wary about touching Stiles too much, scared that it might put him in danger. But Stiles is constantly surrounded by werewolves. There’s nothing Derek can say to convince him to stay away, especially when he doesn’t think he could handle it if he did.

Derek doesn’t operate like other alphas, he doesn’t like to force his pack to do things and he certainly isn’t going to force Stiles to take the bite. But sometimes, he wishes he would, just to make him safer. Then Derek wouldn’t have to worry so much when Stiles is a few minutes late or isn’t answering his phone.

But of course, Stiles is happy being human and Derek likes that he’s human, likes him just the way he is. But still, he’s constantly on edge when Stiles isn’t around.

Perhaps pushing him away isn’t the answer. After all, if Derek hadn’t been in those woods, Stiles would be dead.

It’s just that sometimes… it’s hard for him to believe anyone’s life would be better with him in it.

He crouches down next to Stiles. Besides the bruises and the crease between his eyebrows, he looks perfectly content. Derek has only seen him like this a handful of times. Sometimes, when he’d sneak in through Stiles’ window, it would be late at night and he’d have to wake him up. And Derek would let himself look. He’d pause, hand halfway to Stiles’ shoulder and consider running a hand through his dark hair, waking him up with a whisper of his name.

He never did, of course. Like the coward he is, he would shake his shoulder, scowl firmly in place. And then Stiles would lecture Derek about not waking him up in the middle of the night, despite insisting he be involved in all pack meetings. Derek would listen when Stiles started locking his window - something he had tried to convince him to do many times.

Derek listens for the sound of the sheriff and hears the clang of metal interrupted by occasional muttering from the kitchen downstairs. The faint smell of food on the air confirms that he is cooking dinner, a disaster waiting to happen but that’s none of Derek’s business.

Determining that Stiles is safe and that he’s no longer needed, Derek decides to leave.

He has one foot outside the window when Stiles speaks.

“You know, every other werewolf I know just uses the front door, so this creepy climbing through windows thing is one hundred percent you.”

Derek freezes, looking over to see that Stiles’ eyes have opened to watch him lazily.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“Is that supposed to make it less creepy?”

Derek ignores him, instead nodding to the crutches lying on the floor beside Stiles’ bed. “You went to the hospital?”

Stiles rolls onto his back and sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Yeah. Dad took me as soon as I woke up.”

The dark circles under Stiles’ non-black eye tell Derek that he wasn’t asleep for long, if at all. Feeling guilty for waking him again, Derek averts his eyes.

“And you’re alright?”

“Why?” Stiles asks, picking up his crutch and standing up, just inches from where Derek is already standing by the window. “Are you worried about me?”

Derek feels an ache somewhere in his chest that Stiles has to ask. Isn’t it obvious? Is it not written all over his face that the past month has been hell for him?

“We thought you were dead Stiles,” Derek says quietly. The emotion in his voice is a little too revealing but Derek doesn’t have the control to disguise it and Stiles only looks back at him with guilt. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Stiles says, a forced playful glint in his eye.

Derek doesn’t return his smile and Stiles’ drops.

“You weren’t there when I woke up,” he says and Derek goes to explain, but Stiles interrupts him. “Scott told me what happened. With the alphas.”

Derek just watches him carefully, unsure whether his tone is disapproving or not. Humans can have a strange reaction to wolf pack dynamics. Even if Stiles wasn’t the most important person in Derek’s life, he was still pack. The alphas had declared war as soon as they laid hands on him.

But Stiles isn’t looking at him with disapproval. He’s looking at Derek like he wants to say something but won’t let himself, like he can’t quite get the words out.

“I-”

“Stiles!” the sheriff calls from downstairs.

Stiles stands holding his gaze for just a moment before sighing and turning away. He leaves Derek standing in the middle of the room and Derek can feel every step he takes away from him like an elastic band, straining from the distance.

He should probably leave, he has no reason to be here. But he lingers, wanting to be surrounded by Stiles’ scent for a little longer.

He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop. But the door is wide open and the problem with werewolf hearing is that whether you want to hear something or not, you usually do.

“Is Derek staying for dinner?” he hears the sheriff say.

“Huh?” Stiles eloquently replies.

There’s a pause and Derek knows the sheriff is raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “What? You think just because I don’t have super hearing, I can’t hear you two talking in your room?”

Another pause, this time the image of Stiles’ stupid mouth agape in mock outrage enters Derek’s mind. An image that is far too vivid for someone who spends most of their time resolutely not looking at Stiles’ mouth.

“You thought I didn’t know?” the sheriff asks and Derek doesn’t miss the implication in the question. As if he knows there’s something more between them that they haven’t even acknowledged to each other, let alone him.

Derek feels exposed. Can everyone else see how he feels? Everyone but Stiles?

“You never say anything,” Stiles replies accusingly. 

“I’ve learned not to when it comes to you and your wolves.”

Derek smiles despite himself, thinking of himself as Stiles’ wolf. Because in a lot of ways, Derek belongs to Stiles, heart and soul, mind and body.

“So is he staying or not?”

Derek can hear the flail of Stiles’ arms, followed by a defeated, “I’ll ask him.”

Derek steps away from the door, briefly considering escaping out the window. Stiles won’t even know he ran away, he’ll just assume he left after the sheriff called him down. It would save them a lot of awkwardness and he wouldn’t have to convince Stiles’ dad that no, there isn’t anything going on between him and his son. Though it wouldn’t even be a lie.

“He’s probably gone anyway,” Stiles mutters to himself as his footsteps start up the stairs.

Derek stops short at the undertone of insecurity in Stiles’ voice. Surely, he doesn’t want Derek to stay?

He doesn’t have time to think about it, because the next second Stiles is at the top of the stairs, walking into the room and Derek has no choice but to stay.

“Oh. You’re still here,” Stiles says, not bothering to hide his surprise. He shifts on his feet, eyes shifting around the room. “I guess you heard that, huh?”

Derek can smell Stiles’ nervousness tangled with his own.

“Do you not want me to be here?” he asks and Stiles eyes widen slightly.

“What? No- I didn’t say that,” he says unconvincingly. “I mean- obviously I want you here, like- I like it when you’re here. But do I want you here, having dinner with me and my dad? That’s… that’s more of a gray area.”

Derek stares at him, suddenly remembering how baffling it could be to talk to Stiles.

“Do you want to be here?” Stiles asks.

Derek doesn’t answer that question, because apparently, human hearing isn’t as bad as he’d thought and the idea of the sheriff listening to this was humiliating.

“I’m hungry,” he says instead, pushing past Stiles and starting down the stairs. “Have you eaten today?”

“Yes mom.”

Derek gives him a withering look, but his face transforms into a polite smile as he greets Stiles’ dad. He’s prepared to be interrogated and most likely embarrassed, but surprisingly, when the sheriff sees Derek, he smiles.

“Derek! Nice of you to venture downstairs instead of staying only in my son’s bedroom.”

Derek’s shoulders tense and he sees Stiles look at him, as if making sure his eyes are not flashing red, but he only ducks his head slightly. As Derek opens his mouth, the sheriff continues before he can speak.

“I hope you are staying because I’ve made enough for four and Stiles has been told not to eat too much too soon.”

The sheriff finishes distributing the meal and Derek realises there are three plates already lined up on the side.

“Thank you, sir,” he says as the sheriff hands him a plate, piled high.

He receives a pat on the shoulder and a smile as the sheriff walks past him with his own plate. Derek looks to Stiles and receives only a shrug in answer.

The three of them sit around the table, the two Stilinski’s doing most of the talking. Derek is happy to just sit and watch them but they involve him in every conversation, even when he has no idea what or who they are talking about. Derek can tell Stiles is relieved to be in such a familiar place, back with his dad and in the safety of his home. And Derek is also grateful. It’s been a long time since he’s got to experience the easy closeness of family.

•••

After they’ve cleared their plates and after the sheriff leaves to get back to work the night shift - despite Stiles telling him to call in sick and not exhaust himself - Derek and Stiles wash up. Well, Derek washes, Stiles dries.

Metal clinks together as Stiles puts the last knife in the cutlery draw, cutting through the comfortable quiet that had settled over them. His eyes flick to the side to Derek, wondering what he’s thinking about. Wondering if he should say anything about the night before, thank him or ask him if it was real. Because sometimes, Stiles isn’t sure if it is just his feelings distorting things or if Derek really does look at him with a softness reserved just for him.

And look, Derek is insanely hot and Stiles wants nothing more than to ask him whether he is imagining things or if there really is something between them. But Derek is also emotionally stunted and kind of terrifying when he wants to be and Stiles has no idea how to broach the subject. So Stiles lets them walk the line between friends and something more, hoping one day he’ll have an answer.

Stiles can tell Derek isn’t really sure that he’s supposed to still be here - like there’s a time limit for how long he’s needed - and when Stiles turns to face him properly, he finds a question in his green eyes. But as usual Derek doesn’t voice his question, just frowns deeply. An expression that, if he didn’t know him better, Stiles would assume meant he was angry with him.

“I should-” Derek starts to say.

“Hey, you know what I haven’t done in two months now?” Stiles blurts, cutting him off, “Watched a Star Wats movie. And I seem to remember you promising me you’d watch them all with me.”

They’d become closer in recent years, enough that Stiles would consider Derek one of his closest friends, but they’d still never really hung out – though not through lack of trying on Stiles’ part. The pack sometimes had meetings that turned into hang outs where they might watch a movie or have dinner but Derek always seemed to find an excuse not to be alone with him. After Derek had admitted to never seeing a Star Wars movie, Stiles had spent perhaps a year wearing Derek down until he’d agreed to a marathon.

Derek pauses, uncertain. “Your dad said you need to be in bed by ten.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles rolls his eyes. “Fine. We’ll just watch the first one.”

When Derek hesitates again, Stiles rubs the back of his neck, regretting making the suggestion. But Stiles is more than aware of how Derek sees him as someone he needs to protect, being the only human member of the pack. And he’s not against using it against him, even if Derek is intent on pretending he’s not protective of him. 

“I don’t… want to be alone,” he eventually explains.

Derek doesn’t seem to need much convincing as he puts down the cloth he was drying his hands on and nods, “I can stay.”

•••

At some point, Stiles had discovered that Derek liked when people ran their hands through his hair. He’d laughed and joked that Derek was ‘just a big puppy’ but what he didn’t know (and hopefully would never find out) was that Derek just likes Stiles’ fingers in his hair. The petting was just a bonus.

Stiles sits beside him now, arm thrown over the back of the couch, and somewhere between the opening credits to now, his hand had made it’s way into his hair. Starting with a finger at the top of his neck and somehow ending up with a fistful about half way through the movie.  

Derek is hit, suddenly, with the intensity of how much he’d missed him. He hadn’t realised how much Stiles had ingrained himself into his life until he was alone again. He’d find himself waiting for a sarcastic comment and being disappointed when the members of his pack followed his commands without argument. He’d missed Stiles’ annoying comments and his refusal to follow his orders.

And now, whenever he looks at Stiles, his mind is filled with images of him beaten and bloody, whimpering and in pain.

“Hey,” Stiles’ voice drags him out of his spiralling thoughts and back to the present. “What are you thinking?”

Derek slides his eyes away from the TV and lets them settle on Stiles. The hand in his hair stops as they lock eyes and Derek’s heart is suddenly in his mouth. He’s tired. Tired of pushing Stiles away when all he wants is to find out what would happen if he let himself be honest. But now is not the time for confessions.

“I’m sorry I let this happen to you,” he says, letting his head fall back on Stiles' hand.

“We’ve been over this. If I’m not allowed to blame myself then you aren’t either,” Stiles says returning his attention to the movie. Derek hasn’t been paying attention past the first five minutes.

When Derek forgets to tear his eyes away from Stiles’ profile, he looks back at him with a self conscious frown.

“What?”

Derek shakes his head, eyes back on the TV. “Nothing.”

It’s about half way through the movie when Stiles removes his arm from behind Derek, lifts his legs onto the couch and rests his head on Derek’s shoulder.

Unlike before, Stiles’ touch is no longer hesitant. His heart barely stutters and Derek wonders what he’d done to make Stiles feel so safe with him when all he ever does is bare his teeth and threaten to rip his throat out. It doesn’t matter that Derek would never really hurt him, Stiles isn’t supposed to see through him so easily.

Derek tries to pay attention to what’s going on in the movie – because he knows Stiles is going to quiz him on it afterwards – but he’s distracted. Stiles’ breathing has evened out to the point that Derek keeps checking that he is still awake. By the time the credits roll, his eyes are closed and Derek has to nudge him awake.

“Stiles,” he says once he’s turned off the TV. “You’ll hurt your neck if you sleep here.”

“Hm,” Stiles replies, unmoving. “Carry me.”

“I’m not going to carry you.”

“Yes you will,” Stiles mumbles into his shoulder.

Derek scoffs, thinking he’s joking. But just Stiles just stays put and Derek realises he’s right. He absolutely will carry him. With a sigh - questioning what had led him to this point - Derek picks Stiles up for the second time in twenty four hours and carries him up the stairs.

After Derek unceremoniously dumps him on the bathroom floor and fetches some pyjamas for him - feeling a little like a maid at this point - Stiles gives him a spare toothbrush. He doesn’t let himself think about what it means that he’s still here, that Stiles clearly wants him here. 

Derek hovers by the door for a moment as Stiles gets in bed, shuffling purposefully to one side. But then Derek remembers Stiles’ small voice saying I don’t want to be alone and he gives in, sitting in the same spot as the night before. Stiles lies stiffly on his back then looks down at him.

“Are you really going to sleep down there?”

“I’m not sleeping.”

“Just get up here, you’re making me feel uncomfortable just looking at you.”

“No.”

“Fine. I’ll join you then.”

Stiles starts to get out of bed but before he can even fully push back the covers, Derek’s hand comes up to stop him.

“Just-” Derek starts, “lie back down.”

Stiles does, shifting further over as Derek climbs in next to him. He settles onto his back, staring up at the ceiling as Stiles fidgets, trying to get comfortable.

This close, Derek can smell the hint of other wolves in Stiles’ scent. He’d noticed it the night before but hoped it would wash away.

He can’t help his wolf instincts that tell him Stiles is his, the thought of anyone touching him was almost enough to make him loose control of himself. But of course Stiles isn’t his. No matter what Derek’s stupid brain tells him, Stiles does not belong to him.

“You still smell wrong,” Derek says with a scowl.

Stiles breaths a laugh as he finally settles on his side, facing the wall. Derek can’t see his face as he says, “Then scent me up if it’s bothering you that much.”

“Scent you up?”

“Just-” Stiles reaches back, pulling Derek’s arm over his waist, “Shut up.”

Stiles holds Derek’s wrist loosely in his hand against his chest, allowing him to pull away if he wants to. Despite Derek being strong enough to resist, he lets himself be pulled forward until his chest is pressed against Stiles’ back.

His nose presses against the spot under Stiles’ hair, just behind his ear.

“Better?” Stiles whispers.

Derek just hums, drawing him in closer and nosing the soft skin that smells like Stiles’ shampoo. He feels Stiles shiver beneath his hands as he leans into the embrace.

It proves how exhausted they both are that they’re able to get any sleep at all, but once Derek is sure Stiles is asleep, he lets himself try to do the same.

•••

The first time Derek wakes up, it’s to the sound of Stiles’ quickening heartbeat and breathing. His muscles flinch and Derek draws him closer to his chest protectively, suddenly fully awake.

“Stiles,” he whispers, hoping his voice might calm him.

But his chest continues to heave, mumbling, “No,” followed by a whimper that breaks Derek’s heart. He lifts his head so he can just see the deep frown on Stiles’ face.

“Stiles,” he says, louder this time, with a hand on his shoulder. When Stiles’ frown only deepens further, Derek shakes him and Stiles wakes with a start.

He sends an elbow into Derek’s stomach, scrambling to get away.

“Let go of me!” he gasps, but Derek manages get an arm under his body and holds both his arms to his sides.

“Stop. Stiles.”

He holds one of Stiles’ arms in one hand, keeping the other trapped under his arm, then lifts his other hand to his face. Gently but firmly, he turns Stiles’ face to look back at him.

“Stop. You’re ok. It was a dream.”

Stiles struggles for barley a second before going limp against his chest. Derek keeps their eyes locked as he breaths slowly and Stiles follows the movement of his chest.

When Derek can hear that Stiles’ heartbeat is somewhere close to calm, he lets him go. Stiles rolls onto his back next to him and puts his hands over his face.

“Sorry. I didn’t want you to hurt yourself,” Derek says lamely.

“’s not your fault,” Stiles says.

Derek watches him, wondering whether he was making it worse, whether he should offer to leave. Before he can say anything, Stiles removes his hands from his face and turns to face him. He closes the distance between them, burrowing into Derek’s chest and Derek lets him.

“You don’t have to stay,” Stiles says into his chest.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Derek reassures him. He rubs a hand up and down Stiles’ back in a way he hopes is soothing.

“Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

It takes longer for Derek to fall asleep this time, but when he does, it’s with Stiles’ head tucked under his chin, his hair tickling his skin and his breath warm where it fans across his shirt, over his heart.

•••

Stiles wakes to the feeling of a warm body pressed against his own. He’d almost expected Derek to be gone when he woke up, but he’s still there, arms securely around him, breathing in sync. 

He lays in Derek’s warmth for a long time, content to stay there for the rest of time. He doesn’t know when Derek wakes up, but just as the light outside the window is bright enough for him to see it through his eyelids, he feels the gentle press of lips against the top of his head. 

“Did you just kiss my hair?”

He’s met with silence and the slight tensing of muscle. 

He leans back, squinting his eyes open against the morning sun. Derek is resolutely trying not to show any emotion on his face. 

“Oh my god you’re a total sap,” Stiles says, voicing his realisation. 

“Shut up Stiles.”

Stiles grins and Derek gives him his disapproving head tilt that only makes him grin wider.

“No. This is awesome. You really are all bark and no bite.”

“I’ve literally killed people with my teeth,” Derek says, though the effect is lost slightly when said in a voice gravely from sleep. Which Stiles finds way too attractive, it’s actually unfair.

He waves his hand dismissively.  “Technicalities.”

Derek glares, trying to retain some semblance of his usual intimidating facade. But Stiles can see the corner of his lips wanting to smile. 

“You’re ridiculous.”

Stiles gets up onto one elbow. “You love me.”

Derek pauses, looking at Stiles so intensely that for once Stiles feels like he can read every emotion in his eyes. He releases a soft, defeated sigh and his eyes fall to Stiles’ lips. Stiles leans further towards him, far enough for Derek to pull away and pretend nothing had happened, but close enough that his intent was clear. His eyes travel down, then back up to Derek’s eyes. 

“Do you?” he whispers with more confidence than he knew he possessed. 

Derek is staring at his lips now. “Stiles…”

And this is the start of more than one of Stiles’ fantasies and he kind of just wants to find out whether it will end as well as he’s imagined.

And Stiles has always had zero impulse control. So he kisses him.

He leans forward, pressing his lips to Derek’s in a light kiss and Derek doesn’t pull away. He kisses with as much feeling as Stiles, muttering, “I do. Fuck, I do.” against Stiles’ mouth.