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"I was never meant to be in a ship."
Derek growled as he hauled Stiles away from the...pixies? Small, biting, flying things. Whatever. Isaac and Scott had them under control.
Mostly, he amended to himself, as there was a yelp from behind him.
"I mean. I get motion sick in boats. But what does that mean if my entire life is a ship, now." Because Stiles didn't make much more sense when he was probably concussed than he did when he was perfectly healthy and able to walk upright. "I mean, you. You are, like, destined for ships. All hot, crusty exterior and woobie in the middle. You'd get slashed with rocks. You probably have been slashed with rocks. Oh my god, I think I might even read that."
Exactly how was he supposed to reply to that? Yes, he'd been slashed with rocks? It had hurt, and what the fuck is wrong with you? Derek already knew the answer to that. Probable concussion.
"But, me. I'm mostly comic, right? That makes, like, zero sense. I mean, I guess I'm a bit dorky and socially awkward and therefore identifiable, but really. Who wants to be thinking about that? Jerek, now. I mean, you'd need to gag him, but that could be hot."
"What are you talking about," Derek huffed, setting Stiles down and leaning him up against the jeep. Stiles' pupils were mostly blown, but even. He wasn't any less focused than usual, when he didn't have something to fixate on.
For having a pixie, or whatever, smacked into his skull like a pillow made of lead, Stiles looked...fine. He was even mostly keeping himself upright, now.
"Jerek. Or Jarek, maybe. I dunno. I mean, it's not really my thing? But I think it'd make better porn. Sterek is just...I mean. Why? I'm not bad looking, but fantasy material I am not."
Derek resisted the urge to thump Stiles' head back against the jeep. Counterproductive. "What. Are you. Talking about."
"Jerek. You and Jackson. Like. Having sex."
What.
"Sterek is us. And it's, like, stupid popular. I mean, I don't even."
Derek stared for a moment and looked very, very carefully at Stiles' eyes. There really didn't seem to be any noticeable variation, but maybe that was misleading. Maybe it was some other form of brain damage. "Get in the car."
It took a bit of wrangling, but eventually Stiles was sitting in the passenger seat, even if he was turned sideways and his legs were hanging out. "You think so too, right?"
"About what?"
"Jerek. It just..."
"No, actually, that's not something I want to think about." Derek frowned and pushed Stiles back against the seat before manhandling his legs inside, sighing when Stiles pouted up at him. "I think I prefer Sterek, honestly."
He shut the door on Stiles, but hadn't run fast enough to miss it when Stiles said, "And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why we don't let the Stilinskis get covered in pixie dust. Oh my god. Have you seen what you've done?"