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“Pack a bag.”
Stiles looks up and sees Derek coming through his window. He doesn’t even bother to look at Stiles as he says it. Just straightens up and casually glances around his bedroom.
“At least a week of clothes. Make sure you bring some sort of jacket,” he goes on.
“Wha-what? Why? Where are we going? Why do you think I’m going to go anywhere with you?” Stiles sputters, waving his hands in time with his questions.
Derek looks at him and rolls his eyes.
“Just do it, Stiles.”
Stiles gapes. He knows his mouth is hanging open in an unattractive way, but, let’s face it, that would never matter with Derek. There’s no way Derek would ever consider if Stiles is attractive. It also isn’t the point right now.
“I cannot just pack a bag and leave with you in the middle of the night. This is not a Regency novel, I’m not running away to Gretna Green with you.”
Derek rolls his eyes even harder. “It’s 11 in the morning, Stiles.”
“That? That is what you took from that? Seriously?”
“If you want any other clothes, you should get them now. I’m not waiting around for you.”
“There is no way I can just disappear for days, dude. My dad will start a manhunt. Literally. With inter-agency coordination.”
“Bring your laptop” is Derek’s only reply.
Stiles stares until Derek huffs.
“Your dad already knows,” he says through his teeth, like giving information physically pains him.
Stiles does not believe that’s a thing that is possible, so he grabs his phone. He pulls up his text chain with his father and types Derek Hale says he has your permission to kidnap me. He glares at Derek some more while he waits for a response.
Dad: Don ’t forget your adderall.
“What?!”
Stiles stares at his phone. He is baffled. He currently exists in a state of complete bafflement.
Derek snorts from beside him. Stiles jumps and nearly falls over.
“Don’t do that!”
“Just pack the damn bag, Stiles.”
“Fine!”
Much to Stiles’ surprise, Derek doesn’t drive him deep into the woods. Instead, he takes him out to the outskirts of a small town on the coast and parks in front of a small beach house. He gets out of the car and goes inside, leaving Stiled to follow. Once he gets inside, Stiles slowly turns in a circle, looking at the open plan of the first floor.
“You brought me to a cottage on the beach,” Stiles says, turning back around to face Derek.
Derek huffs, like he’s the one being inconvenienced.
“It’s a beach house.”
“Why do you always pick the least relevant thing I say to respond to? What’s up with that?”
“Just—go pick a room, then we’ll talk.”
Stiles grabs his bag and heads for the stairs. He has no idea why Derek is letting him choose first, but he’s going to take full advantage.
He finds two bedrooms upstairs, They’re about the same size—same size bed, anyway. He ends up choosing one mostly randomly and drops the bag Derek made him pack on the bed.
There’s a large window on one wall. When he opens the blinds, they look across the road into a forest that slopes upward into foothills. He opens the window, and can hear the waves, even though the beach is on the other side of the house. He still doesn’t understand why Derek forced him to come here, but he has to admit it’s definitely the nicest place he’s ever ended up after being kidnapped. The nicest kidnapping he’s experienced full stop. He didn’t get knocked out. Didn’t even get tied up.
Speaking of kidnappings, he wants answers, and he’s done waiting for them.
On his way down to the kitchen where he last saw Derek, he pulls his phone out of his pocket. Scott hasn’t responded to any of his texts about the situation. Neither has anyone else. He got a few new emails, and he definitely has service, so he suspects Derek is responsible for that too.
“Why isn’t Scott answering my texts?” he asks, walking into the kitchen to find Derek putting away groceries.
“You’ll survive for a few days without Scott.”
Stiles could just hear Derek rolling his eyes. He makes a face at Derek’s back.
“That’s not the point. How have you turned all of my friends against me? Why have you turned all of my friends against me?”
Derek turns around to look at him, folding a plastic bag and setting it with a pile of equally neatly folded bags. Stiles squints at them. That just isn’t natural. Who folds plastic grocery bags? Crazy people, that’s who.
“No one has turned against you, Stiles. We’re all worried about you. Everyone agreed to let me try something.”
“I’m fine, dude. I keep telling everyone that.”
Derek looks at him steadily. Stiles looks away when he can’t stand it anymore. He knows Derek knows he just lied—knows Derek knows that he knows it. He waits for Derek to say something about it. He never does. Stiles lets the silence stretch as long as he can stand before breaking it.
“No offense, dude, but you aren’t exactly the go to person in the pack for talking about feelings.”
He knows that was probably hurtful, knows he should feel bad about it, but fuck that, Derek apparently kidnapped him as some sort of intervention. He should feel bad about it.
He doesn’t expect Derek to say, “You don’t have to talk about it. You don’t have to talk at all if you don’t want to. I won’t force you to.”
Stiles stares. He wasn’t expecting that answer. He narrows his eyes.
“What’s the catch? You’ll keep me here until we have some big heart to heart.”
“No, Stiles. We’re here for a week. You don’t have to do anything, but if you do want to talk, I’ll listen.”
Derek hesitates, before opening his mouth again.
“I know something about guilt. That’s why I asked your dad if I could bring you here.”
Stiles doesn’t know what he thinks about that. He had assumed Derek drew the short straw, by virtue of not having a normal job or something. He hadn’t considered that this might all be Derek’s idea.
“Whatever. What do we have to eat?”
Stiles wakes up with a gasp. His throat is raw in a way that tells him he was screaming. He doesn’t recognize the room he’s in. Is he actually awake? It’s much nicer than the normal places in his nightmares.
There’s a tap at the door. He freezes, not sure he wants to know what’s on the other side. He stares as the knob turns.
“Stiles?”
It’s Derek’s voice—soft and careful.
“Y-yeah?”
Derek opens the door and leans against the doorjamb. He’s looking at Stiles, but not the way Stiles expects to be looked at by someone he just woke up screaming. He looks concerned, but the way he’s watching Stiles is so different than how his dad does, how Scott has on the few occasions he’s been there when Stiles has a nightmare. Derek isn’t looking at him like he’s fragile or broken. Stiles hadn’t even realized just how much of that has been directed his way until he’s sitting here seeing its absence.
“Do you want me to make you some tea?”
Stiles stares, heart slowing and body relaxing as he takes in that surreal question.
“I can’t believe you just offered to make me tea.”
Derek shrugs. “It always helps my throat when I wake up screaming.”
Stiles keeps staring, not sure what to say.
Derek looks at his feet. “Laura used to make it for me, after—”
He shrugs again, not finishing the sentence. He doesn’t need to. Stiles knows what goes at the end of it. After the fire where his whole family died.
“Tea sounds good,” Stiles offers instead of saying anything more.
Derek looks relieved. He nods, then slips out of the doorway. Stiles runs his hand through his sweat-soaked hair, grimacing at the way the wet strands stick to his fingers. His shirt is drenched in sweat, too. He climbs out of bed and goes to grab a dry one. There’s no way he’s getting any more sleep tonight.
When Stiles walks into the kitchen he sees Derek pulling a mug out of the microwave.
“I couldn’t find a kettle,” he says, like Stiles is some sort of tea connoisseur with opinions about how the water is heated.
“It’s fine,” he says. He doesn’t feel like being snarky right now.
Derek just nods and drops a tea bag into the mug. He drops one into another mug. Apparently they’re having tea together. He sets one of those plastic bears fully of honey on the counter in front of Stiles and hands him one of the mugs.
“It’ll be good for your throat.”
Derek is being, not hesitant…careful. Not in the way Stiles is used to people being careful with him after a nightmare. No, this is different. More like Derek is trying to protect himself than protect Stiles. He dunks his tea bag and watches Derek throw away the wrappers.
Derek looks at the clock on the stove after a few minutes of surprisingly comfortable silence, then back to Stiles.
“It should be ready. Here.”
He slides a small plate and a spoon over to Stiles, then nudges the honey closer to him. Stiles takes out the tea bag and obediently stirs in some honey. He pushes the little bear back toward Derek, who shakes his head.
“I don’t really like my tea sweet,” he says.
Stiles is confused. It must show on his face, because Derek says, “I got it in case you needed it.”
Right. Because honey is good for your throat if you wake up screaming and Derek isn’t the one who had a nightmare. Stiles takes a sip of his tea so he doesn’t have to answer. It’s not bad. Stiles isn’t really a tea guy and he has no idea what kind this is, but it’s not too bad.
“Thanks,” he says.
Derek just nods. Stiles takes another sip and waits for the inevitable questions about what he was dreaming followed by rote reassurances that it wasn’t his fault. He’s heard them before. He’s learned to just agree. No one listens to him when he tries to tell them they’re wrong.
He forgot who he was sitting with. Derek just rounds the counter and pulls out the stool next to the one Stiles is sitting on. He doesn’t ask any questions or say anything. It’s nice. Stiles gradually relaxes. He’s actually startled when Derek speaks.
“There’s a path up to the top of the hill across the street,” he says. “The sun will be coming up soon.”
Stiles thinks about it. He normally wouldn’t give a shit about watching the sun rise, but it suits this quiet mood he’s found himself in.
It could still be a trap. Derek might just want to lure him into a sense of security before he pounces and tries to make him talk. Stiles isn’t sure, though. Since they got to the beach house Derek has been really relaxed. Zen, even. Maybe he really did mean it when he said he wouldn’t make Stiles talk. Stiles decides he can risk it.
“Sure,” he says. “That sounds good.”
To Stiles’ surprise, Derek was sincere about not making him talk. They spend their days hanging out on the beach or watching movies. It’s all very peaceful. Stiles even has a night without any nightmares. He can’t even remember how long it’s been since that’s happened. Even before everything with the nogitsune he’d had nightmares more nights than not.
The nights where he does have one go like the first one. Stiles never expected to have a routine for calming down from nightmares, but it’s really nice.
He also never expected to be sitting so close to Derek when they’re watching movies, but somehow they’ve gravitated toward each other. Stiles wonders if they should talk about it. It’s probably just a pack thing, though, so he doesn’t. It’s easy, just like all the other things that have been going on that they aren’t talking about.
Stiles forgot what easy felt like. Oh, it’s not easy like things were before Peter bit Scott and it’s obviously not easy like things were before his mom died, but he feels lighter than he ever imagined feeling again. It’s so strange that Derek is the reason why. Stiles has felt a lot of ways about Derek over the years, but never relaxed.
“How did you sell this to my dad?”
Derek rolls his head to face him, like lifting it off the back of the couch and turning it is more effort than he’s willing to expend. It’s late—Stiles isn’t sure how late, but definitely well past midnight. He’s been wondering about this for days.
“I told him I wanted to see if I could help you by trying some of the things that helped me.”
Derek’s voice is soft, almost lazy. Stiles waits, but it seems like that’s all he’s going to say.
“Did you tell him what those things were? Because we haven’t been doing much besides hanging out on the beach and watching movies, and none of that sounds like it belongs in the John Stilinski Cure for Trauma.”
Stiles resists the urge to make air quotes. Derek’s lips twitch before settling into something more neutral.
“He didn’t ask for specifics. I’m not sure if he decided he could trust me or it was something else that convinced him, but he agreed to let me try to help you.”
“He was probably just desperate. I keep trying not to worry him, but I can’t stop the nightmares and he can tell when I don’t sleep.”
Derek hums, but doesn’t say anything. Stiles rolls his head back to face the tv after a moment. It isn’t even playing anything, just displaying the Netflix menu on mute. Stiles considers trying to find something else to watch, but he doesn’t want to disturb the sense of peace he’s feeling.
“Someone who loves you being worried about you doesn’t mean you’re doing something wrong.”
Apparently Derek isn’t as committed to maintaining silence as Stiles. He considers that idea. He can see why Derek said it. He can also see how it’s true, sometimes. After all, it isn’t his dad’s fault that he has the kind of career that worries Stiles. There’s a huge difference between that and the things his dad has to worry about, though. They’re not the same thing at all.
“Decided to make me talk after all?”
He snaps the words, trying to use them as a weapon in the hopes it will deflect Derek. Or maybe piss him off. Stiles could go for an argument right now.
Instead, Derek sighs then picks up the remote and starts flipping through the menu. Stiles stares blankly at the screen, just trying not to think.
Stiles wakes up feeling relaxed and warm. It’s an unusual feeling, especially these days. Normally he either wakes up in a panic from a nightmare or wakes up feeling so heavy it’s almost worse than if he’d never slept at all.
He’s getting ready to stretch when he hears a soft sound. He freezes when he realizes it came from Derek.
He has no idea what to do do when he registers that, not only did he fall asleep on Derek, at some point they must have moved in their sleep—he assumes Derek had fallen asleep by accident, too—and are lying all the way down on the couch. Cuddling.
He starts to try to extricate himself. Instead of immediately waking up and letting Stiles go or pushing him to the floor or something, Derek tightens his hands where they are on Stiles’ neck and waist and throws one leg over Stiles’ hip like it’s the most natural thing in the world, instead of completely weird.
“Dude—what?”
Derek pulls Stiles’ head forward, smushing it into his shoulder.
“Don’t call me dude,” he mumbles into his hair.
“Really?!”
“Shh, go back to sleep.”
Stiles gapes at, well, at Derek’s shoulder, because Derek hasn’t relaxed his hold at all.
“You’re cuddling me. Like, aggressively. Why are—”
“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek says, but his voice sounds far more fond than it ever has when those words have left his mouth. He threads his fingers into Stiles’ hair, and makes some sort of soft noise in the back of his throat.
When Derek lets out a small snore, Stiles realizes he isn’t going to get any answers right now. He gives up on trying. He also stops trying to get away. Derek at least seemed to know he was doing his best kraken impression on Stiles, so Stiles figures he can stop arguing. Maybe he’ll even be able to get some more sleep.
The next time Stiles wakes up, it’s to find that they’ve moved in their sleep again. This time, he’s sprawled all over Derek. Their legs are tangled together, and—fuck, morning wood. He starts to try to shift his hips away. He isn’t expecting it when Derek mumbles something incoherent and pushes up against Stiles. What do you know, he has morning wood, too, but apparently his instinct isn’t to try to hide that fact. No, he’s decided to press it against Stiles’ hip.
“Uhh…”
Stiles isn’t sure what the hell to do. It isn’t that he minds what ’s going on, he just has no idea what exactly that is. Is Derek even awake? Was Derek awake last night? What is even happening?
“Um, Derek?” he tries when Derek’s hand starts to slide from his shoulder down his spine. He feels like he needs to put a stop to this before it gets even more awkward. He’s pretty sure Derek doesn’t even know who he’s with.
Derek heaves a put upon sigh that moves Stiles’ entire body.
“What, Stiles?”
“Oh my god, are you awake? You’re seriously awake right now? What is happening?”
Derek slowly loosens his hold on Stiles, in a way that feels very reluctant and like he’s humoring Stiles.
“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” he says, voice hoarse from sleep.
Stiles has no idea what to make of that.
“Aren’t you uncomfortable? You’re the one who’s been clinging onto me, Stiles, the guy who’s spent the last two years annoying you. You can barely stand me.”
Derek pulls his head back. Stiles pushes up on one arm so he can look at him. Derek allows him that much movement, but the arm slung low on his waist stays where it is. Stiles isn’t sure how to interpret the look Derek is giving him.
“Is that really what you think?”
Emotions are crossing Derek’s face too fast for Stiles to follow. He looks open—vulnerable in a way Stiles has never seen, with his eyes a little squinty and his hair going everywhere.
“Well, yeah, sort of. I mean, things are a lot better than they used to be, but I figured you mostly just tolerate me for the sake of the pack or something. I mean, isn’t that why we’re here?”
Derek sighs. “You’re such a dumbass.”
“Hey!”
“Stiles,” Derek starts, completely ignoring Stiles’ protest. “I didn’t bring you to the beach in the hopes getting away from everything would help you find peace for the sake of the pack.”
“But—why?”
“Because I care about you. Because I want you to be OK, no, I want you to be happy.”
“Because I’m pack?”
“Stiles.”
So maybe Stiles is being deliberately obtuse. He just doesn’t know how to wrap his head around any of this. He doesn’t know what to do with the idea that Derek went out of his way to set this trip up specifically for Stiles, and not because Scott or his dad asked him to or something. Sure, he was being hyperbolic when he said Derek could barely stand him, but he really doesn’t know what to do with finding out he might have just been completely off base there. Doesn’t want to think about what it will mean for his carefully constructed framework for interacting with Derek and interpreting Derek’s interactions with Stiles.
Stiles figured out at 16 that Derek Hale could be very dangerous to his well-being. Oh, not with the threats of physical violence or the chaos that followed him, although Stiles certainly lost plenty of sleep ovet those. No, the first problem was the way his dick immediately perked up the minute he laid eyes on the surly wolf on his goddamned ‘private property’. The subsequent problems came about when he started realizing things like how lonely Derek is and how much he cares and how he’s actually really funny when he’s not just being a sarcastic, grumpy bastard.
All Stiles is saying is, he’s spent a non-insignificant amount of time and effort over the last couple of years trying to mitigate the potential havoc Derek could wreak on his emotions, but apparently he missed some key areas.
“You need to use your words more,” Stiles says accusingly.
Derek laughs, startled, like he wasn’t expecting that and genuinely finds it amusing.
“Stiles.”
“Derek.”
“I care about you and want you to be happy,” Derek says solemnly.
Stiles waits. And waits some more. And waits a little longer, before it finally dawns on him that he is waiting for Derek to talk more about his feelings. Unprompted.
“Ugh, you’re the worst,” he groans, and flops back down onto Derek’s surprisingly comfortable chest.
Derek just chuckles and rearranges their limbs until Stiles somehow has even less freedom of movement than when he woke up.
“Go back to sleep, Stiles. We can talk later.”
Stiles wants to argue, wants to insist that they talk now, but he can hear Derek’s heartbeat and it lulls him into sleep.
The third time Stiles wakes up, it’s from the beginnings of a nightmare. It hadn’t fully formed, so Stiles doesn’t know which one it was. His nightmares have become endless variations on a handful of scenes. Really, the only difference between them was who was going to die by his hand. He never wakes up until he’s killed them.
No amount of telling himself—of other people telling him—it wasn’t his fault changes that fact. If he’d been strong enough to keep out the nogitsune, those people would still be alive. Allison would still be alive.
It doesn’t take any time at all to figure out the difference between this and all of his other nightmares. He’s on top of Derek, and the wolf has him in what feels like a cross between a bear hug and the most intimate hold Stiles has ever felt. His arm is tight around Stiles, hand wrapped around his ribs. Derek’s other hand is cradling Stiles’ head, holding it against his shoulder.
No, not his shoulder. He’s holding Stiles so that his face is pressed against Derek’s throat. It would be intimate for anyone, but Derek is a born werewolf, which makes this position extraordinary in a way that is blowing Stiles’ mind.
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll hurt you?”
He whispers the words. He can’t help the way his lips brush against Derek’s skin. He feels Derek shiver, very slightly. He starts to pull away. Derek moves his hand, but only as far as the back of Stiles’ neck.
“You would never hurt me, Stiles.”
Derek’s voice is rough from just waking up, but it’s steady. Stiles can tell he believes what he said. He’s wrong, of course, but he believes it.
“How can you say that? I killed Allison.”
Derek turns his head and—what the fuck—drops a kiss in Stiles’ hair.
“The nogitsune killed Allison, not you. It used your body to do it, but it was the killer. Not you.”
Stiles has heard this before, but it’s impossible to believe, even from Derek. He refuses to think about why he would be more likely to believe it from Derek than anyone else. That doesn’t matter, because he doesn ’t believe it. He can’t.
“I should have been able to stop it. If I’d been stronger or more careful—”
“Do you think I killed my family?” Derek interrupts.
What? What does that have to do with anyting. Kate Argent killed the Hales.
“Of course not! That isn’t the same thing at all.”
“She used my body to kill my family,” is Derek’s awful answer. “I didn’t lay down the mountain ash or light the fire, but she used me to do it.”
Stiles has no idea what to say to that. He isn’t surprised to learn that Kate had used Derek in that way. He mostly figured that out a while ago. He is shocked to hear Derek say it, though. Not even in an angry way. He said it like a fact. Like it’s something he believes. Stiles is pretty sure that, if he could hear heartbeats, he wouldn’t have heard Derek’s stutter at all.
“It isn’t the same,” is all Stiles can think to say.
“No,” Derek says, “it isn’t, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have anything in common.”
“You sound like a therapist or something,” Stiles grumbles.
Derek huffs, but it’s also a laugh. The movement of his chest moves Stiles’ entire torso, which feels weird. Stiles doesn’t hate it.
“It’s probably a known side effect of therapy.”
Stiles tries to push up so he can meet Derek’s eyes. Derek moves his hands and allows it, but he keeps his arm around Stiles’ waist. Stiles looks for some sort of—well, he doesn’t know what he’s looking for. He doesn’t find anything that indicates Derek is pulling his leg or angry about it or really anything but a steady gaze meeting his eyes.
“How did you even find a therapist you could talk to about all of this?” Stiles makes a gesture intended to encompass the craziness of their lives, nearly overbalancing and face planting on Derek’s chest in the process.
Derek rolls his eyes, which is weirdly relaxing. Stiles knows how to interact with grumpy, bitchy Derek. He is neither prepared nor equipped to handle well-adjusted Derek who’s been to therapy. Without it being court-ordered or something. He’s also not prepared to be this close to him, but he’s not thinking about that right now.
“Most werewolves have careers, Stiles. They don’t all spend their time trying to keep wayward teenagers out of trouble. There are supernatrual therapists.”
“Hey!” Stiles says indignantly. “It isn’t our fault Beacon Hills is on a hellmouth.”
Derek laughs. It’s not the first time Stiles has heard him do that. It isn’t even that uncommon these days. Stiles has never seen Derek laugh from this close, though. It’s a good sound, and it looks even better on him.
“If you want, when you’re ready, I can ask my therapist if she can recommend someone for you to talk to.”
Derek looks a strange blend of hesitant and determined.
Stiles doesn’t know what to say—his experiences with a therapist after his mom died hadn’t exactly been good, and, fucked up as it is to say, childhood parental death seems almost straightforward when compared to murdering a friend while possessed by a thousands-year old fox demon.
“I’ll think about it.”
“What do you want for breakfast?” Derek asks, apparently satisfied enough with Stiles’ answer to drop it. Stiles grabs onto the topic change. It isn’t until a few hours later that he realizes that, for the first time since Allison died, he feels like someday he might remember what hope feels like.
“When did you decide to go to therapy?” Stiles asks late that afternoon.
They’re outside on the deck of the house, overlooking the beach. Stiles is sprawled out on the porch swing and Derek is on the steps, facing the water. It’s easier to ask when Stiles can’t see his face.
“Laura made me go to one after the fire.”
Stiles opens his mouth, but realizes everything he first thought to say is pretty awful.
“I know,” Derek says with a huffed laugh, like he knows what Stiles was thinking. “She made me go, but I didn’t do much more than show up and wait for the sessions to end.”
That fits the Derek who came back to Beacon Hills a couple years ago.
“I found someone new after Boyd,” Derek says quietly.
Stiles doesn’t have to ask him to explain when he means. After Boyd died. After yet another woman used Derek’s body to kill someone he loved—to kill pack. Stiles gets up and goes to sit by Derek. He doesn’t say anything, but he presses their shoulders together.
“Did you really rent this house for a week and kidnap me just so you could talk me into going to therapy?” Stiles asks after they’ve been sitting there for a while.
“That’s one of the things I was hoping for,” Derek says.
“Just one? What are the others?”
Derek looks down at his feet. He’s relaxed in a way Stiles rarely sees him, sitting on the porch steps with his arms draped over his knees. He’s fiddling with something—a stick or maybe a plant stalk.
“I liked the way we woke up this morning,” he says carefully.
Stiles liked that, too, but he didn’t expect them to talk about it.
“I liked holding you.” Derek’s voice is more confident, now that he knows Stiles isn’t going to talk over him. “I want to sleep with you again, in a bed this time.”
“When you say ‘sleep with’ do you mean that literally or figuratively?”
Derek looks up at Stiles with a small smile. “Right now I mean it literally. I don’t want to rush into anything. We’ve had to spend so much time running around and just reacting to things. I want to take my time with you.”
Stiles starts to say something about Derek being a tease. He catches it before it leaves his tongue, though. Sarcasm and exaggeration are wonderful things, but he doesn’t want to bring them into this quiet moment. He likes the way they’re both relaxed, even though they’ve been vulnerable. Derek’s right—they’ve stumbled from crisis to crisis the entire time they’ve known each other. The more he thinks about it, the more appeal there is to slowing down.
“I think I’d like that,” Stiles says softly, almost hesitantly. He isn’t hesitant, though. “I know I’d like that! We should definitely do that. Right now.”
Derek stands up. He stretches, twisting a little. Stiles watches in a way he’s never allowed himself to do in the past. They may have agreed to take things slow—he really is looking forward to cuddling all night—but he still has eyes. For the first time he’s not afraid Derek will catch him looking, and he’s going to wallow in that luxury.
“Stiles,” Derek says, sounding exasperated, which is when Stiles realizes he’s lost time staring at Derek.
“Oh man, I was totally objectifying you, wasn’t I? I’m sorry. I’ve always gotten the feeling you kind of hate that.”
Derek stares at him a moment, before breaking into a shy smile. He looks about five seconds away from bashfully grinding his toe into the ground.
“It’s different when it’s you, now. I know you like me for who I am, not just how I look.
“I really do,” Stiles says. “I mean, I also like the view, but I like you more.”
Derek reaches down and offers his hand, still smiling. He pulls Stiles to standing like it’s nothing, which Stiles supposes is true with werewolf strength. Derek doesn’t let go of Stiles’ hand once he’s upright. Instead, he tugs Stiles toward him, not relaxing his hold until they’re close enough their chests will touch if one of them takes a deep enough breath.
“I don’t want to rush into anything,” he says, eyes and voice steady. “But I’d like to kiss you if that’s OK.”
Just a few months ago, hearing that from Derek would have made Stiles want to fist pump, and he probably would have. Instead, it’s his turn to feel bashful.
“Yeah, that’s—I’d like that.”
Derek slides his arm around Stiles’ waist. Instead of letting go of his other hand, he threads their fingers together and tugs Stiles closer. Stiles feels his heart beat faster as Derek leans forward to bring their mouths together, brushing his lips across Stiles’. He sighs and melts against Derek, happily kissing back.
If Stiles had ever had to predict what his and Derek’s first kiss would be like, once he got over the disbelief it would happen, he wouldn’t have predicted a gentle kiss on the beach at sunset. He also wouldn’t have predicted it would be this easy. It feels like the most natural thing in the world to move his mouth against Derek’s, to disentangle their fingers so he can slide his hand over the back of Derek’s neck.
Stiles isn’t sure which of them pulls away first. Possibly neither of them. In this quiet twilight moment he could wholeheartedly believe they were completely in sync. Derek’s kaleidoscope eyes are softer than he’s ever seen them.
“Come to bed,” he says quietly.
Despite the early hour that may be the best idea Stiles has ever heard.
When Stiles wakes up warm and content the next morning, he knows exactly where he is and who he’s draped across. Their position is less innocent than it was the previous morning on the couch, though. Stiles has his leg draped across Derek and can feel him hard against the inside of his thigh. Derek has a firm hold on his ass. Stiles smiles against his chest, just a small one.
He carefully curls his fingers into Derek’s shirt. He’d always had wild imaginings of Derek sleeping mostly or completely naked, but the reality of a worn out tshirt and baggy flannel pants has somehow proven even more dangerous to his mental balance. Who knew Derek owned anything plaid?
“Go back to sleep,” Derek murmurs. “We don’t have to get up yet.”
Apparently Stiles wasn’t as stealthy as he thought. He won’t hold it against himself, though. It’s hard to pretend to be sleeping when the other person can hear your heartbeat.
“I’m gonna have to start calling you cuddlewolf,” Stiles mutters, having to pause halfway to clear his throat when it comes out froggy.
“Don’t make me resurrect threats about your throat and my teeth,” Derek retorts.
“I can think of far better things you can do to me with your teeth.”
“Sleep, Stiles.”
Stiles sighs, but he snuggles closer. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to get back to sleep, but he can’t deny the appeal.
Stiles wakes up the second time to Derek stroking his hand over his back. The light is much brighter, making Stiles wonder how late they slept.
“When do we have to check out or whatever you call it when it’s a house?”
"Noon,” Derek answers. “We still have plenty of time.”
“Will you go on a date with me?” Stiles asks, propping his chin on Derek’s chest.
Derek raises his head to look at him. He must decide that’s too much strain on his neck, because he scoots backwards until he’s half sitting, propped against the pillows. He takes Stiles along with him, moving him effortlessly so Stiles remains draped across his chest. Stiles could get used to this kind of manhandling.
“What kind of date?”
Stiles pouts. He doesn’t mean to, but that’s what happens.
“What do you mean what kind of date? Does your answer depend on how good my idea is? I’m a high schooler with no job, Derek. We’re probably talking a movie and the diner at best.”
Derek winces and Stiles realizes bringing up his age probably wasn’t the best idea.
“I mean, I’m a high schooler, but it’s not like I’m a minor or anything,” he scrambles to say, realizing even as he talks that he’s doing his cause no favors. “Ugh,” he says, flopping his head back down and trying to smother himself in Derek’s pecs.
It takes him a minute to realize he’s not shaking because of embarrassed horror. No, Derek is laughing so hard it’s shaking Stiles, somehow without making a single sound. He looks up and sees Derek biting his lips, eyes squeezed almost completely shut. Stiles loses track of everything else. Right now, nothing matters but trying to memorize the sight of Derek losing his shit laughing and trying to think of ways to make it keep happening.
He smiles at Derek. He tilts his head up and tries to give Derek puppy dog eyes. Maybe that will get him kissed again. His must not be as effective as Scott’s though, because Derek just snorts and rolls his eyes.
“Stop that, you look deranged,” he says, but he kisses Stiles anyway, so he’s counting that experiment a success.
He snuggles back down against Derek’s chest, enjoying the sweep of his hand along his spine. Stiles has never given much thought to how it might feel to be in bed with someone this way. He likes it. He drifts on the feelings until a thought occurs to him.
“How’d you get my dad to agree to this? I can’t imagine he was happy at the thought of letting his teenage son head off to the beach with an older man.”
Derek sighs. “Do you have to make it sound sordid?”
Stiles snorts. “That’s just your guilty conscience speaking.”
Derek pinches his side and Stiles squawks. He slides down the bed until he’s on his side, dragging Stiles down as well to face him. He grabs Stiles’ hand and laces their fingers together, resting them against Stiles’ chest.
“I told him I thought I could help you, if he was willing to let me try. He asked if I was asking as your former alpha.”
Derek pauses. Stiles isn’t sure why. “You told him it was, right?”
Derek sighs. “No, Stiles, I told him it wasn’t.”
“So you were just asking as a pack mate or friend?”
Derek shakes his head.
“What the hell else is there?”
Derek rolls his eyes. “Your dad’s smarter than you. He figured it out ages ago. He just had to make sure.”
“Figured what ou—oh my god. Oh my god! My dad knows you like me?!”
Derek snorts. “I don’t think that’s how he’d put it. It’s not even how I’d put it.” He sits up, pulling Stiles upright. “Come on, we need to pack.”
Stiles absently watches as Derek walks to the bathroom, trying to figure out what Derek meant. By the time he realizes, Derek is back in the room, throwing clothes haphazardly into his bag. Stiles stands up and pulls him close.
“I love you, too,” he says, leaning in to kiss him.
Derek smiles and doesn’t stop even as he kisses him back.