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The third time Derek comes to see Stiles, it’s late in the evening and Stiles is asleep. He’s sprawled out over his bed, papers strewn around him like he fell asleep in the middle of doing homework, and he keeps making these high, sharp noises in the back of his throat. Like he’s afraid.
“Stiles?” Derek says.
Stiles twitches and mumbles something in his sleep, but Derek can’t make the words out. He sits down on the edge of the bed and gingerly rests a hand on Stiles’ shoulder.
“Stiles. Wake up.” He doesn’t want to shake Stiles, not after what happened the last time, so he resorts to sort of awkwardly petting Stiles’ shoulder. “C’mon, Stiles. You’re having a nightmare. Wake up.”
Derek can tell the exact moment that Stiles wakes by the change in his heartbeat. That, and by the odd half-choked noise Stiles makes as he fights his way out of the dream.
He’s not prepared for Stiles to throw his arms around Derek’s waist and push his head against Derek’s stomach. It’s unprecedented, and it takes all his self-control not to flinch away or push Stiles off him.
“Stiles?” he asks, once he recovers from the shock that is Stiles’ breath, warm against his skin.
Stiles immediately lets go of him and rolls over, facing the wall, his back to Derek.
“Sorry,” he says softly. “I thought you were my dad.”
“Do you want me to get him for you?”
“Yeah, because that wouldn’t be awkward at all. Hey Derek, so what brings you into my underage son’s bedroom late at night? Nuh-uh, no way is that a conversation that needs happening.”
Stiles’ heart is pounding and the line of his back is tense and unhappy, belying his snarky tone.
“What do you need?” Derek asks. “What does your dad do for you?”
Stiles mutters something.
“What?”
“I said, he holds me. Hey, don’t you have super hearing? Can’t you just hear, like, everything, without me having to repeat myself?”
“I can do that for you,” Derek says. “If it’ll help.”
Stiles shifts to face him.
“Seriously? This isn’t a trick, where I say okay and then you kill me?”
“Not a trick.”
Stiles inches forward. Stops. Moves forward again.
Derek toes off his sneakers, shrugs off his jacket, and rearranges himself so he’s stretched out on Stiles’ bed, leaning back against the headboard, waiting for Stiles to make up his mind.
Very slowly, like he still thinks Derek might change his mind, Stiles reaches out and touches Derek’s arm with the pads of two fingers. When Derek doesn’t move or otherwise object, Stiles grows bolder, tugging the offending limb out of the way and crawling into the space he’s created for himself between Derek’s arm and his side. Derek automatically tucks his arm around Stiles’ body. His hand finds Stiles’ elbow, and one of Stiles’ arms rests across Derek’s stomach, curving around his waist. Already Stiles’ heartbeat is dropping, evening out.
Derek can’t remember the last time he held anyone like this. He thinks he might’ve with Laura, in the days after the fire, but those memories are so blurred together with grief and anger and pain that he can’t be sure. It wouldn’t have been the same, anyway. Laura was a wolf like him, strong and resilient, whereas Stiles is so small and human. Fragile. If you break him, he stays broken. Derek forgets this, sometimes.
Once when Derek was eight he underestimated his strength and accidentally pushed a boy too hard. The kid fell off the swings and broke his arm, and when Derek got home, his mother lectured him for an hour on proper playground behavior.
He doesn’t want to think about how disappointed she’d be in him if she knew about all the times he’s hurt Stiles on purpose.
Because he has hurt him, and more than once. A few weeks ago he shoved Stiles’ face into the Jeep’s steering wheel, fed up with Stiles’ antics, and the next time he saw Stiles the bruises still hadn’t gone away.
And yet here Stiles is, completely vulnerable, curled against his side. That’s…well. It’s not something Derek would be capable of doing, were their situations reversed. Derek doesn’t trust anyone enough for that, not anymore. Not after Kate. He’d tried trusting Scott- no, he’d had to trust Scott, needed his help- and Scott had betrayed him.
If Stiles knew what was good for him, he’d hate Derek. He was actually convinced Stiles did hate him, that he wanted him dead- he’d said as much- until the kanima had cornered them in the pool. Until Stiles said it was an abomination and looked at him so solemnly. Like he knew. Like he could fucking see inside Derek and read him like a book.
Stiles yawns and shifts against him, pressing closer.
“You ever think of sidelining as a space heater?” he mumbles.
“Pay’s not so great,” Derek says.
“Oh man, was that a joke? I wish I was awake enough to appreciate that. Derek Hale, resident sourwolf, cracking a joke.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, dude. Hey-” Stiles lifts his head up to peer at Derek’s face. “Why are you even here? I was sleeping. And then you were here. In my room.”
“Stop asking questions and go back to sleep,” Derek tells him.
“Yeah, okay, fine. Hey, can we lie down? My neck’s gonna get stiff like this.”
Derek’s…not entirely comfortable with that idea. He knows he just told Stiles to sleep. But Derek hadn’t planned on staying, on sleeping with Stiles.
“Stop thinking,” Stiles says. “Just…stay.” Derek can hear his heart rate steadily climbing, a sign that Stiles is genuinely worried that Derek’s going to leave. For the first time, Derek wonders just how bad his nightmare was.
“Okay,” he says gruffly. It’s unsettling, how easy it is for Stiles to persuade him.
Derek makes up for it by unceremoniously shoving all the papers and books off of Stiles’ bed.