Work Text:
“Come on, move.”
“No. He can sit on the floor.”
“There’s no space down here! Don’t look there, that’s Derek’s, jackass!” Erica interrupts Scott and Jackson’s argument, and Derek smirks to himself. Jackson is right for once.
Stiles hands him their bowl of popcorn, so he shifts his complete focus to him. “Tomato?” It’s definitely there, he can tell by the smell.
“Salt & Tomato,” Stiles corrects, and picks up the last bowl of chips before moving towards the living room, where everyone is seated to the point where there’s literally no space left for the two of them. Even the space on the floor beside Cora looks too small for Derek to fit, let alone for both him and Stiles.
Still, Cora eyes the space and motions for him to sit, and he really doesn’t want to become a victim of her boredom instilled anger. So while Stiles puts down the bowl on the coffee table, adding onto the huge pile of snacks and food already there thanks to Stiles, he moves and picks up the tv remote. Nobody had taken it. Perhaps they were scared of retribution from him, which is as depressing as much as it’s benefitting him at the moment.
He settles beside Cora, stretches there so his legs open to create space for Stiles. Stiles, who doesn’t even glance at Scott calling his name, too busy in arranging the snacks, and then finding the remote. Derek waves it once, and Stiles beelines for it.
“I want it! I get to choose the film, ok Sourwolf, because I called this pack night!” As he says it, he’s moving forward, and it makes Derek’s heart soar that there’s no second thought before he plops himself down between the V of his legs. Derek hands over the remote.
And of course Stiles puts on Star Wars, Episode III.
“Why.”
“Inflection, Der, use them. They’re the souls—”
“—Souls of language. Yes, I know, Stiles. But I love to—”
“—love to fight against period, commas and question marks because I love to see you squirm.” Stiles recites perfectly, thanks to the number of times they’ve had this argument, and then corrects himself, “I mean, you love to see me squirm, you asshole!”
Somewhere distantly, he hears Scott mutter, “Yeah he is. Come here Stiles.”
Derek puts his free hand around Stiles’ waist and pulls him backwards into his chest, and Stiles lets him do it. He settles firmly in Derek’s lap, like this is the easiest thing to do. It makes Derek happy.
“Now shush, let me watch the credits in peace!”
Derek takes the remote and fast-forwards it.
“Nephew…”
“You’re an idiot,” Cora tacks on to their uncle's reprimand, and then, “Why do you never learn?”
Stiles simply takes the popcorn bowl from his hand and puts it in Cora’s hands. She swats away Boyd’s hands from taking any of it, and then sighs loudly as Derek and Stiles devolve into a wrestling, writhing mass of degenerates beside her.
Stiles emerges victorious and wins the remote, so Derek pulls him in by his hips and wraps his arms around his chest. Puts his head on Stiles’ right shoulder and groans when he rewinds the film back to the starting point.
“Idiot,” Cora mutters, and hands back the bowl of popcorn to Derek. He isn’t really sorry about it, though. And both Cora and Peter know it, so they send him knowing looks which he steadfastly ignores.
The movie begins again. Stiles cuddles closer to him, Derek’s hands on his chest, his hips. Enclosing him in. He turns his head, and their faces are so, so close. Their noses touch. Their eyes are cross-eyed they’re so infuriatingly, blessingly close. Stiles says, “Der.”
He pulls back and picks up a handful of the popcorn, more salty ones than tomato flavored ones — they’re more his favorite, not Stiles’ — from where he’d kept the bowl between him and Cora, and feeds Stiles one by one.
Once the handful of popcorn has been eaten, Stiles turns back, and Derek picks up his own handful. A couple minutes pass by, the world on the screen the only noise, but then Stiles turns around again. He doesn’t say anything, but Derek understands anyways and feeds Stiles. It makes him satisfied in a way he’s both thrilled and concerned about, which basically sums up his life. But in this moment he focuses on Stiles, and the intimacy of their trust, the way Stiles allows him to provide for him. The way Stiles trusts him with these small things, and when it matters, with the big things. Like Stiles’ life.
This time, a murmur kick starts between the betas. Mainly Isaac and Erica, who are trying to tamp down their curiosity but are unable to do so. Boyd isn’t into the gossip, but Derek sees him watching them a couple of times.
On the other hand, he can smell Scott silently fuming, and Allison’s gentle scraping along his scalp, his arms. Trying to control him. Anchoring him. Derek smirks, unable to help the way his chest expands with possessive pride.
“What’s up?” Stiles asks, without turning. His eyes are locked onto the screen.
“Nothing. Just the popcorn’s almost over.” It is. They’re down to two handfuls each.
Stiles pauses the film, never one to miss even a second of it, and scans the coffee table. It’s still full with food. He frowns. “Nobody is eating?”
Nobody is replying, either. Stiles stands up and hovers beside the table, looks at Derek helplessly. He’d brought everyone’s favorite and some extra — he’d planned this down to every last detail. Except, of course, realizing that they don’t know about his and Derek’s history, or their current friendship.
“Answer him.” He doesn’t have to put his Alpha power behind it. Still, it has the same effect.
“Was too engrossed,” Erica replies with a smile that is almost too big to be real. She isn’t lying, either. Beside her, both Isaac and Boyd nod, while Cora raises her packet of Doritos she’d taken from the table.
Stiles looks at his friends. Scott is in no state to reply, and Allison is busy handling him, but at least she manages a smile.
“Aren’t you enjoying Scotty?” Stiles asks, nervous. All of his confidence stripped in the name of validation from a friend who can’t look past his own reflection. Derek seethes, crushes the popcorn bowl. Luckily, Stiles isn’t paying attention to him at the moment, so Cora sneaks away the pieces of the bowl — it was a paper bowl, so it’s easy to do.
Scott opens his mouth, but surprisingly, it’s Jackson who cuts him off. Lydia watches the exchange with narrowed eyes. “He doesn’t appreciate culture,” he scoffs. “Plus these two were at the diner when we picked them up.”
“Yes,” Allison agrees with the lie. Her face eases into her usual dimpled mask, and Derek wonders if being deranged runs in their family. Or if it’s the result of too many turbulent emotions in too less years that’s the cause of it. “We didn’t know what would be here so we had an early dinner. Sorry, Stiles.”
Stiles smiles, flicks his eyes at Scott, who looks a second away from jumping and shouting “Witch Hunt!”
Scott, luckily, doesn’t say anything. Or if he was going to, Derek cuts him off this time. “Stiles, popcorn’s over.”
Stiles scans the table. “Hot dogs?” He looks at the others. “Is it okay if we take four of these? There’s like, twelve here.”
“Sure,” Cora agrees, and most of the others assent their agreement.
“Be a dear and hand me the nachos and soda,” Peter interrupts.
“Take it yourself,” Derek tells him. Peter is not going to have Stiles serving him, however minor the case. Peter looks at him, but ultimately gets up and takes the food himself.
“Tell your boy to chill.” He murmurs to Stiles, who rolls his eyes.
“He is chill. I’m no one’s servant. I picked out everyone’s favorite food, you all can take it yourselves from here.”
Stiles takes one of the hot dogs and sits back in Derek’s arms. This time, Lydia is the one to break the momentary silence.
“That’s just the one. Take at least two at a time, Stiles.”
“It’s alright,” Stiles replies, and resumes the movie. He gives the first bite to Derek, who chews up a good portion of it, and deliberately pulls at the lettuce so that at least the first half of the hot dog is lettuce-free. Stiles hates lettuce in hot dogs; Derek can overlook some flaws. “Thanks.”
Stiles takes the second bite, watches the movie with an attention he rarely is able to give to most things. Derek, on the other hand, picks up on the scene around him: the intrigue, the distrust. Amusement rolling off of Peter in waves, while Cora rolls her eyes at the rest of them, fed up with the movie choice. Stiles has made the Hales watch Star Wars too often, so Derek can’t even blame her for it. Instead he spreads his legs further, his and Cora’s ankles a solid touchpoint between them. He looks at her, commiserates their mutual non-misery misery via their genetic-given eyebrows that Stiles has made a point to single out every so often.
Even now. As engrossed as he is, out of reality and floating in space, Stiles says, “I can feel you two’s eyebrows judging my precious! Blasphemy, I tell you! Utter Blasphemy. You two are breaking the sacred bond of—”
Derek stuffs the last of the hot dog in Stiles’ mouth, and motions for Erica, who is the closest to the table, to hand over another one. She passes it through Boyd to Cora to Derek, while Stiles manages to chew the piece in his mouth, mumbling nonsense against Derek unfairly shutting him up.
“Watch.”
“Hwfdj!”
“No bueno.”
Stiles harrumphs but settles, and Derek is quick to realize that Stiles hasn’t been paying attention to the rest of them, but it didn’t take even a moment for him to realize what Derek was up to. It’s a startingly clear picture of their relationship, which may not be as one-sidedly obsessive as he’d been fearing. Of course he has no plans to change the direction of their relationship yet, not with Stiles fairly recently turning 18, but it’s good to know there is a positive probability for it to turn into something more.
The night continues on, and halfway through Scott seems to have enough. He’s been shot down multiple times from saying anything, and Derek admits he’s surprised when Jackson seems to be leading this operation. When Scott finally gets up and leaves, Allison on his tail with an apologetic, “I guess the food was bad, from that diner,” towards Stiles, it’s Jackson that looks at Derek and gives a solemn nod, like he’ll handle it.
“I am their ride,” he says as he gets up, hand outwards for Lydia to follow. Lydia puts her palm in his, and off they go, after thanking both Derek and Stiles for the evening, though cut short.
Perhaps Derek should give Jackson another chance.
“That was weird.”
“It was,” Derek agrees. “You all want to stay, or leave? This is the last time we are pausing it.” It’s a command without actually being one, because he is the Alpha they fear, not respect. It’s sickening in a way, but useful too. And Derek has learnt, through experiences he’d rather not have had, that being useful is better than being comfortable.
Cora leaps at the chance to sit on the couch, and Boyd follows, which means Erica does too. Isaac looks at Derek, like he’s asking for permission.
Derek swallows down a whine. Being feared is not always so great. He manages to say at a level voice, “Your choice, Isaac. You don’t need to ask me.” He smiles, small but encouraging.
Isaac seems satisfied, and with a soft, “Thanks,” sits beside Cora.
“I have other things to do.”
“Bye, Peter!” Stiles says happily, and everyone else choruses it. Peter fakes a wounded look, and Derek chuckles. Only Stiles can bring back the old Peter these days, and it’s both a blessing and a curse to see him — the Peter who was still a bastard but who would never harm his pack, to the Peter who is sitting with them, amongst the people he’s brought to their lives, because he did hurt his pack.
“Don’t you two—”
“Shh, Isaac!”
“Huh? Erica, were you saying something?”
“No, Batman. Not to you. Was asking Isaac to pass me the soda can.”
“Oh. I’ll resume now, okay? Everyone ready?”
Everyone cheers, even Cora. She seems more relaxed now, and Derek smiles over at her before putting both his hands around Stiles’ waist. They’re both done eating, at least for now, so he leans back against the couch and pulls Stiles with him, who comes easily.
The pack night is successful. He’s glad he let Stiles talk him into it.
*
Stiles stays over, because he insists he needs to help Derek clean, and Derek doesn’t stop him because why would he? All the prolonged stay is only good for him.
So, Stiles stays back, even when the others have left — Cora lives with Peter at his apartment — and they clean up, put the leftovers in the fridge, and stay in comfortable silence.
“It’s weird.”
“I’m glad you noticed how weird you are, Stiles.”
Stiles swats at him ineffectually with the rag he’s drying the dishes with, while Derek cleans the last of the dishes. “You’re a bully,” he says, glaring. Derek raises an eyebrow. Stiles breaks character, guffaws, and slaps Derek’s chest with his left hand while he hits himself on his left bicep with the rag. “You’re funny.”
“Am I a funny bully?”
“Funny bully,” he repeats, laughing harder, “That’s so silly. Silly funny bully bunny,” Christ.
“Did you lose something? A screw, perchance?”
“Silly funny bully bunny who is also a big fucking nerd, oh man, this is gold.”
Derek has no clue what the fuck is so funny, but Stiles is laughing, his whole body shaking with the force of it. His neck is slender and pale under the moonlight filtering through the big windows in the living room, which come in parts to the kitchen too, and in this angle they hit Stiles’ face perfectly. They frame him in a silver light, his skin shiny, his eyes sparkling. He’s divine, really, and Derek wants to wants to kiss him. He wants the physical intimacy, but he dreads it, at the moment. Of how Stiles would react. Of how he himself would react.
The therapy sessions Laura forced him to did make him realize that he’s not all ready for commitment, not of any kind, and especially the physical ones. But if Stiles will allow it, will want it, then he’ll try.
But today they are friends. They’re close, they’re together, but they are not together. This is enough for now. Stiles in his space is perfect for now.
They end the night with Stiles laughing so hard he falls on his ass, and then pulls Derek down with him to explain the significance of it, and Derek listens because, yeah.
This is perfect.
*
It’s all going downhill.
“Is Stiles okay?” He’s pacing the loft, and they all look worried.
“Do we have a danger looming?”
Erica’s question makes him stop, turn towards her. “Maybe,” he replies. “Stiles hasn’t talked to me in over an hour.”
Erica raises an eyebrow. Isaac looks between her and Derek, then towards Cora, as if she might hold the answer to whatever the hell is going on.
Boyd says, “Harris gave us a lot of homework today. I’m in his AP Chem class.”
“I know.”
“You do?” Isaac asks. “You remember all our classes?”
Derek doesn’t want to crush Isaac’s earnestness, so he doesn’t say anything. Cora, though, smirks. “He knows Stiles’. Knows everything about him.”
Isaac doesn’t look too deflated. If anything, it seems like he’s having fun, too. At Derek’s expense. So he puts his foot down. “Point is,” he begins, looks at his phone. Just to check. Still nothing. “Point being. Stiles hasn’t texted or called me in a while. It’s worrying.”
“How much does he text you?” Erica asks, calculatingly curious. Derek reminds himself: you chose these assholes.
“A lot.” Vague. Yes. Good decision.
“Uh huh. Why?”
“He’s Stiles,” he answers. It’s answer enough, really.
Erica seems to concede his point. “Alright. I’ll go look what he’s up to. Boyd, wanna come with?”
They both leave, and Isaac comes a bit closer. He’s hesitant, but he’s been less so since last week, when the pack night had shown Derek’s dulled edges. When he’d been free to be playful, irrelevant of company, because of Stiles.
Derek gives Isaac his full attention. “Yes?”
“Why can’t you go and check?” Derek raises his eyebrows. Isaac seems to think twice before explaining his thought process. “I mean. Did you two have a fight? I asked him during lunch if he knew when we’ll have the next pack night, and he sort of… evaded saying your name? Or even talking about you. So. Fight?”
Derek’s shocked into silence. What the fuck’s happened to Stiles? But Isaac takes the silence in the wrong away. At least until Cora tells him:
“He’s just being a respectful gentlewolfman — Don’t look at me, this is what Stiles calls you, okay Bun-Bun? He also calls him that, by the way. Laura, him, and I came up with it.” She tells Isaac, who is trying his damnedest not to laugh. Derek rolls his eyes, and the dam breaks and turns into helpless giggles. “Exactly. The work of three geniuses. And this Bun-Bun refuses to encroach on Stiles’ space until he gets the say so from him. If he doesn’t call him, Derek doesn’t go.”
Once Isaac wipes the laughter-tear from his eye, he asks, “So, like, all or nothing? Once he does have it, the permission, it’s all?”
“Yup.”
Isaac looks at him, and Derek feels the urge to hide.
He doesn’t, though. Not until a couple of minutes later, at least, when Erica’s perplexed, “He doesn’t wanna see you? He told us to tell you he’s okay, but he just… needs space?” call comes to him.
He shoos Isaac and Cora from the loft, and wonders why the universe always seems to be taking everything and everyone precious to him.
*
It’s literally so stupid, and so weak of him, that he can’t even go a whole 48 hours without seeing or hearing from Stiles. It pains him in a way that shouldn’t be possible.
Well. He has an idea. One. Uno.
But that won’t matter if Stiles is starting to reevaluate their relationship. It’s a bit too intimate, yes, but they’ve built it from the ground up. Even the years he was gone from the town haven’t toppled down their tower of trust, care, and affection. Even when he was unreachable. None of it toppled it down.
And now, suddenly, Stiles is bulldozing.
It’s probably not that serious. But he’s itching to know why; he’s deprived of Stiles, and it’s not turning out to be a good look on him.
Isaac has gone back to being afraid of him.
Erica’s playfulness has tilted into strict obedience, and Boyd’s scent has turned worrying. It’s like he’s wanting to leave the pack again. Like this is too much.
Perhaps it is.
“Just go to him, Nephew.”
He snarls and punches the wall.
“I know you’re fond of holes, but in my opinion having two glaring ones in the Loft is a bit much.”
“Who let you in?” He turns to Peter, who is smirking, one of the spare keys in his hands. “Why?” He doesn’t bother asking how. Peter wouldn’t answer anyways.
But he does roll his eyes. “You need to go to him. McCall may have opened his eyes, and Stiles is reeling with what it might mean. I’d suggest you help him come to the conclusion, or soon this place would be nothing but holes.”
“Stop saying holes, it’s fucking weird and creepy.”
“More and more you two sound like a married couple with a shared psychosis.” Peter settles on the armchair, turns on the television. Derek raises an eyebrow. “Cora commandeered my home for a date.”
“Date?” Strangely, the name that drops in his head doesn’t bother him. “Isaac?”
“And he is observant!”
Derek decides to leave, because otherwise he’ll just go mad in the presence of his uncle. And, surprisingly, he has a lead — McCall may have opened his eyes.
*
He watches from the edge of the lacrosse field as Jackson goes all in against McCall at the practice. His aggression has nothing to do with the game, and everything to do with the person. Even Coah picks up on it, and promptly tells them both to take a break by going to two different locations.
Derek takes a split second to decide. He doesn’t want a confrontation; he wants actual answers.
He follows Jackson to the bleachers, where he’s sitting beside Lydia. Lydia sees him approaching. The rest of the team has dispersed, so it’s only the three of them here, except the occasional passerby.
“It’s day two, you’re late.”
“Late?”
“Yes.” She doesn’t elaborate, simply flounces off somewhere else, leaving him and Jackson to their own devices. Jackson is sitting down, drinking water like a man who is about to die of thirst, while Derek looms over him.
“You know what’s happened.”
Jackson finishes the bottle, aims for the garbage disposal, and doesn’t miss.
“Yeah.”
Derek uncrosses his arms before crossing them again. He has no clue what the fuck to ask. He doesn’t know what’s wrong. He just knows McCall is involved somehow. So he settles on saying, “Tell me.”
Jackson looks at him. It’s not haughty; it’s a look that is completely transparent, curious like a cat. “You don’t ask questions,” he mutters to himself. Louder he tells Derek, “That night, after I dropped McCall off at Allison’s house, and Lydia at hers, I got his call. He was angry that I kept cutting him off.” Here, Jackson smirks, proud.
Derek is too. “Yeah you did,” he says, and because he’s well aware of his tone being misunderstood, puts a hand on Jackson’s shoulder. It’s warm and solid; he is proud of Jackson.
Jackson seems to get it. His smirk settles into a small smile, content. “I told him it was for the best. That we should approach Stiles with a clear mind instead of an angry one to get the answers.” He shrugs at Derek’s look. “Look, man, all of us are curious. Even now. When Scott confronted Stiles about it, all we learnt is what we already know: that the two of you act like an old married couple.”
Derek tilts his head. “Confrontation.”
Jackson plays with his helmet in his hands. Makes a random sound with his mouth that doesn’t translate to anything coherent. “Man, you don’t like punctuations, huh? Like at all.”
“Jackson.”
“Yeah, yeah. You want to know why Stiles isn’t talking to you? It’s because McCall accused him of being in a sexual relationship with you despite him still smelling like a virgin, and now Stiles is all sorts of conflicted. I don’t know what about, I don’t know him. But he’s like, seriously in processing mode right now. You should go to him.”
Derek’s heart stutters and then stops. If Jackson hears it, he only gives him a look; other than that, he looks at the field, then at his own feet.
“Alpha,” he mutters, and here he looks at Derek. Here, in the moment, there’s nothing of the egotistical boy. It’s all desperation and the need of belonging; Derek is in an emotional turmoil at the moment, but still he knows the significance of this. So, he moves forward and drags his hands from Jackson’s neck to his shoulder, a gesture of claiming reserved for betas.
“Beta,” he murmurs back. “We’ll discuss further about you being in my pack. Later.”
Jackson nods. “Stiles isn’t in school. He hasn’t been since the confrontation two days ago.”
A confrontation that happened two days ago. The dates line up; still, he needs to confirm. “Two days?”
Jackson nods, says, “Tell him he owes me.”
Derek can’t help but smirk back. “Sure.” It’s gratitude in action, and Jackson is smart enough to realize it.
*
He’s terrified.
Even though there’s a 99% chance this is the right move, to talk to Stiles and to reassure him that they’re fine, he’s not too happy about not being a gentlewolf.
Still, he finds himself perched on the roof above Stiles’ bedroom, and hears the teen mutter unintelligible nonsense to himself. Some words catch Derek’s ear, like “stupid,” “Scott,” and “relationship,” but other than that, he’s basically just hovering, listening to nonsense.
At the one hour mark, Stiles opens the window. “Derek,” comes his voice, sharp and clear. “Dad’s not home. And I miss you.”
He doesn’t need to say more.
Derek swings in through the window, careful not to rush into Stiles. He needn’t have worried; Stiles is sitting on his bed, far enough from the window.
“I know you don’t want to be near me,” are his first words to Stiles in about 56 hours. “I wouldn’t have creeped up on you if I had a choice.” He means it with his full chest, too. But he also knows that these days there is no other choice but Stiles.
The room smells tangier than it usually does. The citrus of anxiety is strong, as is the spice of want. But there’s also the clay-ish smell of embarrassment, and all of it together has started to make a picture he doesn’t mind seeing. Stiles has gone through stages with what Scott must have pointed out — his and Stiles’ relationship has not been friendly ever since he came back to Beacon Hills; it’s been half-and-half anger of deliberate distance and joy of being in the same space again — and it’s brought Stiles to here, sitting in silence on his bed, knees jiggling.
“Stiles.”
“What am I to you?”
The question isn’t unexpected, and Derek can only offer him the truth. What Stiles decides to do with it, he’ll respect the decision. So he answers, eyes on Stiles’, “You’re an idiot.” Stiles rolls his eyes, but the stress-induced crinkle on his forehead smooths out. Derek smiles.
“You’re a dork.”
“Never denied it,” he shoots back, and Stiles pauses.
“True that.” The smell of citrus is still strong on him, but there’s that hint of cinnamon beneath; his usual scent is coming back to life, slowly. “You know, I have spent the last couple days seriously rethinking our every interaction, especially the ones in the recent months. Scott,” here, Stiles laughs, but it’s not a ha ha, what a joke laugh. It’s the what the fuck is wrong with you laugh mixed with the tiniest hint of desperation for this outrageous thing to be true. “He, like, left the pack night midway. Remember that? Of course you do. Apparently it wasn’t because of stomach issues but because he couldn’t handle you and me being so… close.”
“I know.”
Stiles gets up, takes a step forward. Derek hasn’t moved from his place near the window, where he’s been standing.
“You know… what do you mean.”
Derek’s mouth tugs up in a smile. “Inflection, Stiles.”
“To hell with inflection! Oh shut up, you know what I fucking mean. Every time you know what I mean, so will you just please fucking get what I mean and rid me of my misery?!”
Derek takes the few steps forward, closes the gap between them. Takes Stiles’ hands in his and pulls him with it. The way Stiles gulps and the way his body reacts, scent and heartbeat and flushing skin, is answer enough without a question. Still, he teases, “What do you want the answer to be?”
Stiles licks his lips, and the movement hypnotizes Derek to the point of following it. Stiles notices, and some of his tension eases. “Scott told me not to date you because you’re an asshole.” Derek raises his eyebrows. “Alright, he said much worse things, which I don’t want to repeat, but point stands that he thought we were dating and when I finally managed to explain that no, that’s not true, he told me things I’d never really… noticed before.” The way he says it makes Derek believe it wasn't Scott telling these things to Stiles as a concerned friend, but as something else. An individual who doesn't like how other people's lives are going without their say so.
Derek focuses on now. “Like?”
“Like how we act all… married. We literally cuddled in front of the pack, but that’s like, nothing. It’s not weird to me. We do that all the time. Which friends do too. But we bicker a lot, and I shared my food with you when I don’t do that with anyone, and just… so many of our interactions don’t make sense, dude.”
This is it. The moment of truth. But he doesn’t want it yet; he’s a coward. So he settles on saying, “Don’t call me dude.” What if Stiles will stop being like that with him? Respecting Stiles’ decision would be easy, but handling his own heartbreak wouldn’t be.
Stiles rolls his eyes. Comes closer and takes his hands from Derek’s — an action that has the insides of Derek turn cold — but then he wraps them around Derek’s shoulders.
“Can I call you mine, then?”
“You’re not kidding,” the heartbeat never lies. “You’re okay with this?”
“I’ve been thinking about it and I just… can’t believe you’re right. I am an idiot. We have basically been dating and it made me panic at first because what the hell? But then I slowly realized it wasn’t because I don’t like you like that… but because I like you too much and can’t bear to lose you if something happens and we break-up. Which is stupid because we are not actually —”
Derek kisses Stiles’ nose, and the shock of it snaps Stiles out of his rambling spiral. He looks cross-eyed at Derek, then looks properly at him. “You’re silly,” he declares.
Derek says with a straight face, “Silly bully funny bunny.”
It’s perhaps not the correct order of words, but Stiles ends up laughing anyways, flooding the room with the warm smell of sunlight and life. Stiles’ happiness is infectious, and Derek ends up laughing, too.
They both somehow migrate to the bed, lying sideways on it — Stiles does have a habit of slapping nearby surfaces when laughing uncontrollably like this, and pulling Derek down with him — and they are, once again, cuddling.
Derek loves this. He missed it, the last 56 hours.
Stiles sobers up first. “So,” he drawls, stretching the syllable.
“So,” Derek echoes, willing Stiles to go first. His dread has vanished now, because he now knows for sure what Stiles thinks about them, about being together.
“So. We do act like we’re dating.”
“Yes.”
“And you knew it. Like, always.”
“I plead the fifth.”
“Derek!” Stiles attacks him with a pillow, and laughing, Derek lets him.
“Alright, yes, I knew. I initiated it. After I came back and sort of… settled down.”
“Since you became the Alpha,” Stiles translates his words, and yes. That is true. “A new Alpha needs a member to balance their power.”
“Yes.” Who better than a probable mate?
Stiles squints his eyes at him, the evening’s darkening sky falling on the bed, turning this beautiful creature into something like a painting; indescribably colorful and beautiful.
Derek can’t help but want to touch. So, he traces his hands on Stiles’ jaw, his neck. Stiles shivers, but doesn’t dislodge him. “You’re beautiful, Stiles.” And because he’ll never forgive himself for this: “You deserve someone better than me. I don’t even know how someone like you can like me.”
Stiles’ smile is devastating. “As a friend? You’re hard to like. As something more than that, though, you make it too easy.”
“Do I now?” It’s a genuine question, too.
Stiles seems to get it. “Yes,” is his simple answer.
They lay there, then, in silence, for a while. Soaking up each other’s presence, listening to each other’s heartbeats — Derek has his senses, and Stiles takes Derek’s permission to lay on his chest.
The Sheriff comes home a bit later, opens the door to his son’s room and finds Stiles asleep on top of Derek.
“Did he finally figure it out?” The Sheriff nods his chin towards Stiles.
“We did,” Derek replies softly, careful not to be too loud.
“Good. Good night, son.”
The door stays a few inches open and Derek is sent a loving but serious glare. Derek takes it for what it is: an acceptance into the Stilinski’s family.
Stiles in his arms and his dad’s permission in his proverbial pocket, Derek falls asleep soundly soon after.
*
“It’s sort of weird how non-weird it is, you know?”
“Yeah?”
Stiles woke up a while ago, when the sun’s morning glare landed on his face. Derek found himself waking up with Stiles’ heartbeat.
“Yeah. Except for the kissing part.” Stiles looks at Derek, and he wants to, but… not yet. “I’m your mate, right? You want me to be. So, at least, we’re engaged to be mated.”
Derek takes a deep breath. “Engaged to be engaged to be mated, actually.”
He waits for a rebuttal. But instead he finds Stiles’ thinking face on, and there comes the worry flooding back in. Who knows what conclusion Stiles must come to?
Stiles finally says, “Does that mean you have basically pre-ordered me?”
Derek has no words.
He simply gets up and pretends that he’s going out the window.
Stiles shouts, “Wait!”
Derek turns around, unimpressed.
“You can leave but I know for a fact that you can’t go a couple hours without me. I found Erica and Boyd making out in my backyard, by the way. Two horny teens are seriously easy to pull answers out of.”
His betas are useless. “You get antsy without me too.”
“I’m telling you, that’s because of stockholm syndrome. I’ve been with you for so long —” Stiles can’t even finish the joke, he just starts cackling. In the other room, the Sheriff snorts, wakes up, and goes back to sleep.
Derek is not laughing.
Stiles realizes that and manages to control himself and reassure, “I’m just joking, okay?”
Derek rolls his eyes. The reassurance does make him feel better, despite knowing that this is a joke. “You have no humor. I don’t know why I like you.”
Stiles’ face morphs into a gentle grin. “I don’t know either, but I’m glad you do. I just wish Scott did too.”
“We’ll deal with him later.” Derek comes near the bed, kisses Stiles’ forehead. “Is this okay?”
It’s a pleading gesture of: is this enough for now? I can’t do more at the moment.
Stiles melts at the kiss, snuggles inside the comforter. “This is the best,” he announces, “But don’t go? You can make me and dad some of your famous morning salad. I don’t know how, but you make it so good.”
“I still can’t believe you love lettuce in general but can’t like it in a hot dog.”
“Don’t sully a hot dog with a green leafy food!”
Derek rolls his eyes, and then his ankles to turn towards the door. “Be downstairs in 30 minutes.”
“There’s an extra toothbrush in— oh wait, you know that already. Why am I telling you? Wake me up in 10! ”
He does know, and he also knows that Stiles will ask for another 10 minutes when he wakes him up.
*
During the next pack night, Stiles calls back everyone but Scott & Allison. The Sheriff was invited but is unable to join because of work.
Despite Stiles’ vehemence to keep his friendship with Scott, their relationship has deteriorated to the point of no return. There’s opposing opinions backed up by insults and accusations Stiles won’t tell him about, and Derek doesn’t press.
If Stiles will want to, Derek will be there to listen. For now, though, they settle once again on the floor, and this time the others are awed but not surprised by his and Stiles’ closeness.
And they’re still unsubtle in checking what the two of them are doing every couple of minutes. Derek doesn’t mind; he likes that everyone knows how much Stiles trusts him, how Stiles is his.
If not in other ways, then through intention alone. And for now, the intention is enough.