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“You know you can't just hide in the kitchen the rest of the night without people noticing, right?”
“I'm not hiding.” Derek doesn't move from where he's standing, arms crossed, glaring at the microwave. “Jackson and Erica have been bitching about being hungry all night; I'm just getting some snacks since they won't get off their asses and do it themselves.”
“Uh huh.” Stiles leans a hip against the counter. “Because it's the power of your ferocious alpha stare that's popping that popcorn, I'm sure. Man, you've already got like three bags in that bowl, don't you think this might be overkill?”
“Have you seen how much this group eats?”
“We—yeah, okay.” He heads over to the fridge and pulls out the half-empty box of Red Bull. “But the bathroom breaks are gonna be over with soon, and everyone else is gonna realize you're still in here.”
The microwave beeps, and Derek stares at it, apparently uncomprehending for a moment. Stiles sighs, leaving the box on the kitchen table as he leans around Derek to pull the popcorn out.
“Maybe it would be better if I just left.”
“What?” Stiles nearly drops the bag, catches it by a corner, and spends the next several seconds cursing at the rush of steam that escapes and catches his fingers. “Ow! Damn it. Are you kidding? You can't leave!”
“The pack bonding thing was a nice thought, but I don't think it's working out.”
“It is! It totally is!” Stiles shoots a glance over his shoulder back towards the dining room. “Come on, you can't leave now. We're about to head into the lich's chambers, and you're the only one in the party with half a hope of actually getting that scroll of dimensional anchor to work. Which is the only way we stand a chance of keeping him from teleporting long enough to grind his bones to make our bread. Metaphorical bread; unless Boyd wasn't kidding about putting ranks in Profession: Baker the last time we leveled up, I guess.”
“What are you even talking about?”
“Who knows! Let's go.” Stiles wraps a hand around Derek's bicep and tugs, groaning when he fails to budge him so much as a fraction of an inch. “Derek. Seriously. You're freaking out over nothing, all right? We've been through the plan: Jackson's gonna set you up with invisibility so you won't get interrupted, Scott's gonna start working the bluff check as a distraction, and I'll sneak around back to flank when the fight starts. You don't even need a check to cast the spell; all you need to do is hit on a ranged touch attack. A touch attack.”
“The way I've been rolling tonight I'm lucky my feet have been hitting the floor.”
“It'll be fine! Your Dex is, like, off the charts, I totally set you up there. You hit, we all pray this dude doesn't have some sort of unholy spell resistance, we beat the shit out of him, we party.”
Derek glances over Stiles's shoulder, jaw set like he's eyeing the doorway to eternal torment, and huffs out a breath. “I don't want to let everybody down again.”
“Oh.” Stiles can't help it—his heart melts a little bit, undeterred even by the quelling look that Derek shoots him. “Hey, it's not—look, this is probably my fault; maybe a cleric wasn't the right fit for you. I just thought, when you told me I could make your character—”
“I told you that you had to make a character for me,” Derek reminds him, “if you wanted me to play at all. That's still way more effort than I'm willing to put into this.” He plucks the bag of popcorn from Stiles's hands and dumps it into the nearly-overflowing bowl. “It's not that, though. The character's actually . . .” He huffs. “Kind of fun.”
“Oh my god.” Stiles's hands fly to his mouth as his eyes go wide, and for a moment Derek looks alarmed. “Oh . . . my god. Fun. You just admitted this was fun.”
“Stiles.”
“Oh my god you like it. Derek Hale likes playing Dungeons and Dragons.”
“Why the hell can't I cast Silence in real life?” Derek growls, and Stiles nearly flails out of his skin in delight.
“And you made a freaking spell reference, oh my god, stop, I can't deal with this.”
“I don't know why I ever thought this was a good idea.”
Stiles rests a hand on Derek's shoulder, ignoring the I-don't-know-how-to-deal-with-people-initiating-friendly-physical-contact-but-I'll-look-like-a-kicked-puppy-if-you-pull-away glare the move gets him, and wow, at a later time he's going to have to evaluate how well he knows the various levels of Derek Hale's bitchface. Right now, though, he has something to say.
“Okay.” He takes a deep breath. “Okay, for real. This is a good thing, Derek. Even if you suck at it. Hell, especially if you suck at it. Everyone's getting to see you act like a real person for a while, and it's doing all sorts of good for pack morale. You know Boyd actually smiled when he mentioned you yesterday? They're not going to think any less of you just because you're not a flawless killing machine.”
“I missed a fifth-level warrior guard, Stiles,” Derek says mournfully, which is—absolutely not adorable. “Twice.”
“Hey, it's the curse of the natural one. Everyone's gotta deal with it sooner or later.” Stiles squeezes his shoulder and gives it a friendly thump before he drops his hand. “Now come on; you ready to beat the crap out of some undead?”
“I guess . . . I can stay for the rest of the session,” Derek sighs, picking up the bowl of popcorn as Stiles beams at him.
“That's the spirit! Never say die! Unless it's a total-party-kill, but hey, what are the odds, right?” He grabs the Red Bull again and heads for the doorway, calling over his shoulder, “By the way, we've gotta get you your own dice if you're gonna keep playing with us. I'm pretty sure you're using the set that Allison was saying were cursed last week.”
“I FUCKING KNEW IT!”