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It’s no surprise that no one’s seen or heard from Derek that day. Unable to get ahold of Derek himself, Stiles easily seeks out the pack. Anytime Stiles asks one of them, they shrug and look away. They all seem to think that Derek wants to be left alone, shouldn’t be bothered with any of their problems, werewolf or otherwise. For once Beacon Hills is on the mellow when it comes to other supernatural activity; it’s down time, and they’re all giving Derek that space. Especially today.
Stiles’ opinion on that matter is: to hell with that.
Sure, maybe they shouldn’t all try to crowd around him, put him on edge, or whatever. But Derek shouldn’t be all alone -- he needs to know he is not all alone -- and Stiles is going to make sure of it.
Stiles texts him, calls him and leaves three short voicemails, and even heads over to the loft. Derek’s car is parked in its usual spot, which is a relief in itself, but Derek doesn’t answer to the barrage of knocking at his door. Stiles gets the spare key he knows is hidden in the building -- down to the second floor, under the stairwell, remove the loose brick and dig his hands up through mortar and grit -- and makes his way back up to the fourth floor, letting himself in.
Stiles sighs when he finds Derek isn’t actually there. There was a small part of him hoping that he was, that he was just being a moody -- yet rather justified on this particular day -- dickhead that was going to make Stiles work hard to grace Derek with his presence.
There is only one other place Derek could possibly be. It’s probably the first place Stiles should’ve looked, he knows that, but there was a piece of him hoping it wasn’t that bad. He should’ve realised it would be.
Stiles locks up and puts the key back. Then he drives out to the Preserve, onto the land that was given back to the county a long time ago, but where a werewolf family once lived.
The house is still there, standing like an immovable force, despite the years of long suffering its been through, though today it looks much more ragged than it usually does. So much like Derek, who is outside it but near enough, right where Stiles suspected he would be.
Stiles parks the Jeep and goes to him.
They sit side by side on the front stoop of the Hale house, the charred outer walls a dark backdrop against the sun-bright day. It's quiet, only a few natural noises from the surrounding forest. For once, Stiles doesn't have words. He always has words, always knows what to say to smooth over a situation. Try to put it at ease. Or, at the very least, deflect awkwardness with his own goofiness.
That won't work now. Not today. Stiles knows what Derek is like -- not always forthcoming with words, though sometimes he puts in the effort. He’s more keen to leave behind a touch to reinforce his presence; a clap to Isaac’s shoulder in support, a squeeze to the back of Scott’s neck to stress a point, rolling his eyes at Erica but taking her by the elbow to lead her out of a fray.
Brushing shoulders with Stiles as they stand side by side; firm hand at the small of Stiles back as Stiles leads them through a crowd while waving his arms around in conversation; firm lips against Stiles’ in affirmation instead of a simple nod.
Stiles is willing to speak in a language Derek will understand clearly today.
He turns towards Derek, his knees bumping into Derek's thigh. Derek doesn't move, stays hunched over with elbows propped up on his legs, hands drooping down between them. Stiles reaches out, hand snaking over the hard muscles of Derek's shoulder, fingers brushing into the short hair at the nape of his neck. Derek doesn't move -- not accepting, but not rejecting either. That’s all Stiles needs to go on.
He slips his other hand into the crook of Derek’s elbow, uses it as leverage to pull himself closer. He noses at the small patch of smooth, hairless skin between Derek’s ear and his sideburn.
Stiles can feel Derek’s full body shudder against his, as if Stiles’ breath against his face sends an uncontrollable chill thrumming through him. Stiles tries to press his lips to Derek’s ear, but Derek moves his head away, just a little. Just enough.
Stiles frowns. He starts to pull away, not wanting to push, but then lightning-fast, Derek’s hand claps down over Stiles’ and he bends his elbow, effectively anchoring Stiles down.
Stiles smiles to himself. Derek can be good at being broody and awful at saying what he really wants, tries to play tough little games he instantly takes back all without a word, but Stiles knows how to read him now.
He won't be going anywhere, and he wants Derek to know that.
He tries again, knows it's okay to. This time his lips brushing down Derek's cheek, the stubble rough against them. When he reaches the corner of Derek's mouth, he puckers up in the tiny of pecks, and then waits, breathing against skin.
Derek tilts his head again, a fraction of an inch, but towards Stiles. Stiles' mouth curves against the angle of Derek's cheek, but to not lose the permission, he quickly dips down and presses his lips against Derek's. Soft, waiting for more, waiting to see if this is actually okay, if this is what Derek wants.
Derek reaches across Stiles, grabbing his hip and easily moving him so he turns more into Derek. Stiles slips one leg under Derek's, and one over, capturing them like a vice. Stiles is expecting … well, he isn’t quite sure, he doesn’t think it’ll be more much than being held close, Derek’s nose pressed into his neck and smelling him, scenting him. Knowing Stiles is there and Stiles is his.
It turns out to be more than that, though. Stiles grunts as he's crushed closer, nose mashing against nose, but goes with the flow. He grips the hair at the back of Derek's head, tugs slightly, and Derek moves with it. Their mouths slot together perfectly; small, clinging sucks and nips, the brief swipe of a tip of a tongue. Derek's arms are strong around Stiles, one hand gripping at his hood, and other low on his side, sneaking up under his shirt.
In the matter of a second, it’s like a tide that turns rough and stormy. Derek’s fingernails, as blunt and human as they are at the moment, dig down into the skin of Stiles’ hip. Stiles is pushed back, awkward against the declining steps, a long strip of wood pressing a hard line between his kidneys and his shoulderblade. Derek moves quickly, on his knees but covering Stiles, a heavy weight on top of him.
Derek does press his face into Stiles’ neck, but he sucks sharply and starts to nip on his collarbone. Stiles squirms as heat rushes to the surface, gasps when there’s teeth that scrape against his skin.
Derek’s fingernails scratch hard across Stiles’ stomach, and he presses more firmly down against him, rocking, dragging Stiles’ hoodie and shirt up against the rough wood of the stairs. Stiles tries to shift around -- his hips are twisted awkwardly, his legs splayed out, and man this is going to hurt, if only because it’s a really uncomfortable position.
Derek growls when Stiles tries to push him off, moving his legs and almost swiping Derek off his knees.
“Derek, stop,” Stiles says, his first words to him that afternoon.
Derek freezes immediately, face still pressed into Stiles’ neck. He’s breathing hard, his muscles tense, like a spring ready to jump back. Stiles slides his hands up Derek’s spine, curling them around Derek’s shoulders, letting him know he doesn’t have to leave. Just … stop, for a second.
“Not --” like this, Stiles almost says, but he knows that’s not the truth. If Derek wants it rough, desperate, Stiles can take that for him. It’s not a hardship or anything. It’s just -- “here. Not here.”
This isn’t a place of good memories. Maybe that should change, and maybe Stiles can help with that, someday, but it’s not going to be like this. Stiles knows Derek, knows that some sort of guilt will come out of it if they do anything other than sit here in quiet, and Stiles doesn’t want a memory of him to be engulfed in even more brooding manpain. He’s here to make it -- less, not more.
Derek’s still for another moment, silent and thoughtful. Then he’s up, just as quick as he was on Stiles, and reaching down, pulling Stiles to his feet. Stiles isn’t expecting it, stumbles a bit, but Derek’s hands are out to steady him instantly. As soon as he’s got his footing, Derek steps away, hands back to himself, and stares up at the house.
Stiles gives him his moment, and things are bordering on really awkward silence, but he does his best to ride it out. After a couple minutes, he scrubs the back of his head and huffs an unsure breath.
“Look, I can--”
“Let’s go,” Derek says, not letting Stiles finish. He turns away and starts walking towards the Jeep.
“You sure?” Stiles asks, following him. Derek only nods, opening the passenger door.
Stiles gets into the driver’s side. “Where to?” he asks as he goes to turn the key in the ignition.
Derek’s hand darts out, too quick for Stiles to react, and it closes around Stiles’ wrist. Derek’s not looking right at Stiles, but instead at his fingers tightening.
Stiles twists his wrist and smoothly moves his hand out of Derek’s hold, but flips it so it’s palm up and slips it under Derek’s. Derek’s hand relaxes and rests down on it; they’re not holding hands, really, just touching open palms.
“Where to?” Stiles asks again.
Derek’s fingers flex down against Stiles’, then takes his hand back and puts it down in his lap. “To the loft,” Derek says as he stares out the window at the old house. “Home.”
“Okay,” Stiles says, and turns the Jeep on. He starts to pull out of the drive, and once they’re faced away from the house, Derek looks forward out the windshield.
He’s quiet while Stiles turns onto the main road, and then he says, “I just want to sleep.”
Stiles nods. “Yeah, sure.”
Derek’s silent again before saying, “Come up.”
Normally, Stiles would probably be pissy with that. It’s not a question, not a suggestion. Still, a dull warmth settles into his stomach, to be amplified at a later date and time when it’s not such an awkward, bad day, and he certainly isn’t going to say no.
He reaches over, slowly drags two fingertips over the dark hair on Derek’s arm before going back to gripping the steering wheel. “Yeah, of course.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Derek nod once. Derek turns the radio on low and settles in, but reaches over to put his hand on the headrest of Stiles’ seat. His fingers brush lightly at Stiles’ neck.
Stiles isn’t so sure on the just-sleeping thing, or if maybe they’ll return to what they had going on a few minutes before, but either way, Stiles is up for whatever Derek needs. On days like today, and even on the days that aren’t.