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A pack meeting usually means getting to hang out with the pack and end up in a puppy pile before Derek kicks them out. For the past few, though, he's actually joined them. Stiles hopes he can beg and whine his way into getting what he wants. It's the only time he has a chance to get close to Derek without suspicion rising. The only time he can pretend that their tentative friendship is more.
Something is definitely going on, this time. Stiles glances from each wolf, trying to puzzle it out. Erica and Isaac are biting their lips in barely contained excitement, holding a silent eye conversation. Boyd is right there with them, only he looks a little smug—Stiles didn't know Boyd could do smug—with a secret smile upturning his lips. Peter isn't giving anything away, just lounging in a chair at the back of the room. He's watching everyone like Stiles is, though. So he's in on it, too. Whatever this is.
He doesn't like it. Hates being out of the loop. Why can't they just eat, discuss whatever Derek has to bark about, and then get cozy with each other? Like normal? Stiles likes normal, falls in love and marries normal.
They're gathered in the Hale houses' large living room, which is basically the designated club house. The seating arrangement alone tells Stiles something sneaky is going on. And it's about him. The three pups take up a couch while Stiles is in an arm chair at the front. Derek and Scott occupy the love seat, Derek sitting further away. Usually, it's him and Derek in the love seat. Their love seat.
He doesn't like it.
“Derek, please, enough dramatics. Can we get on with it?” Peter heckles from his spot.
Huffing, Derek twists, angling his body towards Stiles. The other wolves mirror him. Shit, finally.
“Stiles,” okay, Derek has his full attention now, “you know we appreciate what you do for the pack, right?”
Lifting an eyebrow, Stiles looks at every wolf before returning to the alpha. “Yea, who else is gonna save your asses every time you charge in without thinking? Not that you listen, but it's sunken in a little more than before. We're all good friends now, no hard feelings.”
Closing his eyes, Derek sighs before continuing, “Do you feel like a part of the pack?”
Stiles manages a confused, “What?” at the same time Scott turns and asks, “Enough of the questions, are you gonna tell him or not?”
Giving the beta a dirty look, Derek nods his head at Stiles and announces, “We want you in our pack, is what I'm trying to say. You're very useful to us, we-” Boyd shoots Derek a look “I want you in my pack.”
Stiles grins and relaxes into the chair, sensing an opportunity to gloat. “And?”
Sighing again, Derek adds, “And you're a great help, when you actually focus.”
“Hey,” Stiles retorts, although he's not offended. “So, cool, I'm an official member of the Derek Mystery Gang, awesome.”
Every one stands up, heading for the kitchen for the feast of junk food that's waiting. While migrating there, Stiles mentions offhandedly, “We're an actual team, now. Finally get a piece of the action. No more trying to force me to “stay in the car” or “stay outside”.”
Derek's in front of him, the rest of the pack behind them, when he says, “No, you're still not fighting with us.”
He stops shuffling to the kitchen, causing a traffic jam of betas. “Uh, news flash, if I'm part of the pack, I get my equal share of the action. It's fair.”
“I didn't say it wasn't,” Derek turns around to retort. “You're not part of the offense, you're defense.”
“Well, yea, I mean, I'll still do research for us, but-”
“Only. Research.” Derek puts specific emphasis on the “only.” Stiles feels the playful banter shift into an argument. The whole pack freezes behind him.
“Wait, only?”
“Right,” Derek nods, his face not giving anything away. “Only. You're good at it, Stiles, I already said that.”
“Yea, thanks for that, by the way, but what else? Everyone in this pack serves more than one role. So, what else? When have I ever just stood around, looking amazing, while you guys get your growl on?”
Someone clears his throat behind Stiles, but he ignores the attempt to change the conversation. He and Derek have a stare-down typical for them. He's not letting this go.
“What else?” Derek parrots.
Stiles feels his irritation rise substantially. “Is me being your Pokedex of baddy monsters the only thing that matters? That's the singular reason for wanting me in your pack?”
Stiles can't see it, but Isaac is directly behind him, frantically trying to communicate to Derek with his eyes. “Yea, Derek,“ Isaac offers, “what else?”
All gazes turn to Derek, but his eyes flint around the room, landing on everyone and everything. Except Stiles. He almost looks nervous, and Stiles knows Derek can do nervous. He's successfully backed Derek into a corner. Like usual.
“What,” Derek pauses to glance at Stiles and quickly away again, “what else? What do you want me to say, Stiles? What else is there?”
Ouch. Well, if Stiles ever doubted Derek only saw him as a useful tool—he was beginning to think Derek considered him a friend, an equal at least—this is proof. Proof that Derek's blind to the things Stiles has been trying to communicate, to the companionship Stiles has offered for the past few years.
Someone—Stiles thinks it's Peter by how far away the sound is—snorts and imitates a buzzer noise in their throat. It's inappropriate and breaks the heavy stillness that hangs in the air, jolting Stiles into action.
“No, you know what? Forget this.” Stiles turns and shoves his way through the werewolf blockade. Isaac and Scott dodge out the way, he has to actually elbow Erica aside, but Boyd and Peter move.
He half turns back to Derek and points while almost yelling, “Keep your pack, I don't wanna be in it. I'm not good enough, according to you-”
“Don't put words in my mouth!” Derek shouts back while stepping forward.
“Didn't need to, the words put on disguises and snuck out. Clearly, you don't think I'm good enough. You're wrong, you're so wrong you can't even see it. Who wouldn't want this master planner in their pack, I don't know who, but you don't.” Stiles pauses, breathes a few times.
“Stiles,” Scott tries to interrupt, tries to reach for him, but he's not finished.
“No, shut up, I don't care, Scott. I really don't give a shit. Derek still thinks I'm a kid tagging along for the ride. I'm useful when violence doesn't solve the problem. That's it.”
Derek's eyes flash briefly and the betas step out of his way. Except Scott, of course, but Stiles doesn't care. It hurts, and he has to leave, before any of them notice. He has to get out.
Huffing to hide the hitch in his breathing, Stiles turns without another word and leaves. Scott tries to follow him out the door, but he slams it shut behind him. Scott takes it as a sign and doesn't follow.
While the human storms from the house, the wolves look to their alpha for guidance. Derek breathes loudly through his nose, eyes closed, fangs pushing his lips. When he opens his eyes, they're a deep scarlet as they pass over each wolf. Each looks away, none daring to even pretend challenge him. He doesn't say anything, just walks away from the kitchen, up the stairs, and disappears into his room. They hear nothing for the rest of the meeting.
-
It's late that night, early morning really, when Derek finally leaves his room. He's grumpily happy, and maybe a little surprised, to see the kitchen clean of food and dishes. Normally, Stiles cleans up. The pack probably took pity on their alpha and tidied up. Now, the only other wolf in the house is Peter. He can hear his uncle's heart in the living room. There's a discussion waiting to be had, but Derek would like to avoid it.
“'What else in there?' Really nephew, you're welcoming Stiles into our pack, finally closing the distance between you two, and you say, 'What else is there?'”
Derek ignores him and makes it half way up the stairs before Peter tries again.
“I know you're trying, Derek.” Peter's voice is soft, mocking tone absent. It's comforting. “Can't say you aren't trying.”
He's frozen on the step, staring at the moonlight spilling onto the hardwood. It took him about an hour after the fight to realize how patronizing he sounded. If there's one thing he's learned about Stiles since they met, it's how much Stiles hates being patronized. And too often do Derek's attempts at protecting Stiles from danger come off that way. Stiles has every right to fight the pack's battles as the wolves do, but that doesn't stop Derek from trying to create a buffer around him. This buffer, however, has definitely blown up in his face. And he's not sure how to fix it. If it can be fixed.
This is so typical for them, though, to put words in each other's mouths and offend one another with only the other's best intentions in mind. It's exhausting.
“It wasn't what I meant. I didn't know he'd take it the wrong way.”
Peter chuckles. “You should write a book. How To Offend Your Crush in Five Syllables or Less. You and the young Stilinski are constantly misunderstanding each other. Isn't it about time you told him how you feel?”
Rolling his eyes, Derek climbs the remaining stairs. “I've tried for the past year. Stiles doesn't see me that way. Just leave it alone.”
Of course, it's the exact opposite of what Peter does.
-
There's a previously dead werewolf standing guard by his baby when Stiles walks outside the next day. Holing up in your room all day seemed like an appropriate way to deal with a wounded heart. His plan was to venture out for some well-deserved ice cream. Bar Peter killing him, though, he will be eating ice cream. Stiles doesn't mind playing a little dirty to get his way. He frequently carries different maces to ward off specific creatures, the wolfsbane mace accompanying him on this particular outing. He knows Peter can smell it, so he doesn't bother to hide it.
“I will mace you, Peter, don't think I won't. Go. Away.”
Peter lifts his hands, palms facing out and clawless. “No need for violence, Stiles. I just came to talk.”
“I don't care what peace offering Derek sent you with, go away. I've asked you twice, now. That's about three times too many.”
Peter smirks, but stands his ground. “I'm not Derek's messenger, you know that. I come of my own free will, with an opportunity you can't possibly refuse.”
Licking his lips, Stiles flings his arms above his head and yells, “But wait! There's more! I distinctly remember me refusing the last thing you offered. So, let's avoid your typical level of creepiness and just end this conversation with a firm, “no” on my part. Good day to you, sir.”
Stiles is on the verge of giving Peter a nice spray of mace, but then out comes Scott, walking sheepishly around from the other side of the Jeep. Stiles doesn't instantly reach for his can, although he has maced Scott before, as a test. Purely as a test, not in revenge of plans canceled so that Scott could make out with Allison. Nope.
Stiles relaxes at the sight of Scott, but his suspicions remain. Rather than put himself between Stiles and Peter, Scott actually hides behind the other wolf. Like he's afraid Stiles is mad at him. Well, he's getting there.
“So, great, it's a party, now,” Stiles huffs, looking around dramatically for any other pack members to appear. “How about someone explain what Peter's doing here before any further misunderstands happen, yea? Because I was already here,” Stiles gestures with a flat hand at chest level, “on the pissed off scale. And now I'm about here,” his hand shoots to above his head. He's on his tippy toes, but that's still doesn't accurately measure his aggravation.
Scott looks to Peter, like he has eyes in the back of his head or something. “Are you sure this'll work? What if Derek doesn't come?”
“Derek doesn't come where?” Stiles asks. His lip twitches. He hates not knowing!
Peter ignores Scott and takes a step towards Stiles. “For you, Stiles. We're... playing a little game. Just a bit of Keep Away.”
“And... what part of Stiles has to do with this game?” Stiles attempts to keep the conversation going while he reaches for his mace. Oh hell no, he's not being roped into this. Even if Scott's involved, even if this seems free of any malicious intent, no thanks. No wait, Peter's scheming against Derek, this is malicious.
“The mace isn't really necessary, Stiles,” Peter says with a tilt of his head. “Would Scott ever willingly allow a member of the pack to hurt you?”
Stiles rolls his eyes, still on guard. “Yea, breaking news, don't know if you remember. Last night? When Derek delivered the ultimate “fuck you” to my face? I'm not pack. So whatever this is, whatever you're trying to accomplish, just stop.” Stiles huffs and takes a step back. “Derek doesn't care.”
It still hurt to say, and even Scott flinches. Peter still looks cocky, though, with a smirk trying to squirm onto his face.
“If you played along and came with us, I'm sure you'd see just how wrong that assumption is,” Peter says as he takes another step forward. “Derek's never been very good at talking things through. More of a hands-on kind of guy.”
“Tch, obviously,” Stiles scoffs while helpfully ignoring the bait dangling from Peter's first statement. “Still not going, though. I've got things to do today, things that don't involve anyone else.”
Scott wrinkles his noise before stepping closer to Peter's back. “Please, Stiles, you're both miserable. We know you like Derek.”
“Nyhaa, hey!” Stiles waves his arms for Scott to be quiet. “Shut up, we don't know where he is. He could be anywhere, he could be listening.”
“And what would be so bad about that?” Peter asks. “Why can't Derek know? It's what you want.”
“Like it's that easy,” Stiles stage whispers. He's paranoid that the alpha is indeed listening to them. The guy doesn't have any hobbies, he probably stalks around the town to liven it up a bit. “And how the hell do you two know about that? Is everyone in on it? Can werewolves read minds? Please say no.”
“Thankfully, no, we can't. It doesn't take a telepath to read the atmosphere, though. You and Derek have been sharing a fish bowl of ignorance for quite some time.” Peter snarks back, almost rolling his eyes. His hands are stuffed into his jacket pockets, putting Stiles back on edge.
“That's a nice image, but seriously ixnay on the eelingsfay, okay? Derek probably knows we're talking about him if he's not already listening. And I don't feel like talking to him right now, right now. Maybe later, later. Doubt it, but maybe.”
“Oh, Derek isn't here. And he won't be coming to your immediate rescue.” Peter sounds like he did a year or so ago, crouching over Lydia. Ruining his dream. The same feeling from that moment assaults Stiles again, his stomach dropping out and the short hairs on his arms standing up.
“Why... why's that? Not that I need rescuing right this second, or ever, because I'm not going with you or Scott. Anywhere. At any time in the near future, in fact.”
Peter moves a single hand from his jacket, a clear vial between his thumb and index. He holds it up to the light, examining its contents, before shifting his eyes to Stiles. “Some leftovers from when Derek was trying to puzzle out the kanima issue. This is all that's left, but I think he'll over look its use. Once he can move again, of course.”
Stiles stares at Peter for a second before he notices Scott's gone. It takes him an embarrassingly long amount of time to react to the unnaturally strong arms that trap him in a full nelson. He's no match for Scott, but that doesn't prevent Stiles from putting forth 110% effort in trying to break the hold. He manages to wildly throw his arms and head around while making choking noises. The can of wolfsbane mace rolls innocently into the front yard. Scott narrowly avoids a swift bash to his nose from Stiles' thick skull, but otherwise the fight is all in Stiles' mind.
“I'm sorry, Stiles, I wouldn't do this, but there's no other way!”
“Plenty.... of other ways,” Stiles pants. He doesn't stop struggling, even though it's hopeless. Peter is right in front of him, vial uncapped and a drop of paralytic toxin clinging ominously to the glass rim. All it has to do is touch him, and he's fucked. So fucked. Who knows where these two clowns will drag him, dangling him in front of Derek in the hopes that the wolf will come. He won't. Stiles knows it.
“Well, I couldn't think of another way,” Scott pleads. “And Peter did, and we're not going to hurt you. Just stop fighting.”
“Assholes...” he gasps with a final wiggle. The drop of toxin hangs with a sticky tail delicately connecting it to the vial. Sticky things like kanima venom are like maple syrup, though, so it eventually falls. Peter's nice enough to not get it in Stiles' mouth or eyes, but still. He's been paralyzed too many times. Stiles could live his life a few times over without ever wanting to be helpless again. But it's happening, regardless. The experience isn't any less panic inducing without the threat of imminent death via razor sharp claws. Even with Scott's arms around him and their familiar faces, Stiles' heart rate spikes and he sweats. Being knocked out would almost be preferable. Almost.
Scott picks him up, and with the help of Peter they ease him into the back seats of the Camaro. Once Stiles is as comfortable as Scott attempts to make him, the two wolves take their spots up front. Peter drives them.
“You know,” Stiles mumbles through numb lips. “Derek will take one sniff at my house and know you two are behind this. And that's if he bothers to follow your scent to my house. If.”
Scott spares him a look over his shoulder before staring at Peter. “He's right. How will Derek not find us? I mean, we want him to find us, but isn't it supposed to be harder than that?”
Peter shrugs, or Stiles thinks he shrugs. He can't really crane his neck to look. “There are ways to mask a scent, you know. Stiles isn't the only one with a bit of magic know-how. Derek will still be incapacitated for another twenty or so minutes, anyway. That's ample time to find a motel in the next town to stow away our captive and make a quick escape. He'll follow the trail to the motel and discover Stiles there.”
Scott looks back to Stiles for a second before murmuring, “Derek's gonna be pissed when he finds us.”
“Probably.”
-
Stiles is alone in the Camaro while Peter reserves the room, Scott in tow. They drove long enough for sunset to happen, which is pretty bad considering Stiles walked out of his house around 6. He can move his toes, which is promising. Every time they get hit with this stuff, it lasts a shorter and shorter amount of time. Plus, he only touched it, like the first time in the body shop. There's something hard digging into his thigh, though, and he can't move enough to get away... Oh shit, it's his phone. Dumb and Dumberer forgot to take his phone, or even check to see if he had it on him. Idiots. Stiles would laugh, but he thinks he can hear Scott arguing with Peter.
“Scott, relax, nothing bad will happen. Derek will be caught up in the apparent kidnapping of Stiles and won't be thinking of anything else. One track mind, all the way.”
The door opens and fresh air pours into the cabin. The passenger seat flings forward. Scott squeezes into the space to pull Stiles up.
“Derek's tried to call us about a million times, now. So, he's up. Peter thinks he'll be here in an hour, maybe less. Depends on how long it takes him to find you missing,” he says while maneuvering Stiles out the car.
“Great,” Stiles drawls. “May as well pick up some change of address forms, I'm gonna be here for a while.”
Scott grunts while dragging Stiles to his feet, as if it took any effort. “Come on, Stiles, don't be like that. Derek will find you, you know he will. And we'll come back if he doesn't...”
“You're leaving me here? Fan-fucking-tastic, Scott. Best friend ever,” he spits out with a dramatic roll of his eyes. Stiles just hopes they never notice his phone, honestly. Once they leave—the bastards—he'll just wrestle the device from his pocket at call someone... Probably Allison. He'd call his dad, but that'd just be more lying he'd rather not do. If he calls Allison, he can cry to her how Scott was in league with Peter and did this to him. No Allison for Scott for like a month. Oh, sweet revenge.
The plan seems to be coming together, Peter opens the door with a keycard while Scott drags him in. The room smells mildewy, but it could be worse. Scott dumps him with a bounce on the bed. Scott even takes his shoes off, but rather than leave them he keeps them. They're taking his shoes. Really?
“Being shoeless wouldn't prevent me from walking out of here, ya know.”
Peter shrugs while making his way over to the corded phone resting in its cradle on the nightstand. He kneels down, yanks the cord from the back of it, and picks the old thing up.
“Being shoeless and hotel phone-less won't prevent me from walking out of here,” Stiles adds.
Peter smirks and hands the phone to Scott. “We know, which is why we're dousing you with another shot. This one will hurt a bit, though.”
Stiles watches the claws on one of Peter's hands extend. The wolf nicks him on the cheek not smooshed into the old blankets—ouch and gross—and drops a bit of venom on the wound.
“Fuck both of you...” Stiles manages to slur while the numbness returns with full force.
“Sorry, but this running around the bush needs to stop. Derek's not an effective alpha distracted. And honestly, you're just as unhappy. We're doing this for both of you. You're welcome,” Peter replies with a genuine looking smile. He tosses the empty vial in the waste can by the bathroom on his way out.
“Oh, almost forgot,” he says just as they're about to leave.
Peter covers the distance quickly and rolls Stiles onto his back. Stiles' hopes sink when Peter slides the cell phone from its hiding place. He'd scream if he could.
“Being shoeless, hotel phone-less, and cell phone-less won't prevent you from walking out of here, but it is a hindrance, wouldn't you agree?” Peter speaks hotly in his face. Stiles would spit on him, but he can't coordinate his mouth to do it. Damn.
Scott has the decency to rub his arm and look sheepishly at Stiles. “I know this kinda violates our brocode-” Stiles snorts “-but it's worth it, if it'll make you happy.”
Stiles frowns as hard as he can and closes his eyes. He won't even waste the energy fighting to speak. He remains silent while Scott huffs dejectedly and leaves, Peter close behind. The door shuts with a firm click. Outside, the Camaro rumbles to life. Stiles strains his ears to hear it speed away until the end. Silence curls heavily around him on the firm mattress. With plenty of time to waste—probably they come back knowing Stiles' luck—he tries to rationalize the situation.
Okay, so it could be worse. He's definitely dealt with poorer conditions during a kidnapping. Besides the little cut on his cheek—which he will extract his revenge on Peter for—he's unharmed. He's not particularly comfortable on this rock hard bed, but he's not in a basement or on the ground. There's no one threatening to kill him, no pack member's life on the line. And Scott said they'd come back. You know, when Derek never shows up. Because he won't, because he doesn't care. When had Derek ever come to the rescue?
….. Alright, a few times, once they all grew closer after the Alpha Pack fiasco. Derek rescued him from a kidnapping or two in the past year. That time a witch wanted to sacrifice him would have been nasty, if Derek hadn't dropped that chandelier on her. Like a scene out of Loony Toons, or something. Stiles smirks and tries to move. Nothing responds, and he's bored. He can't move his toes. He sleeps.
-
Stiles is the kind of person who sleeps through a tornado-producing thunderstorm. It's startling, then, when something shocks him into wakefulness. He's asleep one second and then instantly on high alert. He is in an unfamiliar motel, though. Without a way to call anyone. And no shoes... But that's not really vital information, because something's trying to get in through the window.
He sluggishly rolls over and watches a silhouetted hand pry at the lock on the window. The long claws give away that it's obviously a werewolf. Stiles just really, really hopes it's Derek. And not some wolf from another pack, coming to sniff out the human who smells like werewolf. Stranger danger.
The lock finally gives and the window flings open. Yep, it's Derek, that jacket is unmistakable. Stiles remains quiet while he watches the alpha crouch on the floor under the sill. Crimson eyes spot him easily in the dark, but Derek doesn't immediately approach. Like he's expecting an ambush. Like he's unaware that Peter and Scott are behind this.
“Ya know,” Stiles croaks, “there's no one else here. It's just me. Not like you can't hear heartbeats or anything...”
Derek stands, but his eyes don't change. “There're ways to mask a heartbeat.”
Scoffing, Stiles turns away from the wolf. “Whatever, I was never in any danger, anyway. Crazy Uncle Peter and bro-code-breaker Scott were the evil masterminds behind this plot. Congratulations, you found me!”
Stiles can't actually feel Derek move closer, but he knows. His words have a sharp, tired edge to them. Like they always do when the situation is "obvious" to Derek, and Stiles is the one making it difficult. “I didn't know who did all this. One minute I'm in my apartment, next I'm paralyzed. I never saw them, and they didn't smell like Peter or Scott. It lasted a lot longer than ever, though.”
“Yea, I noticed that. But that doesn't explain why you didn't know it was them.”
“I only followed the tracks to your house. I knew someone had taken you, your mace was in the yard, but they must have done something to cover their scent, I don't know, okay!”
Derek being dramatic and defensive when pushed into a corner isn't atypical, but he sounds... concerned. Not annoyed-that-I-wasted-my-day concerned. This was more like his dad's I-didn't-know-what'd-happened-I'd-be-alone-without-you concerned. It's enough to make Stiles sit up, one leg folded on the bed. He waits with slumped shoulders for something to happen.
The alpha's just on the other side of the bed, but he doesn't remain there. Once Stiles sits up for a look, Derek strides around the mattress. Stiles watches him circle around, mind racing to figure out what comes next. He pivots so that his legs hang off the bed. Stiles leans back when Derek stops in front of him. This wouldn't be the most appropriate moment to have a face full of werewolf crotch. Although he wouldn't have minded, for the record.
Stiles doesn't know what he's waiting for. He'd really like to not get into a shouting match with Derek right now. What he wants to do is go home and forget this happened. Peter was wrong, just like Stiles knew he was. Derek cared enough to find him, obviously, but beyond that? What Stiles wants from Derek just isn't there. But something's there, though, because Stiles has never seen the wolf look so emotionally constipated. Like he's fighting an urge to do something he either knows he'll regret, or something that will make him vulnerable. Maybe both.
Sighing, Stiles leans back with the support of his arms and stares at Derek. Cocking his head to the side, he says, “Please tell me you drove here. In case you didn't notice, they took my shoes. So, I'm not walking anywhere.”
Derek doesn't say anything back. His face smoothes out, though, and his shoulder drop. He's given up his internal struggle, Stiles guesses. That assumption is proven when Derek carefully sinks to his knees in front of him. Stiles sits up straight, ready to dart. All the things he thought Derek might do, this definitely wasn't one of them.
Wiggling his fingers before snapping them into tight fists, Stiles watches Derek shuffle closer. He's studying the nasty carpet under Stiles' naked feet pretty intensely. The teen cranes his neck to see if there's a bug or something crawling around. They make eye contact while Stiles is trying to look down. It's a very stretched out second. He thinks he stops breathing for that moment. And then Derek's head is in his lap.
Just... resting there. His covered arms reach around and trap Stiles' hips in a tight squeeze. Not hard enough to hurt, but very secure. Stiles' legs part around Derek's torso, they're so close. He's hugging Derek. His brain screams to a halt. All he can see is the wolf's thick, inky hair. Very touchable, probably incredibly pet-able hair. Stiles rolls with that idea, because thinking on his feet has kept him alive this far. And damnit, if Derek's hugging him, then he's reciprocating. Stiles' long fingers dive in, carding through the shorter hair by Derek's ears, until he's rubbing the man's scalp.
He's stupidly pleased with the small, muffled noise Derek lets escape. Stiles makes sure to rub in small circles all the way down to the tanned skin of the alpha's neck. Once there, he drags his hands back to the top of Derek's skull and repeats, widening the path until his fingers are behind blushing ears. Besides the first groan of approval, Derek stays silent. It's just the sound of them breathing. It's deafening.
“I didn't know,” Derek blessedly breaks the silence, “who'd taken you. You're always kidnapped by an enemy we've either narrowed down to a specific creature, or by another werewolf. This time...”
Stiles nods, replies just as quietly, “I get it, you had no clues. I could be anywhere, with anyone. And you had no motive, we haven't chased anything out of Beacon Hills in months.”
Derek nods once, turning his head. Stiles doesn't anticipate the move. His palm brushes, almost covers the recently upturned cheek. Stubble tickles his hand, and Derek doesn't move away. Stiles lightly drags the side of his thumb under Derek's eye, smiling when it closes. He doesn't know what to do, doesn't ever want to stop.
“I'm sorry,” Derek murmurs.
“Yea?” Stiles counters. Just because he's on cloud, like, five right now doesn't mean he's forgiven Derek for their little tiff from the other night.
The werewolf huffs against his wrist and expands his apology. Just like Stiles wanted. “You're much more than some kid tagging along. You keep everyone together, make my orders more likely to be followed. You keep the others in line...”
“Like a pack mom.”
Derek's eye opens briefly to stare at him. The gaze is particularly sarcastic and sassy, even though the rest of his face is hidden. “Not unlike a pack mom, no.” His eye shuts again. "It's more than that, though. You really are smart, when you don't jump to conclusions.”
“Hey, this is supposed to be an apology, not a finger pointing match. We'll be here forever if you wanna start that.” Stiles can feel the grin by his hand. It's contagious.
Stiles' shirt slips up and he can feel hair tickling him. Derek sighs, hides his face again. A warm nose rubs across the sliver of revealed skin. “You're so much more than that...”
Unintentionally, Stiles' hands freeze. It's definitely received wrong, because Derek's shoulders tense again. Quickly to avoid any further misunderstandings, Stiles' brain kicks into gear. He traces the soft flesh behind Derek's ear, thinking carefully. Peter knew, Scott knew. Hell, the whole pack seemed to know, except the man in question.
"Well," Stiles says shakily, "positive reinforcement of a few of my many talents. That's probably the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
"You're deflecting, Stiles."
He's quiet for a minute. Nervousness roils his insides, makes him feel queasy. They're on a precipice of the unknown, and either they can take the plunge or they can avoid confrontation. Stiles never was very good at ignoring trouble.
"I like you, Derek." Stiles' long fingers are much steadier than his voice.. "I really do, but I don't know if it'll, if we'll ever work out. We're bad for each other."
"You talk too much," Derek mutters.
"And you withhold like it's going out of style. See? We fight. All the time." Stiles sighs. His idle caresses still.
"It's not worth doing if it comes easy."
Stiles actually laughs. He swats Derek on the back of the head while saying, "Cut it with the Clint Eastwood crap. You know how much we get on each other's nerves."
Derek's body lifts from the safety of Stiles' lap. He scrambles backwards, ending up on his back with one shoeless foot on Derek's hip. Big hands grab his face. Derek keeps his distance, doesn't jump on him like Stiles thought. It's a shame, because Derek's not even straddling him, just kneeling next to him. Stiles sees it as a wasted opportunity.
"But we've had some good times, haven't we? It's not all bad. I'm not all bad."
Stiles scoffs. "You're bad at being good, Derek. You're not a bad guy, you're just... overwhelmed and under-qualified?"
"Hey," Derek murmurs with a playful slap to Stiles' forehead.
"No hitting!" Stiles kicks with his foot, not even budging the werewolf above him.
"You'd know if I hit you." It's not a warning. Derek's just flirting, which is just a little bit sexy to Stiles. No one flirts with him, so he basks in the attention like a snake curling in the Sun.
"I don't know," he squirms under Derek, who's much closer now. "I might mistake it for a mosquito. You're a big softy, I could take you."
Rather than react to the taunt, Derek huffs a laugh and nods his head patronizingly. "Right, I'll remember that."
When no one's in peril, Stiles struggles to hold a friendly conversation with Derek. Especially Derek. The atmosphere shifts. He feels it, the way Derek watches him without a frown. His face relaxes and creases between his eyes soften. Stiles only means to reach out, to touch Derek's angular face, but apparently Derek reads the situation differently.
Stubble pricks the skin around Stiles' mouth when Derek kisses him. He's only ever kissed girls (a girl), so the contrast is a novelty. Derek's nose squishes against his cheek, but his lips are soft. There's no force behind it, just a tingling graze of skin. Their lips stick a little when Derek pulls back.
Flinging his head down on the mattress, Stiles grabs the wolf by his hair and pulls Derek close. Stiles doesn't try to kiss him, just wants him closer. Derek resists for just a second, long enough though for Stiles' hands to slip from his hair to his face. The meat of his thumbs fits perfectly under Derek's cheekbones, like his hands were made for them.
Derek opens his mouth to speak, but Stiles quickly shakes his head. Derek remains silent, but doesn't close his mouth right away. His lips are pouty, now that Stiles can stare nice and long like he's prone to. And just beneath Derek's upper lip is a white flash of his front teeth. Stiles never noticed it before. It simultaneously breaks his heart and fills him to overflowing.
Loosening his hold on Derek's face, Stiles says, "I'm willing to try if you are. Meet me halfway?"
Derek's lips seal, purse together. He mulls it over for maybe half a second be nodding. Like he already knew the answer long before Stiles' proposal. He leans down, kisses the edge of Stiles' mouth, before half lying down on top of him.
"So...." Stiles trails off. "What time is it?"
"Late."
Groaning, Stiles wiggles his shoulders to get comfortable. "Wanna just stay here? Make good use of the money Peter wasted on this hovel?"
Derek shrugs the shoulder pinning Stiles to the bed and quickly rolls off. It's enough for Stiles to crawl backwards on the bed, to the spot he napped in earlier. He's not really tired, but there's nothing else to do. The room doesn't even have a T.V.
"You're gonna get revenge on them, right? For putting us through this."
Derek rolls his eyes while yanking the probably filthy cover off the bed. His shoes come off, and he kicks the blanket onto the floor. Derek's warm enough for Stiles, he doesn't need covers. Once he gets comfortable, he says, "What did you have in mind?"
"Itching powder."
A furry eyebrow arches. "You know they'd be able to smell it."
Stiles tucks his face close to Derek, closes his eyes with a soft smile. "There're ways to mask scent, you know."