Work Text:
Cause the tide is high
And it's rising still
And I don't wanna see it at my windowsill
arcade fire, windowsill
Stiles wished for symmetry.
He wished Derek had a window he could just swoop into like Derek had done to him so many times before, creeping across windowsills and waiting silently in the corner for god knows how long until Stiles showed up. Or even those few times neither of them have mentioned when he’d show up at night, way past appropriate visiting hours, and say nothing, just end up staring at Stiles like he wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. Once, Derek just turned around and left, leaving Stiles staring in shock at the spot where he’d been moments before. There was another time when Derek laid down beside Stiles, on top of the covers, keeping on his shoes and leather jacket like he was ready to bolt at any second. Stiles had stared at him for a few minutes, then tentatively stretched out his hand and placed it on Derek’s arm. Derek had glared at it, and just as Stiles was about to remove it, Derek covered it with his own.
But neither of them spoke of that. They didn’t talk about how Derek had threaded their fingers, how they’d held hands silently until Stiles fell asleep with his head on Derek’s shoulder.
Derek didn’t have a window. Well, he had a window, actually a huge wall of tall windows that overlooked the city because Derek didn’t do much, but when he did do something, apparently he did it big. But those windows were like fifteen stories up, and sure, Stiles had a not-so-secret death wish, but not one where he’d plummet to his death by crawling into Derek’s window.
So, he had to find an alternate plan.
Stiles stole the key to Derek’s loft from Isaac, the key that Derek had oh-so-conveniently forgotten to ask for back and that Isaac had oh-so-conveniently forgotten to return. He drove directly from Scott’s (Scott-and-Isaac’s? Stiles didn’t know) and bounded up the stairs like a herd of elephants. Derek would hear him coming, and maybe that’s what he wanted. He’d appreciate not being gutted by a werewolf, at least one from the good side. That just would be too fucking ironic for him.
The lock flipped with a hollow clack in the spacious warehouse, and Stiles stepped across the threshold quietly. He listened for movement, expected Derek to just pop out of nowhere, grab him by the collar and throw him out into the hall. But Derek wasn’t there.
He contemplated leaving, felt like he was intruding by being in that space, like Derek’s loft was some sacred place he had no business visiting without a guide. Like afterhours at a museum, walking through the dark room illuminated by the almost full moon and viewing Derek’s life from behind a glass wall.
Here you have the natural habitat of the Beacon Hills Alpha werewolf, notice the lack of anything personal, the stack of books, the endless supply of grey and black henleys. If you look to the right, you can see where it sleeps, black comforter with black pillows and black headboard.
Stiles laughed at himself, though nothing felt funny. It felt hysterical, desperate, and if he was a werewolf, he’d blame it on the impending full moon. But Stiles wasn’t a werewolf, he had no excuse. He just was.
Stiles was looking out the window when he heard the door open, and first hesitant, and then angry footsteps echoing across the floor. He turned to face Derek before he could grab him, but Derek didn’t reach for him. He stood across from Stiles, angry and guarded, but the longer they stared, the easier it was to tell that Derek was something else beneath that façade. Was that glad? Relieved? Hopeful?
Stiles walked towards Derek slowly, and Derek backed away, matching him step by step as he stayed just out of reach of Stiles. Until Derek’s back hit the wall. Stiles bit his lip as he grinned at the expression on Derek’s face – surprise, and then frustration, like how dare that wall get in Derek Hale’s way?
Derek was pinned against the wall, his face blank as he looked at Stiles, who now closed the distance between them. It was like the time in his room, a time that seemed like ages ago when Derek had him pinned against the wall.
Symmetry.
But Stiles didn’t threaten Derek, and Derek didn’t look offensive. He looked resigned, and tired, and maybe a little defeated. Stiles remembered Derek pointing a finger in his face and barking angry words at him, but there were no angry words now, no pointing fingers. There had been enough fingers pointed at Derek, and Stiles wasn’t here to accuse. Stiles was here for reasons he wasn’t sure he wanted to admit, wasn’t sure that Derek didn’t return.
Stiles remembered Derek grabbing his jacket, fingers twisting in the fabric harshly.
Now, Stiles stepped forward, curled his fingers in Derek’s shirt gently, distracted momentarily by how soft it was. By how he thought about soft and Derek in the same sentence.
Derek looked at him, lips parted as he breathed through his mouth, his eyes shining in the moonlight.
“I wanted to,” Stiles started, his voice a whisper in the large room. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Derek swallowed, and Stiles followed the bob of his throat with his eyes before flicking to Derek’s dry lips and then back to his eyes. “I’m fine,” he answered. And his hand gripped the hem of Stiles’ shirt, rucking up the material until his blunt fingers brushed against warm skin. Stiles’ eyes fluttered shut for a moment, long enough that Derek leaned in, pressed his lips lightly against Stiles’, a breath of a touch, barely there.
“I’m glad,” Stiles whispered against Derek’s mouth, and they stood there for a moment, so close their noses brushed, until Stiles moved in and kissed him harder.
Derek didn’t push him away, and Stiles decided to think about that revelation later.