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Stiles liked to think that the universe didn’t hate him, but he had reasons to doubt that sometimes. Like now, for example, when he’s innocently dancing to some Brittney Spears, as one does when they’re home alone on a Friday night, and Derek suddenly jumps into his room. Stiles lets out a cry of momentary terror (it is not a squeak, thank you very much.) “Dude!”
Derek blinks. “Were you really just-”
“What are you doing in my room?” Stiles bites out, pausing the music. “Without so much as a ‘hi’ or a ‘can I lounge on you bed like a creeper, Stiles?’, I might add. I could have been naked, Derek. Or doing things.”
“You mean like pretending to be the backup dancer in a Brittney video?” Derek shoots back, raising an eyebrow in a gesture that means “we both now you have no plans ever so stop pretending like this is a nuisance.’ (Stiles has come to learn that Derek’s eyebrows speak more than his mouth, and has become fluent in their language over the years.)
“What do you need?” Stiles huffs, flopping down onto the bed next to Derek.
“To lounge on your bed like a creeper for the rest of the night.” Derek scoots over, making more room for Stiles. Them lying in bed together is a lot less awkward than it probably should be, but only because Stiles room is The Official Research Place, and the bed is way more comfortable than the floor when sitting for long periods of time. But, Derek is insinuating that he intending to stay the night, which is not a normal Derek-y behavior, and thus has Stile worried.
“Why?” he asks. “Is something going on?”
“Erica and Boyd are using the loft.” Derek replies, which at first doesn’t make a lick of sense to Stiles, until- oh. Using. Stiles grimaces. “Ah. So, Sourwolf has been sexiled from his den.”
“I have not been sexiled, it isn’t my den, and stop calling me that, for that last fucking time.” Derek grumbles, but, whatever. Stiles knows Boyd and Erica, and Derek does too, so, by consequence, Stiles knows that Derek knows exactly how promiscuous his packlings are. Stiles pities the guy, really, he does, so he shrugs.
“Take refuge here if you so please, dude, but a text would be nice next time.”
Derek grunts and Stile takes that as agreement. “Awesome, I’ll set up the Wii then.”
Derek and Stiles (sort of) have a thing. They end up playing at least one game of Mario Kart every time Derek comes over, Derek kicks Stiles’ ass ninety-nine percent of the time, and Stiles yells at him for blue-shelling him every five seconds. Stiles sets up the game and chooses Luigi (if Scott were here, he’d be Mario; it’s a best-bro thing) and Derek is, as custom dictates, Princess Daisy, which Stiles still can’t find any real reason for.
Approximately ten games later (of which Stiles has securely lost all), they give it up because Derek is an old man who hates late nights and gets yawny and grumpy anytime past ten (which Stiles may or may not find to be fucking cute as hell, but he isn’t going to dwell upon that because he doesn’t like to think about how much of a sadist he must be for choosing two of the most unattainable people ever to have crushes on) and start getting ready for bed. Stiles changes quickly into his pajamas while Derek brushes his teeth with one of the many spares Stiles keeps around for Scott purposes to avoid the awkwardness of having to be semi-nude with Derek near him. Mister “Lickable Abs” Hale may be shameless about whipping clothing on and off (not like that of course, but that doesn’t keep the image from Stiles’ brain), but, Stiles can still barely stomach the locker room. Half naked with the object of his affections that just so happens to be able to smell arousal? No thank you. Stiles’ libido is way too traitorous for that kind of thing.
By the time Stiles has changed, gotten through his bathroom routine, and returned, Derek has already claimed a side of the bed, and, oh. Stiles gets to sleep with a shirtless Derek Hale. That was going to end well. Thanks, Universe! He keeps from sighing and slides as casually as possible bed next to him, laying so that he’s facing away from the Alpha. “G’night, Der.” he mumbles, reaching out and flicking off the light.
“G’night, Stiles.” Derek replies sleepily, and the room falls silent except for the sound of their breathing. After a few minu8tes, Stiles closes his eyes and thinks that maybe this won’t be so bad. It’s a little calming, actually, listening to Derek beside him; it makes him feel safer, somehow.
He’s on the verge of sleep a few moments later, when he feels Derek shift, rolling over so that his face was near Stiles’ neck. Stiles can feel his breath ghosting across it, and it takes a shit ton of willpower he was unaware he had to keep his heart from pounding out of his chest. Tentatively, Derek drapes an arm across Stiles’ waist and holy mother of everything this is happening. Stiles is playing little spoon to a shirtless Derek Hale and if this is a dream no one should ever wake him up. Stiles stays perfectly still, focusing on keeping his breaths even and his pulse down, and Derek eventually relaxes, nuzzling into Stiles’ nape and muttering something unintelligible into his ear before his light snort telling Stiles he’s asleep.
Derek’s arms is a warm weight, and he’s a pretty damn good cuddler, if Stiles does say so, so he just settles back into Derek’s embrace and falls asleep himself.
The next morning, Derek is gone, and that kills Stiles a little until the scent of eggs reaches his nostrils. He pads downstairs to find Derek at the stove, still shirtless and his hair sleep mussed, cooking. “I thought I’d make you breakfast before I left.” Derek says in greeting and Stiles grins.
“You’re awesome.” He croons, taking a seat at the table. Derek shrugs.
“Whatever.”
As they sit down and eat, Stiles think he like this. It’s a think he hopes he could get used to, and when he sees the grin on Derek’s face when he snorts orange juice in an attempt to laugh at something he was saying, he thinks for the first time that, just maybe, that’s actually an option.