You're delusional. Rosalind's lab is ventilated, right? You didn't... inhale anything toxic? I'm worried about you.
[ you know, because stiles' head is so fucked up that he thinks he stands a chance!! checkmate!!!!!!
whatever. whatever? whatever. fuck. derek's feet are hurting. his legs are tense and his muscles are taut, and he just keeps walking in front of his front door, over and over again, trying to hear the distant ping of an elevator eighty floors below him. waiting shouldn't be such a big deal; stiles ended things with rosalind sooner than derek expected him to, and he's coming over early to shower. the elevator could get stuck, maintenance could come and fix it, and stiles could get caught up in a fucking flash mob and he'd still make it to derek's apartment sooner than they'd originally planned. being impatient is just... the same as being greedy.
but he is impatient. he's very, very impatient, and he's very, very lonely, and it's not like he and stiles haven't seen each other since the fort, but he hasn't told stiles he missed him, and stiles hasn't promised to share a bed with him again, and there's so much here that derek wants that it's this scary, intimidating, amorphous blob of good feelings that he just wants to dive into already. this is taking too long, and... and he can swear that he's caught stiles' scent, somehow, through all the thick layers of concrete and wood and metal standing between them, and that's only making him feel worse.
he wants stiles. he wants to see stiles, he wants stiles so fucking bad.
impulsively, derek opens the door to his apartment and walks out, shutting it behind him. he takes a hard left down the hall, ducking out of sight from the top of the stairs, turning down a corner and making it to the end. the elevators are a ways away, but derek walks until he gets there, staring blankly up at the little LED display indicating that the elevator is still a good sixty floors below him. cool.
cool. cool. cool. great. fine. this is fine. derek's still pacing, but he's pacing a little faster now, arms crossed over his chest. sixty floors. fifty nine. fifty eight. fifty seven. derek glowers at the light above the elevator doors like it's just another stupid fucking act of aggression from duplicity against him. another shred of evidence that this apartment is fucking stupid, and that he hates it, and that he hates the city, and that he hates being here, and that he wants to be somewhere else. somewhere safe. with stiles.
stiles sends him another message and derek doesn't reply, but he stops walking just long enough to read it. he stares at the text, hears the words in stiles' voice. the uptick when he says something that's supposed to be a joke, the cocky little smile he'd have if he were saing this to derek's face. the way he'd laugh, that kind of soundless, sarcastic laugh he does, where he just exhales air through his nose and lets his shoulders shake. derek misses that fucking laugh. it hasn't been long since he's seen stiles laugh, but derek still misses it so bad.
he lifts his thumb to his lips and anxiously bites the nail, which isn't a good habit, and he knows that, so he crosses his arm again and tucks his hand beneath his bicep, sandwiching it against his side. he chews his lip, stops himself from peeling away any dry skin, because that's not a good habit, either. he can work with anger, he can shoulder his grief, but he sure as shit doesn't know how to deal with this impatient, scratchy anxiety that makes everything in him feel so tightly wound.
and then he hears a noise from behind him, just out of sight. the gangly footsteps of an uncoordinated idiot, crashing through derek's anxiety like he crashes through everything else. derek frowns, eyebrows meeting in the middle, and after a quick glance up at the elevator - still thirty floors down, maybe a little less - he turns, and he heads back.
and then there's stiles, sweaty and exhausted and trying to catch his breath, struggling to reclaim whatever dignity he has left in him before derek opens the door he's not actually behind and catches him. there's a window here where stiles doesn't realize he's there, and derek knows he should - take advantage of that, or something. come up with something biting and clever and funny, maybe. but he doesn't want to? he just...
this makes him feel happy. this makes him feel warm.
so derek walks over, keeping his footsteps light, and he's smiling, all self-satisfied and content and kind of endeared. stiles ran up to see him, and derek can't exactly pretend like he wasn't waiting outside the elevators to meet him - he wouldn't hide it, either, if stiles asked why he's not inside. they both wanted to see each other as soon as possible, and derek latches onto that, even though it would be so easy to assume the worst. so easy to assume that stiles is being chased by a fucking murderer and just needs to get inside as soon as possible, so easy to assume he's fucking-- shit his pants, or something, and just ran up here to change. derek doesn't let himself scroll through the rolodex of pessimistic and kind of mean bullshit, he just - assumes that stiles wanted to see him as much as derek wanted to see him back.
derek leans against the wall beside his door, arms still loose across his chest, but just seeing stiles is enough to relax him. he feels so much less tense, so much happier. derek might not know stiles as well as he should, being two years behind, but he knows that it's been a long, long time since he's just been this fucking happy to see someone.
and he's not an idiot. he knows what that feeling is. ]
It's unlocked.
[ he nods his head towards the apartment, like stiles is too dumb to know what he's talking about. "you look like a mess", fuck, that's what he should have said. ]
[ it strikes stiles just a second or two after knocking how embarrassing this is going to be. he just ran up like a million flights of stairs and he's slowly dying in the hallway outside of derek's door because he couldn't wait the five or ten extra minutes it would have taken in the elevator to get up to derek's apartment. he tells himself, as he struggles to slow down and even out his breathing, steady his heartbeat, that he's just - really excited about the prospect of a decent, hot shower. which he definitely, definitely needs at this point, now that he's sweated in his clothes.
god, he probably stinks. he's a clean, hygienic person, and he put on deodorant this morning and then reapplied before he left, but he probably smells like rosalind's lab - clinical and medicinal, like a combination of all the chemicals he handled. and sweat. stiles can't actually smell anything on him, but he briefly considers snatching his deodorant out of his bag for another quick swipe under his arms, though. because his sense of smell isn't anywhere close to how sharp derek's is.
but there's probably not enough time for that, and derek opening the door to stiles freshening up his armpits would probably be more embarrassing that derek finding him like... this. too warm, with jelly legs and out of breath.
stiles doesn't actually hear derek at all when he rounds the corner. he's still breathing just a little too harshly to hear anything quieter than that. it's movement in his peripherals that catches his attention. stiles impulsively pushes himself away from the wall, fully intending to try and play it cool for derek's neighbor, or whatever other sad sack decided to take the stairs. he lifts his hand to rub at the back of his neck, but he's still holding his overshirt, so he just looks - dumb.
and it's not derek's neighbor, it's derek. stiles drops all pretenses and sags back against the wall again, not feeling nearly embarrassed as he thought he would. he does feel a little confused, though, because derek is... on the wrong side of the door. oh, right, he was picking up food, his brain supplies, but derek isn't carrying anything, so. that can't be it.
stiles doesn't ask, though, because derek leans against the wall on the opposite side of his apartment door and stiles is very easily distracted. he kind of wants to reach over and shove his shoulder for no particular reason, but that seems like it would require more energy than he's currently willing to expend, so he doesn't.
his eyebrows lift a little. he rolls himself sideways, leans his weight into the press of his shoulder. ]
That seems smart. You're a - [ he sniffs, swipes his thumb through the thin film of sweat over his upper lip, drops is hand, ] - a burglar's best friend.
[ he says it with a fair amount of seriousness, but the edges of his eyes crinkle a little and he finds himself smiling faintly and tiredly and definitely like an entire idiot. he hums unintentionally as he breathes out, and then tilts himself forward again until he's standing in front of the door.
it's unlocked, just like derek said. not that stiles thought he was lying, but he wouldn't put it past derek to tell him one thing just to see stiles make a fool of himself struggling to open a locked door. stiles pushes his way inside, already starting to slide one of his arms free of a backpack strap. he's still too warm, and the bag is keeping his body heat trapped between his shoulders, slowing down the process of cooling off. he turns on his heel, teeters a little on his jelly legs, takes a small step sideways with one foot to keep his balance. ]
Beat the elevator, [ he says with a lazy flap of his hand back toward the hallway he's already leaving behind, offering up an explanation for why he's all gross and red-faced and generally a mess despite the fact that derek didn't ask. he frees his other arm, and then just kind of stands there with his bag in his hands because he doesn't know where to put it down. it's awkward for a second before he just decides to act like this place is his old place. it's the same exact layout, only mirrored, and just about as bare as stiles kept his before he was moved to the down.
stiles sets his bag down by the side of the couch. he lifts one foot to pull his sneaker off, quickly realizes he has absolutely zero chance of balancing on one foot with his knees still as wobbly as they are, and sits down on the arm of the couch instead, dragging his leg up so he can get at his laces. ] Where'd you go?
[ he lifts his chin at derek, eyes flitting up from his fingers for a moment. why were you in the hallway, why were you not here to open the door and scoop him up and deposit him immediately into the air conditioning and press a cold drink into his hand.
why has it taken this long for stiles to admit he's missed sharing space with derek? ]
[ stiles has been, for the most part, a lot calmer than derek in the time since derek's arrival. maybe it's because he's just-- steadier, now, than he was at sixteen, or maybe it's because he's spent months in duplicity and knows when to keep his head down better than derek does. whatever the case, he's been reliable. clearheaded when things have gone bad, a fixed point in otherwise stormy seas. an anchor, in some ways, though derek has yet to truly think of him like that.
so this is a nice change of pace. the sweat, the struggle, the imminent cardiac arrest. derek's got this sly, wolfish grin on his face as he rests against the wall, watching stiles revert to the awkward, messy teenager he's always been. as much as stiles annoys the shit out of him when he's all frantic and physically emotive and energetic, it's comforting to see that he isn't always... worried about things.
maybe that's hypocritical, maybe he's projecting, maybe he just doesn't want stiles to be as fucked up by his trauma as derek is. maybe he's just... actually sort of starting to like this side of stiles, now that he's not constantly spazzing out when derek's trying to fucking get shit done. maybe it's cute. he does think stiles is cute, after all. that's written down. he can't take that back.
stiles lifts his eyebrows, calls him a burglar's best friend. derek lifts his eyebrows back, still smiling that same shit-eating grin, but by the time they've headed inside together, he's got it under control. he steadily closes the door behind them (and locks it, this time,) as stiles wobbles in, and his eyes linger on stiles' shoulderblades for a second or two as he goes. stiles takes a seat, and derek feels sort of awkward standing at the front door, so he drifts into the kitchen area, rummaging through the fridge for the soda he bought. it's cold, at least a little bit, but he adds some ice to a glass to really sell it. feels like it's probably been a while since somebody got stiles a drink, so. yeah. he wants to do it.
he gets everything set up, puts the soda back in the fridge, then heads back over when stiles is asking his question. "where'd you go". derek's eyebrows are back up, and he holds the glass out for stiles to take, carrying it with his good arm, the one he leant against the wall with.
he could lie. it'd be easy to lie, but. he'd already decided not to. ]
Wanted to see you sooner.
[ derek shrugs, like it's an easy thing to say, even though - as it always seems to be, with stiles - he feels a little bit like he's throwing himself off of a cliff. admitting that he has feelings, like a normal person? that shit can't keep flying as easily as it has been. one of these days, it's going to bite him in the ass.
still. he's happy. he wanted those few extra seconds, those tiny, bonus moments they'd have on the few steps back to his apartment. he's not ashamed of that, exactly, even if he is daunted by the idea that stiles might react poorly. it is what it is. ]
[ stiles grabs both ends of his shoe once he's got the laces undone, wiggling it off of his foot and dropping it to the floor with very little care. he eases his leg back down with minimal wincing as his thigh muscles protest any and all movement, and decides to take a minute or so break before he starts on his other shoe. it's not like there's any rush, aside from the fact that he just wants to feel comfortable. which he does, generally speaking - he feels more comforted in the last five minutes than he has in... well, since the last time he saw derek, actually -, but he'd like to get out of his shoes, and eventually, his sweaty clothes.
derek offers him a drink, and there's ice and stiles looks almost awed by the gesture, his eyes flickering from the cool glass in derek's hand up to his face. he presses his lips into a thin line, but the edges of his mouth betray his dumb, pleased little smile. he reaches out, carefully takes the drink from derek so he doesn't spill. and then just sits there with his arm out, cup in his hand, looking a little dumb for a second.
wanted to see you sooner.
stiles' stomach swoops as he connects the dots. derek came from down the hall where the elevator is, and he wasn't coming out of the elevator because the lift had to be like, thirty floors below by the time stiles came bursting out of the stairwell. which means he was waiting by the elevators for stiles to come up, waiting to meet him because he wanted to see him sooner. because he wanted the couple extra seconds of time between the elevator and his apartment.
stiles likes him so much. stiles likes him so much it's stupid. he likes him so much that he loves him, which feel less and less scary to admit to himself every time he thinks about it, but still pretty terrifying when he thinks about what would happen if derek ever found out. it's fairly obvious by now that derek likes him at least a little bit - he's called him attractive, he's told him he's missed him - but maybe it's just a purely physical thing.
which is... fine. stiles is cool with purely physical if that's where derek stands. he can pretend he's cool with it, anyway, and do whatever he has to do to keep his feelings in check. that's fine. he's good at that, mostly.
stiles wets his lips and draws his arm back in, lifting his hand to press the cold glass to his cheek. it feels nice on his heated skin. he lets his eyes close for a moment, lets a soft, contented hum escape him, and then opens his eyes again. stiles takes a long sip of soda, knocking back about half the glass while simultaneously toeing his other shoe off by stepping on the heel of it with his other foot. he tilts his glass back down, the ice inside clinking quietly as it floats around. he crunches down on a smaller piece. why did you take the stairs?
for a moment, stiles just keeps chewing his piece of ice, rolling the smaller bits on his tongue as they melt away. he looks directly at derek, and his heartbeat quickens only slightly. the corner of his mouth lifts faintly, hinting at a smirk. ]
Because I've been thinking about your shower for the last three hours.
[ he shrugs just as casually as derek had, then brings his glass to his mouth again, pausing long enough to add: ]
But also because I'm impatient and I didn't want to waste thirty minutes standing in an elevator when I could spend thirty more minutes here. With you. [ he shrugs again, averting his eyes now that he's gotten that out, and speaks directly into his glass. it makes his voice sound a little echo-y. ] I have legs, so. Or - I did when I started. I'm not so sure anymore.
[ and then he chugs the rest of his soda, tilting his head back to get the ice at the bottom of the cup. ]
[ derek could take stiles' pain. it's not like stiles is really suffering, but derek could still take it, and for a moment, he considers doing so. he could reach out, set a hand against his shoulder, drain away the aches and the pains he's amassed from running up the stairs on those weak, human legs. those weak, spindly, gangly, horrible spidery legs. it would be easy, and he'd get to make stiles feel a little more comfortable, and that, too, would make derek happy.
but it could also go pretty badly, he thinks, because if there's one thing derek knows about stiles - one thing that he thinks he knows better than a lot of people do - it's that he's selfless. derek's arm isn't bandaged up anymore, but it's still very tender, and under the sleeve of his henley, there's a gnarly mark that hasn't fully recovered despite his accelerated healing. he doesn't want to ruin this by giving stiles a chance to... tell him to take it easy, or something. he doesn't want to ruin this quiet little bubble they have for themselves by reminding stiles of veracity, or the fort, or the execution, or - anything. any of it.
so he won't. stiles takes the glass, and he smiles, and derek's done smiling for the day, but their fingers brush against each other and derek nearly drops the glass when they do. he catches himself and plays it off, but for a second he can't tell if the heartbeat he can hear beating so loudly is stiles' or his own.
stiles gets comfortable. he drinks, he eats ice, and he stares at derek, and derek stares back, because if he didn't, he'd notice the wet, pink shine on stiles' lips, he'd notice the flushed color of his skin, he'd think about how easy it would be to steal his overshirt while stiles' is showering and hide it under his bed for when he's alone, and he can't think about any of that, just like he sure as shit can't act on that last impulse. he lets his nerves settle, and he waits, and he stares at stiles like he's bored, or like this conversation doesn't mean half as much to him as it does. he stares at stiles like he's intruding on his time alone in his new apartment, even though he's made it so fucking clear that he's been desperate for him.
the shower comment, though, that gets a reaction. he takes it seriously, at first. his eyebrows pinch and his jaw clenches, and his eyes flicker a bit like they want to close, just for a second. he's not really sensitive when it comes to jokes, least of all jokes made by stiles, but there'd been an energy in the air that he thought he'd read as-- something, and he guesses he was wrong? of course stiles wants to use his shower, jesus. he's been without decent plumbing for months. derek's an idiot, to think there could be anything more.
but then stiles keeps talking, and there's something in the way derek's shoulders slope that shows he's relieved to hear the confession, like whatever tension was tightening them up and keeping them raised has been swept away all at once. that's - good, he thinks. he wasn't wrong. stiles wanted to see him, too. fuck. fuck, he likes him so much, and he doesn't know what to do about it. this never ends well. this won't end well.
derek puts his hand on stiles' chest. stiles is too busy choking back ice from the glass for derek to make eye contact, but derek still waits, fingertips firm against his sternum, and when the glass is drained dry, derek slowly pushes stiles off the arm of the couch, tilting him forward into the seat cushions. ]
Dick.
[ bye. anyway, christ, okay. whether stiles scrambles to hold onto something so he won't fall or tilts back completely, derek fishes the glass out of his hand before it breaks and takes it back to the kitchen. he spends his time rinsing it, just because he's feeling a bit overwhelmed and needs a few seconds to himself to calm down, and when he shuts off the faucet, he dries his hands on the bottom of his shirt. he's still in the kitchen, when he calls out again. ]
Go shower.
[ he's not going to be a creep and ask for an invitation, but it's gonna be in his head until stiles is done. ]
[ he's not expecting the hand on his chest. he's not expecting derek to touch him at all, actually, so he startles slightly, almost inhaling a sliver of ice as he sucks in a short breath, lips still pressed around the rip of his glass. he's still got his head tilted back, so he can only really see derek through the blur of the glass in front of his face, but he decides to keep it that way, at least for now. he has no idea why derek is touching him, but he sure as shit isn't going to complain about it, or do something stupid like open his mouth and say something dumb that'll make him take his hand away.
but derek just keeps his hand there and stiles finishes his drink and wills his heartbeat to slow down to baseline, which is a lot easier to do when his body isn't trying to pump as much blood through his veins as quickly as possible, routing oxygen to where it's needed to keep up with the amount of energy he's burning, which is currently none at all.
and then derek nudges at his chest and stiles isn't exactly ready for it, so he tilts back easily, his butt sliding backwards until it hits the cushions. stiles' empty hand flies out instinctively, grabbing at derek's forearm with a wavering, somewhat panicky sound somewhere in the back of his throat, but once he realizes he's not about to fall off the edge of the planet, he lets derek go.
stiles looks like an idiot, sitting there with his body practically folded in half, calves resting on the armrest where his butt just was, sock feet sticking out. he gives his empty glass up easily, watches derek walk away for a second, and then flops back completely on the couch, stretching himself out. he throws his arms backwards, reaching them up over his head, and relishes in the pull of his muscles, the warm ache. ugh.
he's turns onto his side, about to roll himself up an off of the couch, probably to follow derek and annoy him, but turning over puts him face to face with the chess board on the table. stiles pauses, then props himself up on one elbow to get a better look, his eyebrows lifting slightly. it's a nice board, definitely more expensive than the one he has back home, definitely less used. which makes sense, because derek only bought it recently, but it's nice. stiles reaches his hand out, drags his fingertips along one edge of the board, then picks up the king piece nearest to him for no particular reason.
he huffs at derek's command just to be annoying, setting the piece back down before he forces himself to haul his ass up and off the couch. he grabs his backpack from the floor and hooks it over one shoulder, scooping his rumpled overshirt up too and draping it over his other shoulder so he can add it to his small pile of clothes he'll have to wash at a later date. stiles knows the layout of derek's apartment like the back of his hand because he spent three months living here too, some seventy or so floors below, so he doesn't have to ask where the bathroom is. ]
Don't tell me what to do! [ he's halfway down the hall when he calls back over his shoulder, his tone anything but offended because he's literally letting derek tell him what to do, even if a shower was in the plans this whole time. ] Also, I'm using your shampoo and your soap.
[ because he didn't bring any. because his building provides shampoo and conditioner and soap for everyone in the communal bathrooms, but it comes in the form of a dispenser suction cupped to the walls, refilled probably once a week. perks of being lesser.
stiles disappears into the bathroom after that though, closing the door behind him. if he has any thoughts of inviting derek to come with him, he bites a hole through his tongue to keep them to himself, dropping his bag on top of the toilet seat and leaning to turn on the water so it has time to warm up while he's peeling himself out of his sweat-damp clothes. ]
[ this might be the most obvious thing ever said, but derek likes teasing stiles. he like watches him scramble and flail and act like an idiot, and he likes watching him ultimately give up and surrender and accept defeat. derek's the kid in a playground who pulls a girl's pigtails to show that he likes her, he's always been that kid. it was the same with paige - he'd play basketball in the halls to annoy her, he'd make fun of her in front of his friends. he's always been stupid and boyish and undeveloped, when it comes to expressing his feelings, even before the fire made it even harder for him to understand himself. he never really had the chance to grow. he should have with paige. he should have with kate.
stiles is just... stiles is fun. derek doesn't have fun, all that often. he has fun with stiles. even in a place like this one. even if he complains the entire time they're together. maybe he shouldn't tease him so much. maybe it borders on bullying, sometimes. it's just so hard to stop himself from having fun, with stiles. from goofing around with him, teasing him, and hopefully, making him have fun, too.
either way. they move away from one another, and derek heads out of the kitchen in time to see stiles opening the bathroom door, catching a glimpse of an elbow as it ducks out of sight. again, derek finds himself feeling impatient. he wanted stiles to come over early, which is why he told him to shower here, and that worked out much, much better than expected, but now derek's alone and has to wait. again. this is so frustrating.
he retreats to the sofa, sitting on the very edge of the seat with his hands between his knees, looking down at the chessboard solely because it's something for him to focus on. he can't tell that stiles messed with it, but that doesn't stop him from fidgeting with the edge of it, running his thumb along the closest of the grooves drawn into each edge. he pulls his hands back, holds them between his knees again. he sighs through his nose, and he scratches his palm with his thumb, and he slaps his knuckles against his other fist. bored. bbbbbbored. already bored.
derek can hear the shower turn on. he can hear the rush of water through the pipes as it heats up, he can hear the spray of it hit the tiles, he can smell the steam. he can hear, through the door, the rustle of stiles' clothes as he undresses, and that's not good, because he shouldn't be listening to that. derek slowly drops onto his side, unemotionally sinking onto the cushion like a felled tree. he stares at the chessboard, and he tries not to listen. he genuinely does try not to listen.
he keeps listening.
stiles is naked, he thinks. after a while, there's just - no more clothes being removed, no more fabric brushing against fabric, which means stiles is naked, and soon he's going to be in his shower. naked. inside of derek's shower, stiles is going to be naked. and that's, uh. well, that's something.
derek might still tug on pigtails and call people names, but he's not this adolescent little idiot who only thinks with his dick. he's not scott. he doesn't have a hair-trigger on his boner, just fucking. waiting to get hard the second someone flashes him some skin. behind a fucking door. while they shower. nonsexually. like a person does. unaware that there's a fucking creepy werewolf stalker straining his advanced senses to hear him, letting his pulse quicken in his veins as he wonders, quietly, if stiles realizes that using his shampoo and smelling like him is going to drive him fucking insane. he can't know. he wouldn't have said it, if he did.
jesus. okay. derek needs to stop, he's feeling skeevy. he resituates himself on the couch a little better, rolling to face the wall of it and curling up a little, his legs too long to fit neatly in front of the arm. he's been getting carried away, lately, and he knows it's just... high emotions from finally being away from the fort, but he needs to roll it back. he's so tired of himself. of being this happy because of one person. of only being attracted to this one person. he needs to stop. can't rely on stiles. can't keep pushing this shit on him. can't keep wanting to go back to the barracks. that night.
so he waits. he'll wait, and he'll let stiles have his shower, and, okay, maybe, maybe, he'll think about knocking on the bathroom door and asking stiles if he wants company, and he'll maybe let himself think about what that would be like, if it was a successful way to proposition someone instead of creepy and kind of a lot. jesus christ.
[ stiles is used to rushing. when you've only got about thirty seconds of barely-hot water before it starts to run cold, every second counts, and stiles has gotten his showers down to about a minute and a half. which still leaves him standing in icy water for way, way longer than anyone should have to unwillingly suffer a cold shower for, but the half a minute of warm water makes the rest of it tolerable.
but he doesn't have to rush right now, and it takes him a second to remember that, half way through dragging his shirt off over his head before he realizes he can take his time. he stands there with his arms tangled in his t-shirt, pulled up over his face, and then he sighs, because it's nice to not have to scramble for a fucking semi-decent shower. stiles tugs his shirt the rest of the way off and drops it in the sink, briefly glancing at his reflection in the mirror, but it's already starting to fog up with the steam.
stiles can take his time here without having to worry about the water running cold, but the thing is... he doesn't actually want to. he ran up sixty-something flights of stairs because he wanted to see derek, which sounds kind of insane when he actually stops to think about it. he can hardly get through running suicides at school without wanting to throw up and toss himself off of a cliff afterwards, but he ran up sixty. fucking. flights. he could have stayed in the elevator and found some patience, but he chose to run some kind of crazy marathon instead just for a couple extra minutes with derek. they have the entire evening and night ahead of them, and however long it takes before derek kicks him out in the morning, and stiles still ran for it.
jesus.
stiles swallows thickly and tries not to think about derek and whatever he's doing while stiles faffs around in the bathroom wasting time. he peels off his socks, then unbuttons, unzips, and steps out of his pants, dragging his boxers down with them, and he tries really, really hard not to think about the fact that he's butt-ass naked. in derek's apartment. he tries not to think about derek being like, thirty feet away from him at most no matter where he is in the apartment. while he's naked. stiles is suddenly glad that the mirror is fogged up to hell and back.
the spray of water is a little too hot for stiles' taste when he finally steps in, but he doesn't move to turn the temperature down at all. too hot water is better than no hot water, and the heat makes his tight muscles feel a little better anyway. he breathes a sigh of sweet relief, head tilted forward so the water sprays over the back of his neck, and he just takes a couple long seconds to breathe. a hot shower with actual water pressure shouldn't feel this good, but it does. god, it does.
stiles lifts his head, tilts it backwards, drags his hands down over his face, stifling a quiet groan of contentment. okay. okay, enough wasting time. stiles breathes out, does a little twist one way and then the other before he finds the bottle of shampoo propped up on the narrow bar that runs around the back of the shower at about eye-level. he squeezes a generous amount into his palm, lathers his hair up, scrubs at the nape of his neck with his fingertips and drags his fingernails over his scalp. he rinses without getting suds in his eyes, then lathers his hands up with soap and gives himself a quick, full-body rub down. his hands stroke over his dick just once, but his mind immediately wanders to derek and what he's doing and if he could get away with— like really quick— ]
Nnnope.
[ stiles takes his hand off of himself with a decisive murmur because thaaat's dangerous. he scrubs under his armpits, rubs his fingers behind his ears, passes his soapy fingers over the back of his neck one more time, and calls it a successful shower. less than five minutes, probably, which still feels like an hour in comparison to what he's accustomed to.
stiles shuts off the water and he climbs out and he grabs the nearest towel he can find, patting himself dry. he rubs the towel over his hair, scrubs at his scalp, and then wraps the towel around his waist so he's not just standing there with his dick out in derek's bathroom. even though the door is closed. even though the bathroom is like, the most appropriate place for him to have his dick out. he rifles through his backpack, weighing his options. he could just pull on his sweats and a t-shirt, but it's not even really that late yet and that almost seems a little too comfortable for anything other than bed. he could pull on some khakis, throw on a hoodie. he could—
this is dumb. it literally does not matter, and stiles is just being dumb and nervous and stupid for no reason and he knows this and he's just wasting more time, which is annoying him too. he settles for sweats, grey and loose and threadbare, a plain black t-shirt, and a navy hoodie, unzipped, because he likes layers. he's more comfortable in layers most of the time. he worries about his hair next, but only goes so far as finger-combing it to the side a bit, just so it's out of his eyes and won't dry weird without any product in it.
okay. okay, cool, that's. as good as it's gonna get. they're not going anywhere, right? ... right? this is fine. stiles grabs his dirty clothes and folds them a little haphazardly, piling his shirt and his pants and his socks and his underwear on top of each other before scooping up his backpack. a cloud of rolling steam precedes him as he steps out of the bathroom and into the hall with all his stuff. which he decides to leave on the floor, leaned up against the wall just outside of derek's bedroom door. he decides to leave his phone, too, plopping it down on top of his clothes.
time to find derek, wherever he is. stiles calls out as he's making his way down the hall back toward the center of the apartment, wigging a finger in his ear to try and shake some water out of it. ]
it's torture, but it shouldn't be. realistically, derek understands that he barely knows stiles. he's analyzed himself and how he's behaved over these past few weeks enough times now to realize that any feelings he has for stiles can be easily explained away as just... a side effect of what they are to each other. these feelings are a byproduct of their contract, or of their time together. they're not real. how could they possibly be real, when there's so much about stiles he just doesn't know?
maybe he's just being possessive. maybe he's just so moved by the fact that he has a friend after spending so many years without one, he's confusing those feelings as romantic. stiles is filling a void in him, making him less lonely, and derek has to remember that, because that's not how a healthy relationship starts, he thinks. he's a romantic at heart, and it would be so easy for him to get carried away with this, and he just - can't do that. not to himself, and certainly not to stiles.
so. he needs to stop thinking. needs to stop being excited all the time, needs to stop treating a fifteen minute shower break like it's the end of the world. it's ludicrous, to derek, that he's in his twenties and pining over someone again. derek's so much better than that.
ugh, whatever. derek moves around a few more times, searching for a way to sit comfortably, before he finally ends up settling. he sits up, leans into the corner of the couch, elbow on the arm of it. it's really, really hard not to fixate on stiles. on the sigh of relief he heard when the warm water started easing away the tension on stiles' muscles - that groan he heard that he shouldn't have been listening to. it's hard not to feel-- so many things. lust. joy. comfort. loneliness. he's stewing in it all, waiting in silence, staring at the chessboard like it'll solve all his problems.
stiles comes out of the shower, eventually, and derek briefly panics about whether or not he'll need spare clothes, but stiles took care of that on the way over, it turns out. derek remembers the conversation they had earlier; stiles was insecure about the way he dressed, and derek, with a pang of guilt, remembers that he made that feeling worse, for a second. he looks up with just his eyes, resting his cheek on the lazy curl of his fist, and he watches stiles walk over.
derek's appraising him. it's obvious, because derek never hides the penetrating way he looks at people, but for all the apparent self-evaluation he's been doing these last few weeks, he doesn't seem to realize that judgmentally staring at someone right after they get out of the shower might be kind of awkward. he's just - curious, about the clothes stiles is wearing. he wonders if he can say something without it sounding forced. a... compliment. maybe. like "i notice you're wearing clothes - good work".
or something. that won't work. that's nothing. jesus christ. derek's eyes lift a little. stiles looks good in layers. he could at least say that. maybe. stiles asks about food, and derek looks away, back to the chessboard. he lifts his other hand and scratches the space between his eyebrows with his thumb, taking a long, deep breath. food. right. okay. ]
Pizza. Microwave. Should still be warm. Grab me a drink, too, while you're at it.
[ he doesn't care what of, but he only really owns soda and milk, so. probably soda.
derek stretches out on the couch, pops his shoulders as he does it. he props his heel up on the table, next to the chessboard, and he straightens out his leg until his knee gives a satisfying crack. he breathes out again, leans back against the sofa, and he tilts his head back, exposing his neck and closing his eyes. it doesn't look like much - he's just relaxing - but blinding himself and baring his throat means that he trusts stiles, and that he feels safe around him.
but he's also impatient to play fucking chess. ]
C'mon, hurry up. Everything's ready. I wanna make you cry already.
[ stiles slows to a stop at the mouth of the hallway, not quite in the living room, but not quite not in it either, but derek is just looking at him and stiles feels. kind of weird about it, like he's being scrutinized for his stupid, stupid choice in clothes. or maybe his hair is a fucking disaster, and he should have taken a few extra seconds to slap some pomade in it. maybe he shouldn't have gotten so comfortable in his soft clothes, like this is some kind of fucking sleep over and not - whatever this is. stiles has no idea what this is, except for subtle but embarrassing desperation on his part.
( derek was waiting for him by the elevator, though. he has to remind himself of that. )
changing his clothes now would just be suspicious and weird though, so - stiles owns his decision to be comfortable as best as he can own it. he stares at derek, slowly inching his eyebrows up his forehead while he waits for derek to say something - about food, hopefully, and not his clothes, because that'll shatter this whole illusion of stiles owning his stupid sweatpants and his stupid hoodie, probably. he's not typically insecure about his style, if you want to call his tendency to gravitate toward plaid overshirts style (stiles doesn't), but having two people he highly respects criticize him over it is enough to rattle his previously-solid foundation.
stiles takes his finger out of his ear and makes a small gesture with the same hand, like, well? because he's not really sure if derek heard him or if derek's just ignoring him or what, and he doesn't really want to repeat himself and look like a dumbass if it's the latter. he flexes his toes over the carpet to keep himself from rocking back on his heels in all of his awkwardness, watches as derek looks away and scratches between his eyebrows—
pizza. hell yeah, okay. great. pizza in the microwave, stiles can get behind that. he smiles a little without really thinking about it and shoots derek a pair of half-assed finger guns before setting off for the small kitchen.
briefly, he considers nuking the pizza for half a minute just to make sure it's nice and warm, but stiles would eat cold pizza without hesitation, and he's hungry, and derek said it should still be warm, so that's good enough. he grabs the box, sets it on the counter so he can tug open the fridge to grab a couple drinks, and really, really contemplates whether he wants a soda, which would be easier, or a glass of milk, which he hasn't actually had in like. months. because he sure as shit doesn't trust milk in the down to not be spoiled, or if not spoiled, at the cusp of going bad.
in the end, he doesn't want to search through derek's cabinets for a cup, and derek apparently already washed and put away the one he was drinking from earlier, so he settles for soda. he grabs two cans, sliding one into a hoodie pocket, nudges the refrigerator closed with his knee, and then grabs the pizza with his other hand, rolling his eyes as derek whines from the living room. he snags a napkin or two on the way out, too. ]
Yeah, yeah. I can't wait for you to make me cry, either. From laughing at how confident you were that you could play me in a game of chess and actually win.
[ stiles reaches out with a soda in his hand, ready to press the cold can to derek's throat for a second before he thinks better of it. instead, he just stands there for a beat, quietly considering the way derek is sitting, the way his head is tilted back, throat bared, eyes closed. it makes his lungs feel weird for a moment, makes his stomach dip a little, because he knows werewolves. he knows what it looks like to submit, and maybe that's not what derek is doing, because stiles is not a werewolf at all and not someone anyone would ever submit to the way wolves might, but - derek's relaxed enough to be vulnerable, and that makes stiles feel... something.
he doesn't touch the can to derek's throat, but he thumps it twice against his shoulder instead and then lets it go, counting on derek to exercise his reflexes before it can fall into his lap. stiles circles around to the other side of the coffee table, setting the pizza box down near the edge as he sits himself down on the floor. his muscles are still fairly tight and sore, so it's a little bit of an awkward struggle complete with a thin noise of discomfort and a half-grimace, but. he has pizza, and he's spending time with derek like he wanted, so it's all good. he's not going to complain.
stiles flips the pizza box open, then flicks at derek's ankle a couple times in an attempt to get him to move it, setting his own can of soda down on the table by his foot regardless of whether derek moves or not. he pops the tab, nodding his chin at the board as he reaches to separate a slice of pizza for himself, fingers pulling at the edges of the crust. ]
[ derek stays where he is while stiles fucks around in the kitchen, eyes closed and breath slow. his ears are pricked, listening to stiles' heart, comforted by the safe, steady beat through his clothes, and he feels warmed, for the first time, in this worthless cage of an apartment. this doesn't feel like his territory, but with stiles here, it's something close.
there's nothing stopping them from seeing each other for the rest of the evening and all through tomorrow morning, and that's just... the best. it's just going to be the two of them, some lukewarm pizza and a night in one bed. he's missed this.
stiles blearily opens his eyes when stiles stands over him, soda in hand, nudged against his shoulder. there's - a delay. he doesn't think to look at the soda, not at first. he just... looks up at stiles, takes him in. the color of his eyes, the softness of his hair. the way he smells like derek's shampoo, his soap, which puts a lump in his throat like he knew it would. it's only for a second, but he looks a little entranced, which is why when stiles lets go of the can, derek has to struggle to catch it.
it's not exactly the comical flailing of limbs stiles would have if their positions were reversed, but he grabs at the can and completely misses it, which is pretty unusual for him. a sign that he's distracted. the soda bounces off his seat and tumbles to the floor, rolling forward until it's stopped by the table leg, and derek stares after it, sighing a little. he pitches forward and has to stretch out to reach it, rolling it towards him with his fingertips, then leaning back just in time for stiles to flick at him and tell him to move.
ugh. ugh. ugh. okay. he slides off the couch and joins stiles on the floor, sitting on the opposite end of the table, crossing his legs and resting his forearms on the edge of it. the table has just enough room for their arms, the chessboard, the pizza and their drinks, which is good, but also optimal conditions for cheating. he will have to watch stiles pretty fucking closely.
the pizza's half-and-half, one side covered in barbecue sauce and different cuts of meat, the other slightly less carnivorous. derek knows stiles' order, or at least he thinks he does, because he's seen him eat pizza back home and he'd committed it to memory, as if it would one day come in handy to know that stiles has pineapple on his pizza and scott's an idiot who likes idiot mushrooms like an idiot. guess he was right.
derek takes a slice of his side, biting in and getting a mouthful of bacon. stiles tells him to take the first move, and derek only raises his eyebrows. whoever goes first actually tends to win, so this feels like an insult. like stiles is trying to give him a handicap. the only reason he agrees is because he's already on white's side and he's too lazy to make stiles move. ]
You're a dick.
[ but it's fine, whatever. he moves a pawn forward two spaces, eyebrows raised. there's this one really obvious trick you can do in chess, something peter used to pull with him all the time when he was a kid - move a pawn, move a bishop, move a queen, capture a pawn with your bishop, checkmate. he's not dumb enough to do that here, because stiles would see it coming a mile away, but the idea of beating stiles in three or four moves actually gives him a bit of a boner. that's not great. that says something about him. ]
[ stiles is a little too distracted with splitting his attention between the pizza on the table and the fumbling idiot across from him to actually realize that derek never actually asked him what he likes on his pizza, but still somehow managed to order exactly what he likes. it'll strike him later, probably, maybe as he's just about to fall asleep, or maybe even later than that, when he's waking up tomorrow. but right now he's preoccupied, watching derek with quiet curiosity as he reaches for the can he didn't catch (odd) and slides himself down onto the floor on the other side of the table.
stiles knows exactly what he's doing and it's clear by the shit-eating grin that he tries to smother by cramming a bite of pizza into his mouth. derek would have gone first anyway just by the rules of the game, but making it seem like he's letting derek have the advantage, like he's being gracious enough to let derek have a fighting chance at beating him is too good of an opportunity to pass up. ]
Mmhmn.
[ he flaps his other hand at derek, smiling around a mouthful of pizza as he sinks his teeth into warm-ish bread and less-warm-ish cheese and tangy pineapple, and it doesn't even matter that it's not hot, because it's still so fucking good. stiles has to take a second to really savor the moment. he sighs through his nose, his shoulders sagging a little and his eyes closing. fuck, pizza is so good. pretty much anything that doesn't come from the down is delicious, but this pizza is doin' it for him.
stiles flutters his eyes open in time to see derek make his first move. it's not anything that's particularly unusual or interesting - yet -, but stiles still narrows his eyes the tiniest bit, gaze flickering from the pawn to derek and back again. he wipes his fingertips on his thigh even though he barely touched the crust with this hand, then reaches out to move a pawn two spaces in the same column, right up to derek's.
if you'd told stiles at sixteen that one day he'd be sitting around in sweatpants and a hoodie, splitting a pizza with derek hale while playing an actual game of chess, stiles probably would have laughed until he gagged because in what world? if you'd told him at eighteen, before duplicity, he'd have laughed then too, maybe not as hard, maybe with a little sadness souring the edges, because stiles would have given damn near anything just to know where derek was, let alone play a game of chess with him.
in all honestly, stiles couldn't give a shit if he winds up losing this game. it would bruise his ego a little, probably dampen his pride for all of ten minutes, but it would be worth it all the same. he's said it already, but he's missed derek, not only here, but back home, too. don't get him wrong - he's glad derek finally got the hell away from beacon hills, but there were some days when things got really rough, where stiles would find himself wishing derek had just taken him with him.
he'd have gone, he thinks. but he has this, now. this fragile, tentative thing, whatever it is. and that's good too.
stiles crams another bite of pizza in his mouth, reaching for his drink. he doesn't sip from it right away, electing to set it down on the floor in the triangle formed by his leg instead, bent at the knee and laid flat. ]
I like this board.
[ he says, apropos of nothing, really, but it's the truth. it's nicer than the one he has, even before the many years and the many games played on it with his father wore it down. stiles gently pulls the pads of his fingers along the edge of the board, watching his own hand for a moment before he glances up. ]
[ keep grinning, you bastard. derek'll knock that smug look off your horrible, horrible face before too long.
derek sets down his pizza and taps the bottom of his soda before he opens it, like that'll somehow stop it from exploding a little after being dropped and shaken up. surprisingly, it doesn't work. he cracks open the tab and it starts to bubble over, but derek seals the hole with his lips and drinks the head, foam and a thin line of coke dribbling down the corner of his mouth. he coughs a little when he peels off, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. decent damage control, but not the best. pretty much an analogy for his life as an alpha.
but whatever. it's fine. derek sets his soda on the table, smears away a little extra coke with his wrist, then dries his hands off on his shirt. stiles said something about how he's surprised derek bought a chessboard, and derek's defensive and a hypocrite, so he uses the opportunity to be a snippy little bitch. ]
Yeah, well. I did, and it was expensive, so. Don't grease it up with your dirty pizza fingers.
[ as if he doesn't have dirty pizza fingers himself. as if he doesn't have dirty soda fingers, too, for that matter. derek wipes his hand on his shirt again, just really double-dosing this, then scoots a little closer to the table. stiles made a move, and it's kind of annoying, because moving their pawns together is the chess equivalent of cockblocking. but fine. whatever. he moves a pawn, too, one of the pawns guarding his rooks. figures he'll bring that out and go on the offensive.
once he's made his move, he leans back, propping himself up on one hand and picking up his pizza again. he bites, and he chews, and he looks at stiles, kind of... entertained. stiles is fun to watch. the expressions he makes, the way he looks at derek. it's... nice. fun. if someone had told him he'd spend an afternoon splitting a pizza and playing chess with stiles, he probably would have laughed. he can't possibly know that stiles is thinking the exact same sentiment - but he wonders if he feels the same way. ]
Anyway. I don't know. This is nice.
[ derek sets his pizza back down, and again, wipes his fingers on his shirt. he's not talking about the pizza, or about the chessboard that wasn't half as expensive as he's making it out to be, he's talking about... this. all of this. derek gestures with his hand a little, pointing at stiles, then pointing at him. it's been - nice, having each other. it was nice, waiting to see stiles come over. it was nice, knowing that stiles ran up to see him. everything is just... nice, and maybe drawing attention to it will break the magic a little, but he wants to talk about it. he promised himself he'd be honest with stiles, back in the barracks. he needs to keep pushing for that, even when it's kind of hard to do. like now. ]
I mean - this is nice, right? All of this. Kind of makes me wish I'd given you more of a chance back home. Maybe I could have been happier, if I tried harder to connect with you. With Scott, too.
[ but that's easier said than done. stiles didn't treat him back home the way he treats him here. derek was on the run from hunters, constantly, and while veracity scares the shit out of him, the argents are so much worse. the death of the hales, the loss of laura, all of that is still so fresh back home. the kanima, gerard. there are so many factors in why derek couldn't have given stiles a chance that just... aren't here. but.
he still just - wants that. to have a relationship like this with stiles back home. caring and kind. supportive and understanding. he hopes he won't forget, when he's finally removed from duplicity.
derek shrugs, shaking his head. he looks away from stiles and the board like he's in thought, but then he frownss and looks back, just in case stiles decided to cheat and move a piece on the board while derek wasn't paying attention. this might be a sentimental and emotionally freeing moment, but derek still won't let his guard down enough for stiles to cheat. ]
Then again - you did get me arrested, and Scott is trying to convince my pack that I'm a murdering psychopath while simultaneously trying to blow his load in an Argent, so. Neither of you deserve me. Should've just let Peter eaten you.
[ he's teasing. well, he's teasing stiles, at least. scott's still on his shit list after not answering his fucking phone in the pool. ]
[ stiles knows that derek tapping the bottom of his soda can isn't going to do shit for the carbonation, and he could stop derek, tell him to wait, let him have a sip of his until derek's soda has settled a little more - but that would be too easy and stiles would be a liar if he said he didn't want to watch this unfold. he's not expecting a volcanic eruption of coca-cola, but there was some bounce when derek failed to catch the can, so it's bound to be at least a little entertaining.
still, he casually reaches for the napkin on the table, makes like he's just trying to wipe some grease on his thumb when really he's just readying himself to wipe up the table and spare the chess board should things go better than he expects them to. better, in that things go worse.
derek handles it like a pro, for the most part, and there's minimum spillage, though stiles' eyes immediately hone in on the little streak of soda that drips from the corner of derek's mouth. there's... nothing remotely sexy about someone dribbling on themselves - except to stiles, apparently, but he's thinking less about the mess and more about cleaning it up, swiping his tongue up derek's chin and licking into his mouth for that sweet, almost acidic taste—
jesus christ. stiles clears his throat and puts the rest of his pizza in his mouth, tearing the crust away. he drops the crust in the box and then crumples the napkin in his hand up a bit so he can toss it at derek for being. stupid. and dumb. stop wiping your hands on your shirt like a twelve year old, you massive child.
derek makes another move, and stiles shifts his attention to the board again, forcing himself to focus on this game and not on the fact that he totally just disappeared into his own head for a second. definitely not on the fact that derek could probably smell the brief spike of unexpected arousal— no. he was not aroused and he is not aroused and if he just keeps telling himself that, then it's true, right? if he can manage to steady his heartbeat enough now to get away with lying to werewolves, surely he can will himself into feeling absolutely nothing.
stiles doubles down on his concentration, sitting forward a little and ducking his chin slightly so he's eye-level with the game pieces. they've only just started, but stiles is already thinking far ahead, his eyes shifting from piece to piece, mapping out different plays in his head, trying to guess derek's most likely counter for any move he decides to make.
he glances up at derek, peers at him over the top of his queen. it takes him a second to realize derek isn't talking about the board and the craftsmanship, but that he's talking about the company. he confirms it with a little flap of his hand between himself and stiles, and stiles feels - good. it makes stiles feel really good and if he thins his lips a little, it's just to suppress a small smile.
and then derek keeps going, and stiles feels great, and then he feels a little sad because derek talking about wanting something that could potentially make him happier is just. it's hard to know about all the things to come for derek, all the things he'll go through, all the things that'll hurt him. stiles' smile fades a little as he suddenly remembers allison, and how stiles didn't get to tell her.
he should really tell derek. he needs to tell derek about erica and boyd. he needs to tell him about scott's plan for gerard, about the bite. he needs to tell derek about peter, and cora. about mexico. he needs to tell him a lot, before he can't.
stiles makes his move instead, picking up a piece and placing it down with intent, a clear counter to whatever derek may have had planned, if anything at all. he draws his hand back, pays attention to the rest of what derek is saying, and finds something to focus on. the worst thing to focus on, apparently.
stiles cringes slightly, because the last thing he wants to do is think about scott blowing his load anywhere, but especially not - jesus. he may have never been best friends with allison, but she had her moments when she wasn't trying to murder scott and derek and derek's pack. derek may not thinks so - and stiles wouldn't necessarily blame him -, but allison deserves a little more respect than that. maybe stiles just feels bad for his own failure to protect her. ]
Come on, man. [ stiles picks up his soda takes a sip, licks his top lip. he keeps it vague on purpose, doesn't specify what he has a problem with in that sentence. ] I thought we were over the Derek's The Murderer thing?
[ stiles sets his drink down on the floor again, fingers pushing the tab back and forth until it snaps off. he puts that on the table so he doesn't do something stupid like drop it in his drink, then reaches for the pizza crust he discarded earlier, folding it in half. he bites at the crease, separating it into two pieces, squashed up against each other. ]
And [ he gestures at derek with his crusts, emphasizing his point, ] I'm pretty sure there's nothing you could have done to make Scott like you back then. Don't get me wrong— I love the guy, but he's pretty blind to everything and everyone else when it comes to... girls.
[ he was going to say allison, but then there was kira, who scott was also pretty obsessed over. maybe not to the same extent as he was with allison, but. stiles is just calling it like it is. the next thing he says is a little quieter. ]
Trust me. It's going to get a lot worse before it gets better.
[ scott, he means - it still kind of baffles stiles that scott really forced derek to bite the man who orchestrated the murder of most of derek's family, even if the plan was more complicated than that - but also life for all of them in general. there's never time to breathe, never time for a break.
except right here, right now, which is almost kind of surreal. stiles drags himself away from that darker mood that's threatening to creep up, smirking as he tries to lighten things up. ]
If you'd have let Peter kill me, then where would you be? You told me I need you to survive - [ stiles hesitates for half a second, shrugs his shoulder nonchalantly. he's not going to try and argue that point, ] and you're not wrong. ... Obviously. But you need me just as much.
[ stiles' eyes flicker briefly toward derek's bicep. his sleeves may cover his arms, but stiles knows what's there, what's healing. he'd promised derek that if he ever got shot for pushing the guards too far, that he'd dig the bullet out with his own hands if he had to, and when it came down to it, that's exactly what he had done.
stiles picks up the tab he broke off of his can and flicks it at derek, his eyes shining slightly, crinkled near the edges. ]
[ whatever. derek doesn't need a napkin. derek pointedly and stubbornly swats the napkin away when stiles throws it away, and this time, it's actually a decently impressive swing. he bats it out of the air with the back of his palm and sends it rolling away under one of the armchairs, marginally improving his athleticism average after that sorry display with the coke can. great. yes. he is the basketball legend. 15-love or whatever. that's tennis. moving on.
he wipes his hands on his shirt again, sullenly twelve year olding. he takes a sip of his drink, he shifts his ass a bit to get comfortable, and he waits for stiles to make his move. it's in this new stretch of silence that - it hits him. he feels the heartbeat of arousal between them, that tiny little spike of adrenaline and energy and heat in stiles' stomach, and it catches on derek, almost even affects him empathetically. his eyebrows pinch and his lips drop open, and he stares at stiles.
he stares at stiles like he knows.
but he says nothing. even if the conversation didn't take a turn for the Slightly More Real, he would have said nothing. he gets through the come on, mans without really reacting, but - he does know he screwed up.
allison's gone. derek actually fucking forgot that allison's gone, through all the joy he felt in seeing stiles, and that's just... another reason why it's dangerous for him to treat this crush as something real. if he gets caught up in these... feelings, then he's going to fuck up. lose priorities, make stupid jokes without thinking. say stupid shit, like he always does when he's too happy. he needs to be logical, critical. mechanical, all the time. can't keep forgetting that.
stiles says it's going to get a lot worse. derek doesn't see how that's possible. ]
It can't get worse for me.
[ no more hales. peter - his best friend, once - dead, by his own hand. laura gone, because derek never told her the truth about the fire and let her go back home alone. things are supposed to get better for him, now that he's an alpha. just because scott's a horny little toad doesn't mean things are going to get worse for derek. he's already hit rock bottom. he refuses to believe things can be worse than they've been since the fire.
though - he knows that's not true. he knows the precarious situation he's in back home. the kanima, the alpha pack. allison's death and stiles' involvement in it. there's so much coming. so much he's not prepared for. just because things won't get worse for him - something he has to believe - doesn't mean things won't get worse for stiles and the rest.
derek sighs. rubs the side of his nose with his palm, avoiding getting pizza grease on it. he takes another bite, makes another move on the board, pushing his rook forward. he's taking aggressive actions, staying on the attack. can't let the tide turn. ]
If I go home, and I can remember, then - I'll do a better job.
[ he sets his piece down, right in position to capture one of stiles' pawns. he leans back on his ass, sets his hands on the ground after freeing them up a little, then stares at stiles, hoping this is... okay to say. ]
You didn't tell Allison about her death, but you told me. You told me about the Oni, and about the Nogitsune, and - and she's still alive, in my timeline. If I remember when I go back, then I'll save her.
[ he was always supposed to save everyone. the fact that he couldn't means - he wasn't good enough. and he can't go back and become an alpha that isn't good enough. what would laura's death be for, if derek just... misused her power, now that it's his own? he needs to save everyone. that's what he's been trying to do since peter. whether he likes it or not, allison is a part of everyone. ]
Like I said before. You gave her a second chance at being happy, while she was here. If I can save her, then - you did everything right by only telling me.
[ it's always the survivors who have to clean up after the dead. if stiles puts this in his hands - he'll do better. he takes a breath, looks away, trusts stiles not to screw with the pieces while his eyes are staring at... nothing. a spot on the wall, maybe. he grabs a slice of pizza, putting his weight on his other hand, then takes another huge bite. ]
Anyway, [ he says, through a mouthful of sausage, which is, indeed, what she said. ]
Scott couldn't have liked me back then. Agreed. But. [ he swallows. ] What about you? Anything I could've done to win you over? Other than not bleeding on your car. Or hitting you all the time.
[ stiles knows he's being stared at. he knows it because he can feel it and he very pointedly does not look at derek, focusing instead of the spread of the board in front of him. focusing, instead, on keeping his heartbeat steady and his breathing even and the tiny thrill of anxiety at bay that he can feel starting to tickle at the back of his neck. because derek is staring at him and stiles isn't stupid. he knows why.
his skin feels warm, so he drags both of his hoodie sleeves up to his elbows. that little flash of arousal is mostly gone already, but he still takes a couple seconds to think about unattractive things. cold french fries, sunburns, sticking his fingers his derek's open wound to fish out a bullet. stiles shudders a little, pulls a tiny face as he blinks back into the present. he feels briefly queasy, but chases the feeling away with a slow, deep breath.
stiles still hasn't looked at derek, but his gaze lifts at the sound of his voice. he pulls another face, this one a little doubtful, and tries to cover it up by taking a long sip from his drink. stiles wishes derek was right. he wishes that there was nowhere for him to go but up, but stiles knows better. there's no sense in opening up that can of worms, though, not when things feel - okay. and maybe that's selfish, to want to keep this comfortable feeling that they've got going, to want to enjoy derek's company, to not want to hurt him, at least not yet. stiles will beat himself up over it later.
stiles reaches for another slice of pizza, folding this one in half this time. he watches derek take his turn, following the movement of his hand as he places his rook down. hmm. okay. a little forward, but he can work with it. stiles doesn't feel even remotely threatened yet even with his pawn in jeopardy, hands hovering over the pizza box with his attention drawn to the game. he plays out a couple moves in his head, plays out a couple more as he takes a bite of his slice, and then finds his attention pulled to derek as he continues.
it's honestly the last thing stiles expects to hear from derek - that he'll save allison. that he'll try, at the very least. allison's an argent. allison will hurt derek and his pack, and scott will hurt derek because of allison, and derek doesn't know any of that. but he doesn't ask, either, and that says - a lot. stiles doesn't want to assume that derek would put aside his animosity for all things argent for stiles, because derek barely knows him in his own timeline, but.
something in stiles' chest tightens slightly and he has to swallow to dislodge the breath stuck in his lungs. you did everything right. he did everything right. even if he couldn't bring himself to tell allison about her life and how its cut short - he still told someone, and that someone can still save her. he still gave her a chance. stiles' nose burns a little. he has to avert his eyes for a moment as he feels them prick with heat, but he doesn't cry. his eyes remain dry.
he does smile, though, small and faint and private. it feels good to not feel so guilty. he nods slightly, forcing himself to look at derek, but derek's looking away from him, so stiles just looks at the side of his face. the slope of his nose, the cut of his jaw, the line of his neck.
thank you, he wants to tell him, but his tongue feels stuck and derek spares him anyway, posing him more questions. stiles makes a curious, thoughtful sound, shifting his attention back to the game. he reaches out, fingers touching a bishop for a moment before he seems to change his mind, moving a knight instead. ]
I mean - definitely that. Like, definitely less hitting and less bleeding. In general. Anywhere. [ his fingers linger on the knight on purpose, almost like he's doubtful of finalizing the move, but he isn't. he's confident in the play. stiles licks at his top lip, then takes his hand off, setting his slice of pizza down afterward. ] But - and don't let this go to your head - but I think you'd already kind of won me over. I didn't understand you for a while, but once I stopped to listen to more than just Scott— once I started paying attention...
[ stiles shrugs, scratching between his eyebrows with his thumb nail. ]
I dunno. Talk to me more? Tell me things. I get that you were trying to like - protect yourself, and that me and Scott kind of stuck our noses in places where we didn't really belong, and Scott was just - willingly blind and deaf and love-struck, but. I mean, I figured out that Scott was a werewolf before Scott even figured it out. And I wasn't scared, you know? Like, everything pointed to my best friend being this mythical, mystical, dangerous creature, and it should have scared me, but all I wanted to do was - be there, I guess. Help him.
[ stiles shrugs again, lightly thumping the side of his loose fist against the edge of the table as he looks at derek. ]
I think I would have been pretty open to listening to you and like - being there. Too. For you. If you had just - pulled me aside, away from Scott, and just... talked to me. We're a lot better when we talk.
If you ever actually listened to me when I told you to do something, maybe I'd have tried harder to include you in things.
[ derek condescendingly holds out his pizza crust to stiles, punctuating each peak and valley in his sentence with it. he holds it like he's aiming a gun at stiles, eyebrows raised as he waggles the crust a little, a speck of ham dropping off and onto the floor. derek frowns, picks it up, and eats it. three second rule.
anyway. whatever. he's just trying to keep the tension light. he doesn't know if he helped, promising to save allison. he doesn't know if stiles believes him - and even if he does, derek doesn't know if stiles has faith in him to see that promise through. after all, it's no secret that derek could hardly bring himself to feel too torn up over the idea of one less argent in the world. she's only seventeen, and that might make it harder to watch her die, but derek's still going to kill her mother when he goes back home, and he's not going to feel all that bad about it. the argents are... they deserve any tragedy that comes for them. including the death of a young girl.
but. stiles cares about her. scott cares about her, too - he shouldn't, but he does. derek's own relationship with allison doesn't matter, if saving her means protecting those two from heartache. he means it, when he says he's going to keep her safe. he wants to make stiles proud, and he wants to be the guardian and the hero that he always wanted to be. the man he'll never become, but can still dream of.
plus, he felt the emotion in the room. the spike of relief, the salt behind stiles eyes that barely started to sting. that's enough for him to know he's helping, by making a vow like that. derek's going to do everything he can, to be there for stiles. to help him. they're friends. from now on, they'll always be friends.
still. stiles has a point, telling him to talk to him more back home. derek needed some time to circle back to it, chugging back some coke and pulling a face when the bubbles burn his throat, but he gets there, in the end. he puts down his soda, wipes his hands off on his shirt again, like a douchebag. he doesn't make a move just yet, even though it's his turn. he just - rests his thumb over his own knight, idly stroking its tiny horse nose like it can actually feel it. eventually, he looks at stiles, and his voice comes out surprisingly soft. ]
You... are the only human I've ever met who hasn't thought of me as a monster. I'm already realizing that, back home. Realizing it even more, here. It's like - I don't know. You're...
[ good. empathetic. kind, perfect. so many things he could say. instead, he runs his thumbnail down the dark, wooden mane of his knight, looking at the chessboard. again, he needs to stay aggressive. can't risk losing the (perceived, but ultimately non-existent) upperhand that comes from going first. derek hops his knight forward, then leans back. ]
But - even if you're openminded - there's gotta be a limit to that. If I came up to you, two years ago, and I said...
[ he leans forward again. he loaf-hands, and he stares at the space between his palms, like he's reading a map, or deciphering kind of old stone tablet found outside of a pharaoh's tomb that's proven particularly difficult to translate. ]
"This is going to sound crazy, but I was trapped in some kind of Quantum Leap-esque Twilight Zone situation with you. We were in another world, living different lives, only instead of Scott Bakula and gremlins tearing up school buses, we --" wait.
[ wait, hold on. derek loaf-hands again, swinging his arms down hard like he's trying to kickstart a TV by hitting it. the gremlin tearing up a school bus thing was the simpsons parody of the twilight episode he's thinking of. what was the original episode? a monkey on an airplane's wing, or something? derek looks up from the chessboard, looks up from his hands. he stares at stiles and realizes he's spiralling drastically off-track. whatever. he snarls a little. fucking wait, he has a point, jesus. ]
If I said - "instead of being stuck with Scott Bakula and planes-slash-automobiles, we were trapped in a sexy hellscape with nothing but each other and the ever-present thread of BDSM, or murder, or murder-BDSM," [ he drops his arms to his sides, lowers his eyebrows. ] "And - I don't know - we got through it together, and now I trust you more than anyone, and we have to be friends because we were friends back in Cum City USA, or something, and I'm kind of running out of steam here, but -"
[ but. he... looks at stiles. a little deflated. ]
It's just - you wouldn't believe me. Right? I know I wouldn't believe me.
[ talking to stiles about laura, and peter, about how responsible he feels over the kanima, over kate, over scott, over how afraid he is of the alpha pack - he doesn't even know how he'd breach all of that here, let alone at home, when he's so much more guarded and afraid of letting someone like stiles in. he has no idea how he could talk to stiles honestly and just... not bring up duplicity, but he has no idea how he'd avoid it, either. ]
[ stiles rolls his eyes with so much exaggeration that he actually just rolls his whole entire head on his shoulders, his chest vibrating with a quiet but emphasized groan of annoyance. stiles listens to derek all the time. maybe not as closely back then as he does now, and maybe he was a little bit doubtful of derek when he was sixteen, when they barely knew each other, at least not the way stiles knows derek now.
he has half the mind to point out the flaw in derek's logic, to highlight all the times stiles actually listening to derek would have gotten derek hurt or killed. like how, for instance, if stiles had run when derek told him to, when derek had turned his back to the kanima just to put his hand to stiles's chest and push— if stiles had done what he was told, derek probably wouldn't be alive. not that stiles has any interest in boosting his own ego and making himself sound more important than he actually is, but. he kind of likes derek better when he's breathing.
stiles is tempted to reach for the piece of crust derek is pointing at him with, pluck it from his fingers and eat it just to be a little shit. he almost, almost goes for it when derek looks down, his fingers twitching impulsively, shoulder tightening in anticipation. he curls his fingers into a loose fist instead, tilts his head to bite his folded triangle of bread and sauce and cheese and fruit, and snorts a quiet laugh through his nose when derek... eats off the floor. three second rule indeed. stiles would have given him two extra seconds, probably, before giving him shit.
or maybe not, just because derek keeps wiping his hands on his shirt, which has zero relevance to him eating a piece of ham off the carpet, but stiles still wants to slap a bib on him anyway just to get him to stop. he doesn't actually care about the state of derek's shirt and how much grease he wants to spread everywhere, but derek slapped stiles' napkin missile away, so he's allowed to be just a little bit bitter.
stiles' gaze drops to derek's hand, watching him touch the knight. he immediately starts to try to figure out where derek's going to move it and what each move means for his own pieces, and he only glances up to see if he can work it out just by following the shift of derek's eyes. derek's looking at him, though, which stiles doesn't really expect, so he finds himself just looking back. he finds himself listening intently. he takes another bite of his pizza, the last bit before the crust, and he listens and he feels a quiet plume of affection swoop through his chest just over the softness in derek's tone, the honesty.
stiles presses his lips together, wrinkles his nose a little like it itches when he's actually just trying to bite back a smile, pizza tucked into his cheek so it puffs a little. he chews slowly, eyes flickering down only briefly to watch derek move his knight, and then back up again when derek keeps talking. it's not very like stiles to be quiet for long periods of time unless his life depends on it, but it's so easy to go lengths without speaking when derek is filling that silence with his truths and vulnerabilities.
stiles tosses his crust back into the box. he could probably eat another slice, maybe two, but. pizza might be good in the morning, too. or later. pizza again. whenever.
the twilight zone reference surprises him, but it's the simpsons reference that really tickles him. unexpectedly, his face breaks out with a big, dumb, grin and his eyes crinkle at the corners and he looks vaguely intrigued and more-than-vaguely impressed and. charmed, actually. the star wars reference was one thing. shakespeare. derek just keeps giving stiles these tiny glimpses of more, and stiles is. he loves it. he loves all these seemingly meaningless details, the insight.
stiles' grin softens a little as derek goes on, and he cringes at cum city usa, but by the end of it, stiles just looks... thoughtful. derek looks deflated, but stiles is still attentive, still watching him with curious non-judgmental eyes.
after a moment, he clucks his tongue. ]
Okay, well. First and foremost, [ loaf-hand, just one, ] don't ever try to top Bonertown, like, ever. Bonertown is gold, so you can get out of here with your try-hard [ he squints slightly, wrinkles his nose just barely ] Cum City USA.
[ stiles drops his loaf hand, then reaches out to make a move without any apparent thought, pushing a pawn forward and setting one of derek's pieces up to be captured unless he moves it. which stiles is maybe counting on, not for his next move, but possibly the one after, if things work out the way he wants them to. ]
Secondly... we - human, alpha werewolf [ stiles points to himself, then points to derek, just in case there was any confusion on who is who. also, this is probably the first time he's said the word werewolf out loud since being in the city. boy keeps his secrets and he keeps them well. ] - we were being chased by a freaky lizardy asshole? Like. That's... pretty crazy. Like, I know your life is wild but objectively, that is not a very normal thing that happens every day. To anyone. But it happened.
[ stiles pauses for a moment to take a sip of his soda, leaning back on one of his hands and stretching his legs out in the narrow space under the table. one of his knees pops loudly. he winces a little, then draws his legs back in so his feet aren't all up in derek's space. ]
So... who knows. I might believe you. I mean, don't say Cum City USA to me because sixteen year old me will absolutely, one hundred percent laugh in your face and also probably want to die at the same time, but.
[ he shrugs, sitting forward and setting his can down. he crosses his arms and leans them against the edge of the table, resting his chin on the criss-cross of his forearms. he tilts his head slightly, looking across the table at derek. ]
I'm a lot more open to things than you think. But I mean. I don't think you even need to mention - this place. I think if you just. Start talking to me, and explaining things to me when I get something wrong or I don't understand why you're doing something - without smashing my face into something first, thank you - I don't... think I'd see that as a reason not to trust you.
[ stiles scrunches his nose up again, but this time it is because it itches. he turns his head and tilts his head down for a moment, tucking his nose into the crook of his elbow to itch it because apparently uncrossing his arms and using his hands to scratch it is just way too much effort at the moment. he looks at derek for a couple beats of silence, after. ]
But... if you want to tell me about all of this, and you're not sure I'll believe you, just. Tell me something you wouldn't know if we weren't friends. Something I would know, too.
[ he pops his lips a couple times quietly, trying to come up with something. ]
Tell me about - I don't know, Julius Squeezer. Tell me about how I used to sit in the driveway in my Jeep for hours when I first got it. Tell me about -
[ stiles groans, annoyed, and derek can't possibly express how happy that makes him. he loves annoying stiles, and he's comfortable enough with him by this point to just - smile, happy and bright, in response. his smile fades with time, but not by much. it shifts from a mischievous, sunny glow into something more lukewarm and restful, like he's just... quietly safe, quietly content. peaceful. stiles makes everything feel peaceful.
derek's done eating, if only because stiles is done, too, and he doesn't feel like eating alone. he closes the box and tucks it away under the table; he'd take it out to the kitchen, if he trusted stiles alone with the board, but that's sure as shit not going to happen. when stiles cringes and gives him shit for Cum City USA, derek's got a litany of sick burns to throw back in his face, fully prepared to defend the name and entirely ready to die on Cum City USA's largest and stickiest hill, but.
he opens his mouth, says the start of the word well, and then stiles makes a move. it's fast. distracting. he just - pushes a pawn forward when derek's not looking, and that's, well. that's alarming. what? what just happened. derek sits up straight and instantly puts on his game face, staring down at the board and trying to figure out what the fuck he just missed. what the fuck stiles is thinking.
truthfully, stiles is always good at reassuring him. derek doesn't respond to everything he's saying about julis squeezer, about the jeep, about the station. he just...
he's going to have to go on the defensive, if he wants to save his piece, but that's not how he plays chess. he's reckless. derek ignores stiles' pawn and uses his rook to capture another piece, completely missing the fact that it puts his rook in danger until he's already made his move and taken his hand away. he winces, and it's obvious he's made a mistake, but he tries to wear a poker face anyway.
poorly. because he just looks mad. he takes a breath, shakes it off, hopes that stiles doesn't see the stupid shit he just pulled. right, okay. home. ]
Okay. The station. Yeah.
[ derek sighs through his nose, then leans back on his palms. for a second, he looks at stiles like he's still only concerned about the game, smile gone like it was never there. they were both so young, during the fire. would his life have been any different, if he stayed in beacon hills? if, instead of running from the argents with his tail between his legs, he'd realized how badly this poor, grieving kid had needed someone who understood what it was like to lose family, and just - stayed, and helped, and listened? would stiles have been happier? would derek?
sometimes, everything just hurts. the clouds cover the sun and make everything cooler, and derek realizes, when his eyes adjust to the shade, just how hard he's been hit by life. he feels a disconnect from his own body, like he's outside of himself. that happens here. he never should have been at that station. stiles should have never lost his mother. everything is always so... hard.
but then he looks up, and stiles is resting on the table, and he's safe, and he's quiet, and he's happy. life can't be all bad. not if he has stiles. how the fuck did he go so long without realizing how fucking likeable stiles is? kind and beautiful and honest. derek just-- stares, like he's seeing him for the first time. he has stiles. he can't lose stiles. ]
I never want to lose you. I hope I never... I mean - I hope we always...
[ his eyebrows pinch, and he sits up on his knees. he looks at the board, and he's almost annoyed that it's there. annoyed with himself for caring so much about whether he fucked up one move or not, like any of this actually matters. why are they wasting time playing chess? why are they playing chess, when they could be-- they could be... ]
I forfeit. I don't want to play anymore.
[ he looks at stiles, and his temper rises in him like a bullet, because it's been half of half a second since he's spoken and stiles still hasn't replied, so maybe derek's not making himself clear. in one hard, sweeping motion, derek pushes the chessboard and it's pieces off the table and onto the floor, each loose wooden game piece hitting the carpet so quietly they're barely even heard, but rolling and scattering across the apartment.
which means he's lost. he loses the game, he loses, he's lost, and that means stiles wins, and that means stiles can make him do something, and that's fine, derek doesn't care. they should be doing things. they should be doing things, they should be-- derek should be doing so much for stiles. he needs to show him how devoted he is to making this contract work, how desperately he wants this friendship to last, how terrified he is that he might go home and forget about the city and go back to being shallow and angry and alone, staring at stiles with resentment and disappointment instead of fucking realizing that stiles is his hero, and stiles is his savior, and stiles is smart and beautiful and could maybe even be his, if he just stopped being stupid and realized that this thing he feels between them goes both ways.
derek grips the side of the table, leaning forward, barely managing to avoid knocking over his soda. he doesn't know how to speak up. how to tell stiles he wants him. he just - stares, intense and frustrated and desperate, like he's on a time limit. like he's suddenly realizing how easily one of them could just go. like scott. like allison. like the nogitsune. like so many others who came before them.
he pitches forward, and his voice is deep, steady and demanding. his eyes are sharp, wolfish, predatory. he only has eyes for stiles. ]
Tell me what you want from me. Whatever it is, you can have it.
[ it goes exactly as planned. his seemingly thoughtless play throws derek for a loop and stiles just sits there and watches him quietly, casually dipping his chin down a little to hide his mouth behind the fold of his arms, just in case he's tempted to smile. he needs derek to believe that he's just being careless, and not setting a trap for him. a trap that could very well fall apart if doesn't play the way stiles thinks he will, but stiles feels confident.
stiles stares at his own pawn, at derek's piece that he used to bait this trap like he's just anticipating that derek will move it because that's the obvious play here. but he moves his rook instead, just like stiles thought he would, and he leaves himself wide open. stiles could probably end this game in two moves.
he takes his time. he really plays it up. stiles already knows what he wants to move next, but he lets his eyes wander from piece to piece like he doesn't have a solid plan, rubbing his lips together thoughtfully, his chin still rested on his arms. it's a terrible angle to see the board from.
derek is unusually quiet through all of this, but stiles just assumes he's sweating over his dumb mistake and trying not to draw attention to it or himself, unaware that he's actually drifted away a little in thought. he taps two of his fingers against the top of the table and he sighs, lifting his chin up off of his arm and reaching a hand over the board - only to stop and let it hover, because derek is saying something.
derek says something stiles doesn't expect and stiles takes his eyes away from the board to look at him, his hand still hovering over the pieces. his fingers curl a little, his brows furrow gently and his stomach swoops at the same time that his heart skips a single beat. stiles lips part. he starts to pull his hand back.
he doesn't know what to say. stiles doesn't want to lose derek either, but the reality is that he already has. in his timeline, derek has been gone for months and stiles has spent countless hours late at night, combing through different news outlets for reports of unusual wolf activity or trying, uselessly, to track down any recently-created social media profiles, just - trying to find him in the downtime. stiles doesn't want to think about the possibility of having to let him go again, so he thinks about chess instead.
and then derek is forfeiting and it catches stiles off guard enough that he sits up kind of abruptly, knocking his chest against the edge of the table. he's slightly confused, but he also kind of wants to laugh if this is how derek is going to handle a potential loss. it's not as if derek couldn't come back from his mistake. there are still moves he could make—
oh. okay, no, there are no moves left to make because derek just. sweeps the whole game onto the floor and stiles sits up and throws his hands out and looks at derek like— ]
Dude? Whoa, hey, what the - hell.
[ okay. well. game over then. forfeiture confirmed. stiles huffs a sigh. he drops one hand, scratches over his left eyebrow with his thumb on his other hand. he pauses when derek sits up, when he grabs onto the table, when he leans over it. stiles swallows quietly, instinctively, and slowly lets his fingers fall from the arch of his eyebrow.
okay. okay something is definitely happening here, but stiles isn't sure what. derek just stares at him and it's super intense and he looks kind of pissed off, and then suddenly he's leaning even closer and stiles feels something shift.
tell me what you want from me. whatever it is, you can have it.
stiles stares at derek for a handful of seconds that feel a lot longer than they are. he looks him right in the eyes, and he holds his gaze, and derek may not be shifted at all, but stiles can almost feel the wolf in him, thrumming just beneath the surface.
derek lost. they made a deal and derek lost and there's a power in stiles' hands now that he didn't have before, but he already knows what he wants from derek. he's known since before derek decided to call him a coward for not wanting to tell him.
but he's not a coward. he's not going to be a coward about this.
stiles leans forward slowly. derek is up on his knees, which puts him above stiles, but stiles doesn't make any move to get up from where he's seated on the floor, doesn't try to put himself on the same level as derek. he's okay with looking up at him. stiles leans forward until he's close enough to be considered in derek's space. and he says nothing.
for a solid ten seconds, he just looks derek in the eye and he says nothing. and then he does say something, and his voice is low, too, quiet because he's tilted in close. ]
I want you... [ stiles pauses for another second or two for suspense. really, he's just steeling himself. this isn't a big deal, but rejection still sucks, so he's preparing for the possibility of being laughed at. or, of derek smashing his face into the table. he does look kind of mad. stiles wets his lips, possibly deliberately, possibly in anticipation, and he presses on, tipping himself just the slightest bit closer. ] ... to kiss me.
derek knew. derek knew that's what stiles wanted, or at least - he was hedging his bets on it. stiles has barely finished asking for a kiss before derek's darting forward, pressing their lips together and shutting his eyes. it's not the gentle, hopeful, romantic kiss that stiles might have expected - it's forceful and animalistic and frantic, it's open-mouthed and paired with derek's fingers going straight into stiles' hair, lightly tugging just to keep him close.
he wants more. he wants more, and he wants to give more, and he's sick of waiting, he's sick of being scared, he's sick of worrying about what this might mean or what he might feel or where it might go. the table between them is in the way, and derek gets frustrated enough to break the kiss and move it, toppling it over to join the discarded chessboard. the soda cans slide off and spill onto the carpet, the pizza box gets crushed underneath the table's side, but derek either doesn't notice or doesn't care.
derek closes the distance between him and stiles, moving forward on his knees. he puts his hands to stiles, one on his neck, one on his shoulder, and he bends down for another kiss. he leans in close, hovers his lips over stiles', and then - and then he stops. his chest clenches, and he worries that this is too much, too fast, but - but he can't have imagined that stiles wants this. stiles climbed those stairs, just for him. all they've wanted for a full fucking week now is to see each other, and he has to be right about this. he has to be right about this. ]
I...
[ he stops, and he hesitates, and he looks into stiles' eyes. he wishes his own were half as beautiful. that light amber, catching the light. those long lashes, framed by pale skin. derek's always liked brown eyes. ]
I can... you-- you deserve so much more than a kiss. You're-- so much.
[ he wants stiles to feel good. he wants stiles to feel loved, though he doesn't connect the word to his feeling when it hits him as hard as it does. stiles makes derek feel cared for and attended to and wanted, stiles makes derek feel like there's more to him than just a scared, angry wolf hidden behind slabs of muscle and a skin that was toughened against his will, more than the bullet wounds and the smell of ash and the grief. stiles makes derek feel like he matters. derek needs to be absolutely, absolutely sure that stiles knows he matters to derek, too.
but he's not good with words. not like this. it's always such a struggle for derek to communicate his feelings, when in the back of his mind there's always a voice telling him to stop and stay silent. he's never been able to filter honesty from self-deprecation, he's never been able to figure out which thoughts were real and which came from anxiety and trauma and inward hate. he's trying hard to get past that. he's always trying hard to get past that, with stiles. ]
Let me-- let me give you...
[ derek's hand slips down stiles' neck, down the front of his hoodie, settling just beneath his stomach. he doesn't ask for permission, when he starts to unthread the cord of stiles' sweatpants, but even like this, forceful and sturdy and broad, leaning down from a higher height, he's not... intimidating. he's not trying to be, at least. it would be easy for stiles to ask him to stop. one stray touch to his bicep and derek'll understand.
but he thinks he's reading this right, and he thinks that even if he doesn't know how to speak up, sometimes, stiles knows him well enough to fill in the blanks. he trusts stiles to understand what he's trying to say, or at least the vague feelings behind each fragmented false-start of a sentence. derek might be falling for stiles, and he wants to be good for him, he wants to be enough. he wants to show stiles how much he cares about him, how much he appreciates him, and he doesn't think the world has ever just given stiles the chance to - feel that kind of admiration. that blind, loving affection from someone who just wants him to feel good. derek doesn't know if stiles has ever felt... acknowledged. if he hasn't - he will tonight.
after undoing the knot on stiles' sweats, derek hesitates, looking at stiles' lips. carefully, he leans forward again, stopping and starting before they finally connect. he kisses him again, and it's-- it's soft, this time. carefully measured, with eyes half-open and breath painfully taut in derek's lungs. he doesn't break away until he needs to breathe so bad that his eyes are stinging, but he hopes that-- that that kiss communicated, maybe, that this isn't just lust, this is-- the opposite. derek's a little desperate, when he finds his voice, punctuating each word with a steady, calm insistence. ]
[ everything happens a little faster than stiles' mind can process. there's hardly even a second of time between when stiles finishes telling derek what he wants from him, and when derek literally crashes his mouth into stiles'. it's too quick, so he's not ready for it even though this is literally what he just asked for, and he's left sitting there, weight caught on his hands behind him with slightly widened eyes and pinched eyebrows. and then derek's fingers sink into his hair and they pull and that's all it takes for stiles to lean into this.
stiles slides his eyes closed and he breathes out though his nose and he presses the softest, appreciative whimper into derek's mouth, holding himself up on one hand and grabbing at the collar of derek's shirt with his other so derek won't pull away. but derek pulls away anyway, and stiles worries for a second that maybe he should't have tried to hold derek there, maybe that was a bad move, maybe that's why derek is — angry? derek shoves the table aside and sends everything on top of it toppling over with it and it doesn't scare stiles, but it does make him second-guess this for half of a second.
and then it clicks. derek isn't angry, not at him, anyway, he just — he wants to be closer to stiles and he wants to be closer as quickly as possible and the table is just a victim of derek's impatience. to get to stiles. instead of getting up and walking around the table, derek literally picked it up and pushed it over to cut out those few seconds of separation and stiles is - he's immediately turned on, and a little flustered because no one's ever - he's never had anybody feel that strongly about being separated from him that they would destroy anything in their way to get to him, not that he can ever recall.
derek moves in and he kneels over stiles and he puts his hands on him and he leans in, and stiles sits up. he stretches his body upward to meet him, but derek stops just out of reach. stiles tries to close the space, tries to sit up a little more, but it occurs to him that there's probably a reason for this. he wets his lips and he gently furrows his eyebrows, lifting his hand to touch his fingers to the back of one of derek's wrists, silently asking if something's wrong, if everything's okay. derek starts to speak, and then he stops, but stiles just makes sure he keeps looking at him. he makes sure he holds that eye contact, tries to to convey - comfort and security and trust. whatever it is, derek can trust him.
you deserve so much more [ ... ] you're-- so much.
his expression softens slowly, his eyebrows relaxing, smoothing out. stiles' chest feels a little tight all of a sudden. he closes his mouth and he swallows, and he stares up at derek in silence, his eyes shifting back and forth between derek's like he's reading a deeper meaning behind them. like he understands what derek is trying to say to him, even if he doesn't understand why.
nobody has ever really stopped to tell stiles that he deserves more, that he deserves better. he's never had anyone look at him the way derek is looking at him, he's never stared back at anyone and felt seen, the way he does right now. stiles doesn't think he deserves the world - he'd never be so conceited to believe anything so ridiculous - but there have been so many times where stiles has felt - invisible, or underappreciated, or overlooked. like he's less.
he doesn't feel like that right now.
stiles breathes in deep ask derek's hand drifts down his chest. he sucks in his stomach, his breath catching for a moment in his lungs, eyes watching derek's fingers as they pull at the drawstrings at the front of his sweatpants. derek towers over him on his knees, but it doesn't make him feel small the way it probably should. he just feels this swell in his chest, this pulsing burst of affection.
he doesn't reach to stop him even as his hands still, but he does reach out to rest his fingers against the side of derek's throat, thumb smoothing a gentle line across his adam's apple, and when derek leans down, when derek kisses him, a stark contrast from sharp and bruising kiss this all started with in that it's soft and it's slow and it's gentle - stiles understands.
derek pulls away from him, but stiles keeps his hand on his neck to keep him close, and as soon as derek's lips are gone he licks his own. he presses his forehead against derek's and he feels this rush of happiness in his veins, and he smiles. he smiles, and it's a little shy, and the breath that rushes out of him is soft, sounds like it could be a laugh. stiles nods, nose bumping against derek's. he doesn't know, specifically, what it is derek wants to do for him - he assumes, by the tug at the cord of his sweatpants, that derek is about to give him the best handjob of his life - but whatever it is, whatever derek wants to do, stiles wants it. his quiet little smile widens into something brighter, something sharp and teasing. ]
I have never loved the game of chess more than I do right now.
[ of course he has to say something a little stupid, a little shitty, a little - honest, if you squint. he presses his lips together, and he collects himself, reels himself in before he does something dumb to piss derek off, and he nods again. ]
[ every square inch of derek's expression is... soft. clear, open, understanding. past the gentle kiss, through quiet, happy breaths, and through quick, hopeful touches across his throat, his wrist, and his lips, derek is... derek's just looking at stiles like he's already in love with him. expressive and adoring and completely, totally under stiles' spell. he wishes he'd kissed him against his door, even before they had even headed inside. he wishes he'd kissed him in the shower, pressed up against the glass, the two of them naked and warm and together. he wishes he'd... done this sooner.
one last pull, and the thread on stiles' sweatpants comes completely undone. derek's expression slips, just a little, just enough to make him look awed less by stiles himself and more by what he's about to do. it was just... instinct, that got him to this point, with his knees sore against the carpet and his heart a jackhammer against his ribcage. it's gotta be courage that gets him the rest of the way.
he's about to tug stiles' sweatpants down when he looks back up and sees stiles' expression. the bratty little smirk, the glint in his eyes. he wants to reel himself in before he pisses derek off, but, well. ]
Shut up.
[ that doesn't happen. well, derek pretends that doesn't happen, at least. he sounds annoyed, but he's not, not really, and that's actually kind of obvious, try as he might to pretend otherwise. when derek rolls his eyes, he makes absolutely sure to shake his head at the same time, trying to compensate for the stupid smile that creeps into his expression. when he laughs, he tries to make it a snort, like he's scoffing and judgmental and frustrated, and that works, at first, but then he laughs again, clear as a bell, ruining the attempt. fucking stiles. fucking stiles.
truthfully, though? this is better. this helps. it was adrenaline and a fresh surge of fear that had derek panic about losing stiles, and that same impulse was what pushed him to corner stiles against the foot of the sofa, the cream-colored carpets well and truly fucked by soda by now. but derek doesn't want this to be... desperate. he wants this to be safe, he wants this to be happy, he wants this to be warm. he wants stiles to feel relaxed and loved and wanted just as he is, without heightened emotions playing too much of a role in this, and, well.
the two of them are assholes to each other. playfully. it hits derek, suddenly, that that's just how they flirt. the bullying, the namecalling. that was flirting. does stiles realize that? he'll have to ask. one day.
so derek keeps the act going. he huffs through his nose, he puts his hand on stiles' chest, and he pushes him back against the bottom of the couch, forcing him to lean back. he dips down and goes straight for his neck, swiping his tongue down the length of it and gently applying pressure to the first pressure point he finds. there's no subtlety, when he slowly reaches his hand into stiles' sweatpants, past his boxers, and straight for his cock. he squeezes, just lightly, coaxing him to a full hardness, and then - he moves.
derek moves until he's practically on all fours, his head between stiles' legs. he keeps eye contact as he lowers himself down, even as he tugs stiles' sweats and underwear down, exposing his cock to the cool afternoon air and tucking his waistbands beneath his balls. he's focused on stiles' expression, because he wants to see it change when he realizes what derek's about to do for him, but derek looks away before he really gets the chance to see the shift. he drops his eyes to stiles' dick, and he's... just...
he's stunned, for a second. he stares, but he doesn't let himself stare for too long, because he thinks stiles might get self-conscious, if he does. it's just - seeing stiles for the first time like this? up close, hard, all for him? it's... ]
Holy fuck.
[ a lot. derek swallows, wetting his lips, and he's fucking-- needy, suddenly. his chest feels tight and his cheeks get red and his mouth is actually watering, which he thinks must be pretty god damn pathetic. he has to swallow a few times, just to ground himself, and he feels like he's never done this before, when he finally wraps his hand around the base of stiles' cock, giving it a gentle squeeze. he's never... he hasn't ever felt like this. this consumed by want, for someone. this intensely aroused.
he takes another few breaths, and it hits him, again, that smiles smells like him. the soap, the shampoo. he smells like derek. he smells like he's derek's, like he's already been marked. jesus, he's not going to be able to get through this. derek looks up at stiles, and it takes a few tries for him to talk, just because his brain needs some time to remember how his mouth works. he laughs, again, but it's breathless and sorta slutty and-- really, really fucking horny. ]
You're... not going to get all self-conscious and contrary if I tell you that you've got a nice dick, right? I'm not going to have to deal with you whining and saying something annoying like -
[ he imitates stiles' voice, all high pitched and whiny - ] Nooo, my dick's stuuupid, I don't have a nice diiiick, don't saaay thaaaat - [ - and it's not an accurate imitation, but, still - ]
- or something, are you?
[ he starts to stroke stiles' dick, long and slow, just one firm, squeezing tug. derek... doesn't think he can wait for this much longer, and it's there in his voice, try as he might to sound normal. he arches his back a little, spreads his knees, still on all fours. he's-- uncomfortable, with his cock so tight and confined in his own pants. he clears his throat, keeps trying to talk, holding eye contact. ]
Because I'll kick you out with your sweats around your ankles if you pull that shit on me. I'm not kidding.
[ stiles reads him easily. derek sounds annoyed, but it's not the same tone, not the same timbre in his voice that there is when he's truly agitated. stiles has been on the end of derek's genuine annoyance enough times to know the difference. but derek smiles, too, and it gives him away. he laughs, and stiles' shy little smile spreads and he finds himself laughing too, a little dumb with - happiness. he likes it when derek smiles.
he's still laughing to himself under his breath when derek plants his hand up against his chest and pushes him backwards. stiles goes easily, lets himself be tilted back with zero resistance, and when his shoulders thump against the bottom of the couch, it knocks the breath out of him a little. his smile fades slightly, not because he feels any less happy, but because he's sensing a shift in the atmosphere, and he's curious and - really horny. like, really unexpectedly turned on.
derek goes for his neck and stiles instinctively tilts his head back, lets the back of his skull rest against the top of the couch cushion behind him. he can't help the soft sigh of a sound that slips out as derek gently closes his mouth over his pulse and sucks, fingers flexing aimlessly by his thighs. he wants to put his hands on derek, wants to feel his skin warm under his hands, the solid muscle.
it doesn't take a lot from derek to get him fully erect. he's practically already there when derek sinks his hand past the waistband of his sweats and closes his hand around his cock, strokes him slowly. stiles lifts his head back up and tilts his chin forward, looks down to watch. the last time derek had his hand on stiles' dick it was dark and the space was close and tight, but he wants to see what it looks like, derek's hand curled tight just underneath the crown, but his sweats are still in the way—
and derek is moving. derek moves, and he dips his head in low between stiles lazily-parted thighs and he keeps his eyes on stiles' while he does it. stiles tenses immediately, but it's not a bad thing. his cock flexes in derek's grip and his lips part and his pupils dilate minutely, and stiles doesn't want to assume, but he feels like this is not something that's very easy to misinterpret. he wets his lips and he closes his mouth and he swallows hard. fuck. fuck, he's never— god. his dick is out and practically in derek's face and derek is staring at it and stiles doesn't know what to make of it. he starts to feel nervous, a little self-conscious because derek's not saying anything. until he does.
stiles' toes flex and he feels this weird wave of something close to pride roll through him, and he watches as derek swallows and as his face flushes red, he watches as he wets his lips and stiles— stiles really hopes this is going to turn out to be more than the handjob he originally thought he was about to get from derek - which would have been fine, too, don't get him wrong, but now he can't stop thinking about what it would feel like to slide his cock into derek's mouth.
stiles whimpers. it's just a tiny, swallowed sound, but he has to close his eyes for a second. he brings one of his hands up and he bumps the back of his fingers against the edge of his own jaw, like he doesn't even know what to do with his hands. derek's voice is - fuck, it's something else right now. it's a little deeper, smooth and rough at the same time and stiles doesn't realize it, but he starts to tighten the muscles in his lower back very slowly, arching it in, pushing his cock into derek's hand, pushing it closer to derek's mouth.
and then derek imitates him and his voice goes from attractive as fuck to annoying as hell. stiles closes his eyes in the slowest blink just to keep from rolling them instead, and without stopping to think about it, he takes his hand away from his own face and he reaches out and he slides his palm underneath derek's chin, fingers and thumb on either side of his jaw, and he lifts his head to make derek look at him.
it's hard to keep his voice steady when derek starts to stroke his cock, and it's hard to stay focused with his mouth so close to his dick, with his knees spread and his back arched. it's hard to say anything at all with derek looking up at him from between his legs, but damn it, he's going to try and he's going to nail this.
with much more confidence than he's actually feeling, stiles tilts his head and he leans in close, and it's slightly awkward and a little bit of a strain because he has to practically fold himself over, but stiles does it anyway, lifting derek chin a little bit more to lessen the reach. he tilts his face in close, and he purposely touches his thumb to derek's lower lip. just for a second, very light, and he kisses derek, soft and easy and appreciative of his subtle ("subtle") praise. it's just a brief brush of their lips, but stiles stays close when he parts from him. ]
I'd say thank you, actually. [ his heart's a little quick, but it's consistent, there's no skip. stiles wets his lips, sits back a little and lets his hand drift from under derek's chin, down the side of his neck. he doesn't know why, but he really wants to push his fingers through derek's hair - so he does. he slides his fingers through the dark strands and he lets his hand drift down the back of his neck. ] Now can you just - shut up and do something? Please?
[ he means to sound sarcastic and teasing, but he misses his mark by a mile because he just sounds soft and fond and quietly desperate, quietly needy instead. ]
[ stiles is only pretending to be confident, but honestly - derek's pretty sold. he leans down, eases derek up, and derek's swayed enough by the way he moves to follow him, stretching out his knees to meet him halfway. the thumb on his lip is surprising, but so is the softness of his kiss, the steadiness of his heartbeat. it's...
it's all very charismatic, honestly, and derek, despite his overall confidence and experience when it comes to sex, feels just a tiny bit rattled in the wake of it. when stiles stays close, when stiles touches his hair, when stiles says he'd fucking thank him instead of playing along and slapping at derek and calling him names, derek's expression is equal parts confused, pleased and impressed.
he, uh. he didn't think stiles had it in him. to surprise him, like this. to sound so charming, so in control. to be so fucking disarming. so - well. hot? derek thinks he's really, really hot, suddenly, and he actually has to scramble for something to say, caught off guard by how everything stiles is doing bolts straight to his dick. it's very, very rare for him to be flustered, and derek's not going to admit that that's what this feeling is, but he's obviously kind of embarrassed and maybe even a little shy as he tries to think of a response. stiles is gonna have to be pretty fucking lucky to ever see derek this thrown again. ]
Well - guess you're gonna be thanking me for a few things, then.
[ so, yeah. totally nailed that interchange, he thinks, nodding and trying to look very, very serious. he nods again, twists his very serious smile to the side like he's trying to very seriously hide it, and then very seriously shakes his head like he's embarrassed for thinking he could pull that off. god, okay. focus.
a part of derek feels as if he's slipping. the determination that got him to this point wavers like the tide, sometimes there, sometimes not. stiles is pressed up against the couch and every part of derek still knows in his heart of hearts that this is going to be good. he knows stiles is going to enjoy this, and he knows that he himself is going to enjoy giving him this - but now that he's at the eleventh hour, now that his body isn't soaked with adrenaline from table-flipping and chest-shoving, he's...
not anxious. something close to anxious. in the end, he's just gotta go for it, treat this like it's no big deal. he's gotta think of this as just one friend trying to take care of another, even if he knows that's not what they are. friends don't look at each other the way that stiles looks at derek, and friends don't get overwhelmed by a crashing tidal wave of hope and fear and longing the way that derek was fifteen fucking seconds ago. friends don't shove tables to the ground because it shaves three seconds off of being able to shove their tongue down their homie's throat. they stopped being friends a long time ago.
derek has to go for it. he has to go for it, both for the sake of his nerve and so he doesn't give stiles a fucking hernia from having to wait any longer.
crawling back down, derek stretches out over the carpet again when he drops between stiles' thighs. he's not going to waste time here with exploratory touches, he can't just keep staring. he has to go for it. he has. to just. do it.
one breath. one breath is all he takes to steel himself, and then he seals the very tip of stiles' cock between his lips. he sucks, just lightly, as he swipes the end of his tongue over the slit. he minds his teeth, and he swirls his tongue around the head until it's shiny with his spit, and he adds just a bit more suction, just enough to pull focus. derek wraps one hand around stiles' shaft and slowly starts to pump, using the other to roll stiles' balls between his fingers, gently massaging them, and he's already feeling more confident, already feeling more ready. more addicted. he likes this.
he fucking loves this.
he can feel the heat of stiles' dick now more than he did at the barracks. with his powers back, he can better sense his arousal, smell the blood and the lust crashing through his system. it makes his mouth water, which is conducive, to what they're doing, he guesses, and he closes his eyes to really focus. he thinks of the way stiles' hand felt on his chin, on his neck, in his hair, and he wants that again. his heart is a fucking mess, pumping loud enough to beat in his ears, and he loses a lot of shame, a lot of hesitation, the more this goes on. he stops trying to stay quiet. he doesn't mind if stiles hears the way his breathing comes staggered and needy, every time he pulls back to flood his lungs with air. he doesn't mind if stiles notices the way he rumbles in the back of his throat, deep and pleased and almost canine, every time stiles gives him a drop of pre to taste.
derek slips down lower, taking more of stiles in, taking him down inch by inch until he feels like he might gag. he squeezes his hand down stiles' cock as he goes, so that stiles is always feeling something - the soft, tight grip of his fingers, or the hot, wet suction of his mouth. derek squeezes his fist around the base of stiles' cock and he hums, appreciatively, like he's the one here who should be grateful, and if he drools a little from the corner of his mouth, he's far too engaged in what he's doing to care.
he slowly pulls back, keeping a long, dragging suction as he goes, his cheeks hollowed tight from the pressure of it. he lifts his lips from stiles' cock with a hard pop, and he gives himself a second to just collect himself. he looks up at stiles, and derek isn't smiling, not anymore. he's just - hazy, like he barely even notices stiles is there. he jerks stiles off, his hand wet and noisy, and his lips are red and glossy from precum and spit. he doesn't really think, when he swipes his tongue over his bottom lip to get it dry. to really taste stiles, already missing him. ]
You doing okay?
[ his voice is sort of raspy, but he clears his throat and fixes it, looking sharper now. he's enjoying himself, and he's pretty fucking positive that stiles is enjoying himself, too, but the last thing derek wants to do is overwhelm him. he only wanted a kiss, after all. ]
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no subject
Rosalind's lab is ventilated, right? You didn't... inhale anything toxic?
I'm worried about you.
[ you know, because stiles' head is so fucked up that he thinks he stands a chance!! checkmate!!!!!!
whatever. whatever? whatever. fuck. derek's feet are hurting. his legs are tense and his muscles are taut, and he just keeps walking in front of his front door, over and over again, trying to hear the distant ping of an elevator eighty floors below him. waiting shouldn't be such a big deal; stiles ended things with rosalind sooner than derek expected him to, and he's coming over early to shower. the elevator could get stuck, maintenance could come and fix it, and stiles could get caught up in a fucking flash mob and he'd still make it to derek's apartment sooner than they'd originally planned. being impatient is just... the same as being greedy.
but he is impatient. he's very, very impatient, and he's very, very lonely, and it's not like he and stiles haven't seen each other since the fort, but he hasn't told stiles he missed him, and stiles hasn't promised to share a bed with him again, and there's so much here that derek wants that it's this scary, intimidating, amorphous blob of good feelings that he just wants to dive into already. this is taking too long, and... and he can swear that he's caught stiles' scent, somehow, through all the thick layers of concrete and wood and metal standing between them, and that's only making him feel worse.
he wants stiles. he wants to see stiles, he wants stiles so fucking bad.
impulsively, derek opens the door to his apartment and walks out, shutting it behind him. he takes a hard left down the hall, ducking out of sight from the top of the stairs, turning down a corner and making it to the end. the elevators are a ways away, but derek walks until he gets there, staring blankly up at the little LED display indicating that the elevator is still a good sixty floors below him. cool.
cool. cool. cool. great. fine. this is fine. derek's still pacing, but he's pacing a little faster now, arms crossed over his chest. sixty floors. fifty nine. fifty eight. fifty seven. derek glowers at the light above the elevator doors like it's just another stupid fucking act of aggression from duplicity against him. another shred of evidence that this apartment is fucking stupid, and that he hates it, and that he hates the city, and that he hates being here, and that he wants to be somewhere else. somewhere safe. with stiles.
stiles sends him another message and derek doesn't reply, but he stops walking just long enough to read it. he stares at the text, hears the words in stiles' voice. the uptick when he says something that's supposed to be a joke, the cocky little smile he'd have if he were saing this to derek's face. the way he'd laugh, that kind of soundless, sarcastic laugh he does, where he just exhales air through his nose and lets his shoulders shake. derek misses that fucking laugh. it hasn't been long since he's seen stiles laugh, but derek still misses it so bad.
he lifts his thumb to his lips and anxiously bites the nail, which isn't a good habit, and he knows that, so he crosses his arm again and tucks his hand beneath his bicep, sandwiching it against his side. he chews his lip, stops himself from peeling away any dry skin, because that's not a good habit, either. he can work with anger, he can shoulder his grief, but he sure as shit doesn't know how to deal with this impatient, scratchy anxiety that makes everything in him feel so tightly wound.
and then he hears a noise from behind him, just out of sight. the gangly footsteps of an uncoordinated idiot, crashing through derek's anxiety like he crashes through everything else. derek frowns, eyebrows meeting in the middle, and after a quick glance up at the elevator - still thirty floors down, maybe a little less - he turns, and he heads back.
and then there's stiles, sweaty and exhausted and trying to catch his breath, struggling to reclaim whatever dignity he has left in him before derek opens the door he's not actually behind and catches him. there's a window here where stiles doesn't realize he's there, and derek knows he should - take advantage of that, or something. come up with something biting and clever and funny, maybe. but he doesn't want to? he just...
this makes him feel happy. this makes him feel warm.
so derek walks over, keeping his footsteps light, and he's smiling, all self-satisfied and content and kind of endeared. stiles ran up to see him, and derek can't exactly pretend like he wasn't waiting outside the elevators to meet him - he wouldn't hide it, either, if stiles asked why he's not inside. they both wanted to see each other as soon as possible, and derek latches onto that, even though it would be so easy to assume the worst. so easy to assume that stiles is being chased by a fucking murderer and just needs to get inside as soon as possible, so easy to assume he's fucking-- shit his pants, or something, and just ran up here to change. derek doesn't let himself scroll through the rolodex of pessimistic and kind of mean bullshit, he just - assumes that stiles wanted to see him as much as derek wanted to see him back.
derek leans against the wall beside his door, arms still loose across his chest, but just seeing stiles is enough to relax him. he feels so much less tense, so much happier. derek might not know stiles as well as he should, being two years behind, but he knows that it's been a long, long time since he's just been this fucking happy to see someone.
and he's not an idiot. he knows what that feeling is. ]
It's unlocked.
[ he nods his head towards the apartment, like stiles is too dumb to know what he's talking about. "you look like a mess", fuck, that's what he should have said. ]
If you want to head in.
no subject
god, he probably stinks. he's a clean, hygienic person, and he put on deodorant this morning and then reapplied before he left, but he probably smells like rosalind's lab - clinical and medicinal, like a combination of all the chemicals he handled. and sweat. stiles can't actually smell anything on him, but he briefly considers snatching his deodorant out of his bag for another quick swipe under his arms, though. because his sense of smell isn't anywhere close to how sharp derek's is.
but there's probably not enough time for that, and derek opening the door to stiles freshening up his armpits would probably be more embarrassing that derek finding him like... this. too warm, with jelly legs and out of breath.
stiles doesn't actually hear derek at all when he rounds the corner. he's still breathing just a little too harshly to hear anything quieter than that. it's movement in his peripherals that catches his attention. stiles impulsively pushes himself away from the wall, fully intending to try and play it cool for derek's neighbor, or whatever other sad sack decided to take the stairs. he lifts his hand to rub at the back of his neck, but he's still holding his overshirt, so he just looks - dumb.
and it's not derek's neighbor, it's derek. stiles drops all pretenses and sags back against the wall again, not feeling nearly embarrassed as he thought he would. he does feel a little confused, though, because derek is... on the wrong side of the door. oh, right, he was picking up food, his brain supplies, but derek isn't carrying anything, so. that can't be it.
stiles doesn't ask, though, because derek leans against the wall on the opposite side of his apartment door and stiles is very easily distracted. he kind of wants to reach over and shove his shoulder for no particular reason, but that seems like it would require more energy than he's currently willing to expend, so he doesn't.
his eyebrows lift a little. he rolls himself sideways, leans his weight into the press of his shoulder. ]
That seems smart. You're a - [ he sniffs, swipes his thumb through the thin film of sweat over his upper lip, drops is hand, ] - a burglar's best friend.
[ he says it with a fair amount of seriousness, but the edges of his eyes crinkle a little and he finds himself smiling faintly and tiredly and definitely like an entire idiot. he hums unintentionally as he breathes out, and then tilts himself forward again until he's standing in front of the door.
it's unlocked, just like derek said. not that stiles thought he was lying, but he wouldn't put it past derek to tell him one thing just to see stiles make a fool of himself struggling to open a locked door. stiles pushes his way inside, already starting to slide one of his arms free of a backpack strap. he's still too warm, and the bag is keeping his body heat trapped between his shoulders, slowing down the process of cooling off. he turns on his heel, teeters a little on his jelly legs, takes a small step sideways with one foot to keep his balance. ]
Beat the elevator, [ he says with a lazy flap of his hand back toward the hallway he's already leaving behind, offering up an explanation for why he's all gross and red-faced and generally a mess despite the fact that derek didn't ask. he frees his other arm, and then just kind of stands there with his bag in his hands because he doesn't know where to put it down. it's awkward for a second before he just decides to act like this place is his old place. it's the same exact layout, only mirrored, and just about as bare as stiles kept his before he was moved to the down.
stiles sets his bag down by the side of the couch. he lifts one foot to pull his sneaker off, quickly realizes he has absolutely zero chance of balancing on one foot with his knees still as wobbly as they are, and sits down on the arm of the couch instead, dragging his leg up so he can get at his laces. ] Where'd you go?
[ he lifts his chin at derek, eyes flitting up from his fingers for a moment. why were you in the hallway, why were you not here to open the door and scoop him up and deposit him immediately into the air conditioning and press a cold drink into his hand.
why has it taken this long for stiles to admit he's missed sharing space with derek? ]
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so this is a nice change of pace. the sweat, the struggle, the imminent cardiac arrest. derek's got this sly, wolfish grin on his face as he rests against the wall, watching stiles revert to the awkward, messy teenager he's always been. as much as stiles annoys the shit out of him when he's all frantic and physically emotive and energetic, it's comforting to see that he isn't always... worried about things.
maybe that's hypocritical, maybe he's projecting, maybe he just doesn't want stiles to be as fucked up by his trauma as derek is. maybe he's just... actually sort of starting to like this side of stiles, now that he's not constantly spazzing out when derek's trying to fucking get shit done. maybe it's cute. he does think stiles is cute, after all. that's written down. he can't take that back.
stiles lifts his eyebrows, calls him a burglar's best friend. derek lifts his eyebrows back, still smiling that same shit-eating grin, but by the time they've headed inside together, he's got it under control. he steadily closes the door behind them (and locks it, this time,) as stiles wobbles in, and his eyes linger on stiles' shoulderblades for a second or two as he goes. stiles takes a seat, and derek feels sort of awkward standing at the front door, so he drifts into the kitchen area, rummaging through the fridge for the soda he bought. it's cold, at least a little bit, but he adds some ice to a glass to really sell it. feels like it's probably been a while since somebody got stiles a drink, so. yeah. he wants to do it.
he gets everything set up, puts the soda back in the fridge, then heads back over when stiles is asking his question. "where'd you go". derek's eyebrows are back up, and he holds the glass out for stiles to take, carrying it with his good arm, the one he leant against the wall with.
he could lie. it'd be easy to lie, but. he'd already decided not to. ]
Wanted to see you sooner.
[ derek shrugs, like it's an easy thing to say, even though - as it always seems to be, with stiles - he feels a little bit like he's throwing himself off of a cliff. admitting that he has feelings, like a normal person? that shit can't keep flying as easily as it has been. one of these days, it's going to bite him in the ass.
still. he's happy. he wanted those few extra seconds, those tiny, bonus moments they'd have on the few steps back to his apartment. he's not ashamed of that, exactly, even if he is daunted by the idea that stiles might react poorly. it is what it is. ]
Why did you take the stairs?
[ he already knows. he hopes he knows. ]
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derek offers him a drink, and there's ice and stiles looks almost awed by the gesture, his eyes flickering from the cool glass in derek's hand up to his face. he presses his lips into a thin line, but the edges of his mouth betray his dumb, pleased little smile. he reaches out, carefully takes the drink from derek so he doesn't spill. and then just sits there with his arm out, cup in his hand, looking a little dumb for a second.
wanted to see you sooner.
stiles' stomach swoops as he connects the dots. derek came from down the hall where the elevator is, and he wasn't coming out of the elevator because the lift had to be like, thirty floors below by the time stiles came bursting out of the stairwell. which means he was waiting by the elevators for stiles to come up, waiting to meet him because he wanted to see him sooner. because he wanted the couple extra seconds of time between the elevator and his apartment.
stiles likes him so much. stiles likes him so much it's stupid. he likes him so much that he loves him, which feel less and less scary to admit to himself every time he thinks about it, but still pretty terrifying when he thinks about what would happen if derek ever found out. it's fairly obvious by now that derek likes him at least a little bit - he's called him attractive, he's told him he's missed him - but maybe it's just a purely physical thing.
which is... fine. stiles is cool with purely physical if that's where derek stands. he can pretend he's cool with it, anyway, and do whatever he has to do to keep his feelings in check. that's fine. he's good at that, mostly.
stiles wets his lips and draws his arm back in, lifting his hand to press the cold glass to his cheek. it feels nice on his heated skin. he lets his eyes close for a moment, lets a soft, contented hum escape him, and then opens his eyes again. stiles takes a long sip of soda, knocking back about half the glass while simultaneously toeing his other shoe off by stepping on the heel of it with his other foot. he tilts his glass back down, the ice inside clinking quietly as it floats around. he crunches down on a smaller piece. why did you take the stairs?
for a moment, stiles just keeps chewing his piece of ice, rolling the smaller bits on his tongue as they melt away. he looks directly at derek, and his heartbeat quickens only slightly. the corner of his mouth lifts faintly, hinting at a smirk. ]
Because I've been thinking about your shower for the last three hours.
[ he shrugs just as casually as derek had, then brings his glass to his mouth again, pausing long enough to add: ]
But also because I'm impatient and I didn't want to waste thirty minutes standing in an elevator when I could spend thirty more minutes here. With you. [ he shrugs again, averting his eyes now that he's gotten that out, and speaks directly into his glass. it makes his voice sound a little echo-y. ] I have legs, so. Or - I did when I started. I'm not so sure anymore.
[ and then he chugs the rest of his soda, tilting his head back to get the ice at the bottom of the cup. ]
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but it could also go pretty badly, he thinks, because if there's one thing derek knows about stiles - one thing that he thinks he knows better than a lot of people do - it's that he's selfless. derek's arm isn't bandaged up anymore, but it's still very tender, and under the sleeve of his henley, there's a gnarly mark that hasn't fully recovered despite his accelerated healing. he doesn't want to ruin this by giving stiles a chance to... tell him to take it easy, or something. he doesn't want to ruin this quiet little bubble they have for themselves by reminding stiles of veracity, or the fort, or the execution, or - anything. any of it.
so he won't. stiles takes the glass, and he smiles, and derek's done smiling for the day, but their fingers brush against each other and derek nearly drops the glass when they do. he catches himself and plays it off, but for a second he can't tell if the heartbeat he can hear beating so loudly is stiles' or his own.
stiles gets comfortable. he drinks, he eats ice, and he stares at derek, and derek stares back, because if he didn't, he'd notice the wet, pink shine on stiles' lips, he'd notice the flushed color of his skin, he'd think about how easy it would be to steal his overshirt while stiles' is showering and hide it under his bed for when he's alone, and he can't think about any of that, just like he sure as shit can't act on that last impulse. he lets his nerves settle, and he waits, and he stares at stiles like he's bored, or like this conversation doesn't mean half as much to him as it does. he stares at stiles like he's intruding on his time alone in his new apartment, even though he's made it so fucking clear that he's been desperate for him.
the shower comment, though, that gets a reaction. he takes it seriously, at first. his eyebrows pinch and his jaw clenches, and his eyes flicker a bit like they want to close, just for a second. he's not really sensitive when it comes to jokes, least of all jokes made by stiles, but there'd been an energy in the air that he thought he'd read as-- something, and he guesses he was wrong? of course stiles wants to use his shower, jesus. he's been without decent plumbing for months. derek's an idiot, to think there could be anything more.
but then stiles keeps talking, and there's something in the way derek's shoulders slope that shows he's relieved to hear the confession, like whatever tension was tightening them up and keeping them raised has been swept away all at once. that's - good, he thinks. he wasn't wrong. stiles wanted to see him, too. fuck. fuck, he likes him so much, and he doesn't know what to do about it. this never ends well. this won't end well.
derek puts his hand on stiles' chest. stiles is too busy choking back ice from the glass for derek to make eye contact, but derek still waits, fingertips firm against his sternum, and when the glass is drained dry, derek slowly pushes stiles off the arm of the couch, tilting him forward into the seat cushions. ]
Dick.
[ bye. anyway, christ, okay. whether stiles scrambles to hold onto something so he won't fall or tilts back completely, derek fishes the glass out of his hand before it breaks and takes it back to the kitchen. he spends his time rinsing it, just because he's feeling a bit overwhelmed and needs a few seconds to himself to calm down, and when he shuts off the faucet, he dries his hands on the bottom of his shirt. he's still in the kitchen, when he calls out again. ]
Go shower.
[ he's not going to be a creep and ask for an invitation, but it's gonna be in his head until stiles is done. ]
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but derek just keeps his hand there and stiles finishes his drink and wills his heartbeat to slow down to baseline, which is a lot easier to do when his body isn't trying to pump as much blood through his veins as quickly as possible, routing oxygen to where it's needed to keep up with the amount of energy he's burning, which is currently none at all.
and then derek nudges at his chest and stiles isn't exactly ready for it, so he tilts back easily, his butt sliding backwards until it hits the cushions. stiles' empty hand flies out instinctively, grabbing at derek's forearm with a wavering, somewhat panicky sound somewhere in the back of his throat, but once he realizes he's not about to fall off the edge of the planet, he lets derek go.
stiles looks like an idiot, sitting there with his body practically folded in half, calves resting on the armrest where his butt just was, sock feet sticking out. he gives his empty glass up easily, watches derek walk away for a second, and then flops back completely on the couch, stretching himself out. he throws his arms backwards, reaching them up over his head, and relishes in the pull of his muscles, the warm ache. ugh.
he's turns onto his side, about to roll himself up an off of the couch, probably to follow derek and annoy him, but turning over puts him face to face with the chess board on the table. stiles pauses, then props himself up on one elbow to get a better look, his eyebrows lifting slightly. it's a nice board, definitely more expensive than the one he has back home, definitely less used. which makes sense, because derek only bought it recently, but it's nice. stiles reaches his hand out, drags his fingertips along one edge of the board, then picks up the king piece nearest to him for no particular reason.
he huffs at derek's command just to be annoying, setting the piece back down before he forces himself to haul his ass up and off the couch. he grabs his backpack from the floor and hooks it over one shoulder, scooping his rumpled overshirt up too and draping it over his other shoulder so he can add it to his small pile of clothes he'll have to wash at a later date. stiles knows the layout of derek's apartment like the back of his hand because he spent three months living here too, some seventy or so floors below, so he doesn't have to ask where the bathroom is. ]
Don't tell me what to do! [ he's halfway down the hall when he calls back over his shoulder, his tone anything but offended because he's literally letting derek tell him what to do, even if a shower was in the plans this whole time. ] Also, I'm using your shampoo and your soap.
[ because he didn't bring any. because his building provides shampoo and conditioner and soap for everyone in the communal bathrooms, but it comes in the form of a dispenser suction cupped to the walls, refilled probably once a week. perks of being lesser.
stiles disappears into the bathroom after that though, closing the door behind him. if he has any thoughts of inviting derek to come with him, he bites a hole through his tongue to keep them to himself, dropping his bag on top of the toilet seat and leaning to turn on the water so it has time to warm up while he's peeling himself out of his sweat-damp clothes. ]
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stiles is just... stiles is fun. derek doesn't have fun, all that often. he has fun with stiles. even in a place like this one. even if he complains the entire time they're together. maybe he shouldn't tease him so much. maybe it borders on bullying, sometimes. it's just so hard to stop himself from having fun, with stiles. from goofing around with him, teasing him, and hopefully, making him have fun, too.
either way. they move away from one another, and derek heads out of the kitchen in time to see stiles opening the bathroom door, catching a glimpse of an elbow as it ducks out of sight. again, derek finds himself feeling impatient. he wanted stiles to come over early, which is why he told him to shower here, and that worked out much, much better than expected, but now derek's alone and has to wait. again. this is so frustrating.
he retreats to the sofa, sitting on the very edge of the seat with his hands between his knees, looking down at the chessboard solely because it's something for him to focus on. he can't tell that stiles messed with it, but that doesn't stop him from fidgeting with the edge of it, running his thumb along the closest of the grooves drawn into each edge. he pulls his hands back, holds them between his knees again. he sighs through his nose, and he scratches his palm with his thumb, and he slaps his knuckles against his other fist. bored. bbbbbbored. already bored.
derek can hear the shower turn on. he can hear the rush of water through the pipes as it heats up, he can hear the spray of it hit the tiles, he can smell the steam. he can hear, through the door, the rustle of stiles' clothes as he undresses, and that's not good, because he shouldn't be listening to that. derek slowly drops onto his side, unemotionally sinking onto the cushion like a felled tree. he stares at the chessboard, and he tries not to listen. he genuinely does try not to listen.
he keeps listening.
stiles is naked, he thinks. after a while, there's just - no more clothes being removed, no more fabric brushing against fabric, which means stiles is naked, and soon he's going to be in his shower. naked. inside of derek's shower, stiles is going to be naked. and that's, uh. well, that's something.
derek might still tug on pigtails and call people names, but he's not this adolescent little idiot who only thinks with his dick. he's not scott. he doesn't have a hair-trigger on his boner, just fucking. waiting to get hard the second someone flashes him some skin. behind a fucking door. while they shower. nonsexually. like a person does. unaware that there's a fucking creepy werewolf stalker straining his advanced senses to hear him, letting his pulse quicken in his veins as he wonders, quietly, if stiles realizes that using his shampoo and smelling like him is going to drive him fucking insane. he can't know. he wouldn't have said it, if he did.
jesus. okay. derek needs to stop, he's feeling skeevy. he resituates himself on the couch a little better, rolling to face the wall of it and curling up a little, his legs too long to fit neatly in front of the arm. he's been getting carried away, lately, and he knows it's just... high emotions from finally being away from the fort, but he needs to roll it back. he's so tired of himself. of being this happy because of one person. of only being attracted to this one person. he needs to stop. can't rely on stiles. can't keep pushing this shit on him. can't keep wanting to go back to the barracks. that night.
so he waits. he'll wait, and he'll let stiles have his shower, and, okay, maybe, maybe, he'll think about knocking on the bathroom door and asking stiles if he wants company, and he'll maybe let himself think about what that would be like, if it was a successful way to proposition someone instead of creepy and kind of a lot. jesus christ.
jesus
christ.
when did he get like this. ]
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but he doesn't have to rush right now, and it takes him a second to remember that, half way through dragging his shirt off over his head before he realizes he can take his time. he stands there with his arms tangled in his t-shirt, pulled up over his face, and then he sighs, because it's nice to not have to scramble for a fucking semi-decent shower. stiles tugs his shirt the rest of the way off and drops it in the sink, briefly glancing at his reflection in the mirror, but it's already starting to fog up with the steam.
stiles can take his time here without having to worry about the water running cold, but the thing is... he doesn't actually want to. he ran up sixty-something flights of stairs because he wanted to see derek, which sounds kind of insane when he actually stops to think about it. he can hardly get through running suicides at school without wanting to throw up and toss himself off of a cliff afterwards, but he ran up sixty. fucking. flights. he could have stayed in the elevator and found some patience, but he chose to run some kind of crazy marathon instead just for a couple extra minutes with derek. they have the entire evening and night ahead of them, and however long it takes before derek kicks him out in the morning, and stiles still ran for it.
jesus.
stiles swallows thickly and tries not to think about derek and whatever he's doing while stiles faffs around in the bathroom wasting time. he peels off his socks, then unbuttons, unzips, and steps out of his pants, dragging his boxers down with them, and he tries really, really hard not to think about the fact that he's butt-ass naked. in derek's apartment. he tries not to think about derek being like, thirty feet away from him at most no matter where he is in the apartment. while he's naked. stiles is suddenly glad that the mirror is fogged up to hell and back.
the spray of water is a little too hot for stiles' taste when he finally steps in, but he doesn't move to turn the temperature down at all. too hot water is better than no hot water, and the heat makes his tight muscles feel a little better anyway. he breathes a sigh of sweet relief, head tilted forward so the water sprays over the back of his neck, and he just takes a couple long seconds to breathe. a hot shower with actual water pressure shouldn't feel this good, but it does. god, it does.
stiles lifts his head, tilts it backwards, drags his hands down over his face, stifling a quiet groan of contentment. okay. okay, enough wasting time. stiles breathes out, does a little twist one way and then the other before he finds the bottle of shampoo propped up on the narrow bar that runs around the back of the shower at about eye-level. he squeezes a generous amount into his palm, lathers his hair up, scrubs at the nape of his neck with his fingertips and drags his fingernails over his scalp. he rinses without getting suds in his eyes, then lathers his hands up with soap and gives himself a quick, full-body rub down. his hands stroke over his dick just once, but his mind immediately wanders to derek and what he's doing and if he could get away with— like really quick— ]
Nnnope.
[ stiles takes his hand off of himself with a decisive murmur because thaaat's dangerous. he scrubs under his armpits, rubs his fingers behind his ears, passes his soapy fingers over the back of his neck one more time, and calls it a successful shower. less than five minutes, probably, which still feels like an hour in comparison to what he's accustomed to.
stiles shuts off the water and he climbs out and he grabs the nearest towel he can find, patting himself dry. he rubs the towel over his hair, scrubs at his scalp, and then wraps the towel around his waist so he's not just standing there with his dick out in derek's bathroom. even though the door is closed. even though the bathroom is like, the most appropriate place for him to have his dick out. he rifles through his backpack, weighing his options. he could just pull on his sweats and a t-shirt, but it's not even really that late yet and that almost seems a little too comfortable for anything other than bed. he could pull on some khakis, throw on a hoodie. he could—
this is dumb. it literally does not matter, and stiles is just being dumb and nervous and stupid for no reason and he knows this and he's just wasting more time, which is annoying him too. he settles for sweats, grey and loose and threadbare, a plain black t-shirt, and a navy hoodie, unzipped, because he likes layers. he's more comfortable in layers most of the time. he worries about his hair next, but only goes so far as finger-combing it to the side a bit, just so it's out of his eyes and won't dry weird without any product in it.
okay. okay, cool, that's. as good as it's gonna get. they're not going anywhere, right? ... right? this is fine. stiles grabs his dirty clothes and folds them a little haphazardly, piling his shirt and his pants and his socks and his underwear on top of each other before scooping up his backpack. a cloud of rolling steam precedes him as he steps out of the bathroom and into the hall with all his stuff. which he decides to leave on the floor, leaned up against the wall just outside of derek's bedroom door. he decides to leave his phone, too, plopping it down on top of his clothes.
time to find derek, wherever he is. stiles calls out as he's making his way down the hall back toward the center of the apartment, wigging a finger in his ear to try and shake some water out of it. ]
Hey, what did you end up picking up to eat?
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it's torture, but it shouldn't be. realistically, derek understands that he barely knows stiles. he's analyzed himself and how he's behaved over these past few weeks enough times now to realize that any feelings he has for stiles can be easily explained away as just... a side effect of what they are to each other. these feelings are a byproduct of their contract, or of their time together. they're not real. how could they possibly be real, when there's so much about stiles he just doesn't know?
maybe he's just being possessive. maybe he's just so moved by the fact that he has a friend after spending so many years without one, he's confusing those feelings as romantic. stiles is filling a void in him, making him less lonely, and derek has to remember that, because that's not how a healthy relationship starts, he thinks. he's a romantic at heart, and it would be so easy for him to get carried away with this, and he just - can't do that. not to himself, and certainly not to stiles.
so. he needs to stop thinking. needs to stop being excited all the time, needs to stop treating a fifteen minute shower break like it's the end of the world. it's ludicrous, to derek, that he's in his twenties and pining over someone again. derek's so much better than that.
ugh, whatever. derek moves around a few more times, searching for a way to sit comfortably, before he finally ends up settling. he sits up, leans into the corner of the couch, elbow on the arm of it. it's really, really hard not to fixate on stiles. on the sigh of relief he heard when the warm water started easing away the tension on stiles' muscles - that groan he heard that he shouldn't have been listening to. it's hard not to feel-- so many things. lust. joy. comfort. loneliness. he's stewing in it all, waiting in silence, staring at the chessboard like it'll solve all his problems.
stiles comes out of the shower, eventually, and derek briefly panics about whether or not he'll need spare clothes, but stiles took care of that on the way over, it turns out. derek remembers the conversation they had earlier; stiles was insecure about the way he dressed, and derek, with a pang of guilt, remembers that he made that feeling worse, for a second. he looks up with just his eyes, resting his cheek on the lazy curl of his fist, and he watches stiles walk over.
derek's appraising him. it's obvious, because derek never hides the penetrating way he looks at people, but for all the apparent self-evaluation he's been doing these last few weeks, he doesn't seem to realize that judgmentally staring at someone right after they get out of the shower might be kind of awkward. he's just - curious, about the clothes stiles is wearing. he wonders if he can say something without it sounding forced. a... compliment. maybe. like "i notice you're wearing clothes - good work".
or something. that won't work. that's nothing. jesus christ. derek's eyes lift a little. stiles looks good in layers. he could at least say that. maybe. stiles asks about food, and derek looks away, back to the chessboard. he lifts his other hand and scratches the space between his eyebrows with his thumb, taking a long, deep breath. food. right. okay. ]
Pizza. Microwave. Should still be warm. Grab me a drink, too, while you're at it.
[ he doesn't care what of, but he only really owns soda and milk, so. probably soda.
derek stretches out on the couch, pops his shoulders as he does it. he props his heel up on the table, next to the chessboard, and he straightens out his leg until his knee gives a satisfying crack. he breathes out again, leans back against the sofa, and he tilts his head back, exposing his neck and closing his eyes. it doesn't look like much - he's just relaxing - but blinding himself and baring his throat means that he trusts stiles, and that he feels safe around him.
but he's also impatient to play fucking chess. ]
C'mon, hurry up. Everything's ready. I wanna make you cry already.
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( derek was waiting for him by the elevator, though. he has to remind himself of that. )
changing his clothes now would just be suspicious and weird though, so - stiles owns his decision to be comfortable as best as he can own it. he stares at derek, slowly inching his eyebrows up his forehead while he waits for derek to say something - about food, hopefully, and not his clothes, because that'll shatter this whole illusion of stiles owning his stupid sweatpants and his stupid hoodie, probably. he's not typically insecure about his style, if you want to call his tendency to gravitate toward plaid overshirts style (stiles doesn't), but having two people he highly respects criticize him over it is enough to rattle his previously-solid foundation.
stiles takes his finger out of his ear and makes a small gesture with the same hand, like, well? because he's not really sure if derek heard him or if derek's just ignoring him or what, and he doesn't really want to repeat himself and look like a dumbass if it's the latter. he flexes his toes over the carpet to keep himself from rocking back on his heels in all of his awkwardness, watches as derek looks away and scratches between his eyebrows—
pizza. hell yeah, okay. great. pizza in the microwave, stiles can get behind that. he smiles a little without really thinking about it and shoots derek a pair of half-assed finger guns before setting off for the small kitchen.
briefly, he considers nuking the pizza for half a minute just to make sure it's nice and warm, but stiles would eat cold pizza without hesitation, and he's hungry, and derek said it should still be warm, so that's good enough. he grabs the box, sets it on the counter so he can tug open the fridge to grab a couple drinks, and really, really contemplates whether he wants a soda, which would be easier, or a glass of milk, which he hasn't actually had in like. months. because he sure as shit doesn't trust milk in the down to not be spoiled, or if not spoiled, at the cusp of going bad.
in the end, he doesn't want to search through derek's cabinets for a cup, and derek apparently already washed and put away the one he was drinking from earlier, so he settles for soda. he grabs two cans, sliding one into a hoodie pocket, nudges the refrigerator closed with his knee, and then grabs the pizza with his other hand, rolling his eyes as derek whines from the living room. he snags a napkin or two on the way out, too. ]
Yeah, yeah. I can't wait for you to make me cry, either. From laughing at how confident you were that you could play me in a game of chess and actually win.
[ stiles reaches out with a soda in his hand, ready to press the cold can to derek's throat for a second before he thinks better of it. instead, he just stands there for a beat, quietly considering the way derek is sitting, the way his head is tilted back, throat bared, eyes closed. it makes his lungs feel weird for a moment, makes his stomach dip a little, because he knows werewolves. he knows what it looks like to submit, and maybe that's not what derek is doing, because stiles is not a werewolf at all and not someone anyone would ever submit to the way wolves might, but - derek's relaxed enough to be vulnerable, and that makes stiles feel... something.
he doesn't touch the can to derek's throat, but he thumps it twice against his shoulder instead and then lets it go, counting on derek to exercise his reflexes before it can fall into his lap. stiles circles around to the other side of the coffee table, setting the pizza box down near the edge as he sits himself down on the floor. his muscles are still fairly tight and sore, so it's a little bit of an awkward struggle complete with a thin noise of discomfort and a half-grimace, but. he has pizza, and he's spending time with derek like he wanted, so it's all good. he's not going to complain.
stiles flips the pizza box open, then flicks at derek's ankle a couple times in an attempt to get him to move it, setting his own can of soda down on the table by his foot regardless of whether derek moves or not. he pops the tab, nodding his chin at the board as he reaches to separate a slice of pizza for himself, fingers pulling at the edges of the crust. ]
Go ahead. You can have the first move.
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there's nothing stopping them from seeing each other for the rest of the evening and all through tomorrow morning, and that's just... the best. it's just going to be the two of them, some lukewarm pizza and a night in one bed. he's missed this.
stiles blearily opens his eyes when stiles stands over him, soda in hand, nudged against his shoulder. there's - a delay. he doesn't think to look at the soda, not at first. he just... looks up at stiles, takes him in. the color of his eyes, the softness of his hair. the way he smells like derek's shampoo, his soap, which puts a lump in his throat like he knew it would. it's only for a second, but he looks a little entranced, which is why when stiles lets go of the can, derek has to struggle to catch it.
it's not exactly the comical flailing of limbs stiles would have if their positions were reversed, but he grabs at the can and completely misses it, which is pretty unusual for him. a sign that he's distracted. the soda bounces off his seat and tumbles to the floor, rolling forward until it's stopped by the table leg, and derek stares after it, sighing a little. he pitches forward and has to stretch out to reach it, rolling it towards him with his fingertips, then leaning back just in time for stiles to flick at him and tell him to move.
ugh. ugh. ugh. okay. he slides off the couch and joins stiles on the floor, sitting on the opposite end of the table, crossing his legs and resting his forearms on the edge of it. the table has just enough room for their arms, the chessboard, the pizza and their drinks, which is good, but also optimal conditions for cheating. he will have to watch stiles pretty fucking closely.
the pizza's half-and-half, one side covered in barbecue sauce and different cuts of meat, the other slightly less carnivorous. derek knows stiles' order, or at least he thinks he does, because he's seen him eat pizza back home and he'd committed it to memory, as if it would one day come in handy to know that stiles has pineapple on his pizza and scott's an idiot who likes idiot mushrooms like an idiot. guess he was right.
derek takes a slice of his side, biting in and getting a mouthful of bacon. stiles tells him to take the first move, and derek only raises his eyebrows. whoever goes first actually tends to win, so this feels like an insult. like stiles is trying to give him a handicap. the only reason he agrees is because he's already on white's side and he's too lazy to make stiles move. ]
You're a dick.
[ but it's fine, whatever. he moves a pawn forward two spaces, eyebrows raised. there's this one really obvious trick you can do in chess, something peter used to pull with him all the time when he was a kid - move a pawn, move a bishop, move a queen, capture a pawn with your bishop, checkmate. he's not dumb enough to do that here, because stiles would see it coming a mile away, but the idea of beating stiles in three or four moves actually gives him a bit of a boner. that's not great. that says something about him. ]
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stiles knows exactly what he's doing and it's clear by the shit-eating grin that he tries to smother by cramming a bite of pizza into his mouth. derek would have gone first anyway just by the rules of the game, but making it seem like he's letting derek have the advantage, like he's being gracious enough to let derek have a fighting chance at beating him is too good of an opportunity to pass up. ]
Mmhmn.
[ he flaps his other hand at derek, smiling around a mouthful of pizza as he sinks his teeth into warm-ish bread and less-warm-ish cheese and tangy pineapple, and it doesn't even matter that it's not hot, because it's still so fucking good. stiles has to take a second to really savor the moment. he sighs through his nose, his shoulders sagging a little and his eyes closing. fuck, pizza is so good. pretty much anything that doesn't come from the down is delicious, but this pizza is doin' it for him.
stiles flutters his eyes open in time to see derek make his first move. it's not anything that's particularly unusual or interesting - yet -, but stiles still narrows his eyes the tiniest bit, gaze flickering from the pawn to derek and back again. he wipes his fingertips on his thigh even though he barely touched the crust with this hand, then reaches out to move a pawn two spaces in the same column, right up to derek's.
if you'd told stiles at sixteen that one day he'd be sitting around in sweatpants and a hoodie, splitting a pizza with derek hale while playing an actual game of chess, stiles probably would have laughed until he gagged because in what world? if you'd told him at eighteen, before duplicity, he'd have laughed then too, maybe not as hard, maybe with a little sadness souring the edges, because stiles would have given damn near anything just to know where derek was, let alone play a game of chess with him.
in all honestly, stiles couldn't give a shit if he winds up losing this game. it would bruise his ego a little, probably dampen his pride for all of ten minutes, but it would be worth it all the same. he's said it already, but he's missed derek, not only here, but back home, too. don't get him wrong - he's glad derek finally got the hell away from beacon hills, but there were some days when things got really rough, where stiles would find himself wishing derek had just taken him with him.
he'd have gone, he thinks. but he has this, now. this fragile, tentative thing, whatever it is. and that's good too.
stiles crams another bite of pizza in his mouth, reaching for his drink. he doesn't sip from it right away, electing to set it down on the floor in the triangle formed by his leg instead, bent at the knee and laid flat. ]
I like this board.
[ he says, apropos of nothing, really, but it's the truth. it's nicer than the one he has, even before the many years and the many games played on it with his father wore it down. stiles gently pulls the pads of his fingers along the edge of the board, watching his own hand for a moment before he glances up. ]
Didn't think you'd actually buy one.
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derek sets down his pizza and taps the bottom of his soda before he opens it, like that'll somehow stop it from exploding a little after being dropped and shaken up. surprisingly, it doesn't work. he cracks open the tab and it starts to bubble over, but derek seals the hole with his lips and drinks the head, foam and a thin line of coke dribbling down the corner of his mouth. he coughs a little when he peels off, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. decent damage control, but not the best. pretty much an analogy for his life as an alpha.
but whatever. it's fine. derek sets his soda on the table, smears away a little extra coke with his wrist, then dries his hands off on his shirt. stiles said something about how he's surprised derek bought a chessboard, and derek's defensive and a hypocrite, so he uses the opportunity to be a snippy little bitch. ]
Yeah, well. I did, and it was expensive, so. Don't grease it up with your dirty pizza fingers.
[ as if he doesn't have dirty pizza fingers himself. as if he doesn't have dirty soda fingers, too, for that matter. derek wipes his hand on his shirt again, just really double-dosing this, then scoots a little closer to the table. stiles made a move, and it's kind of annoying, because moving their pawns together is the chess equivalent of cockblocking. but fine. whatever. he moves a pawn, too, one of the pawns guarding his rooks. figures he'll bring that out and go on the offensive.
once he's made his move, he leans back, propping himself up on one hand and picking up his pizza again. he bites, and he chews, and he looks at stiles, kind of... entertained. stiles is fun to watch. the expressions he makes, the way he looks at derek. it's... nice. fun. if someone had told him he'd spend an afternoon splitting a pizza and playing chess with stiles, he probably would have laughed. he can't possibly know that stiles is thinking the exact same sentiment - but he wonders if he feels the same way. ]
Anyway. I don't know. This is nice.
[ derek sets his pizza back down, and again, wipes his fingers on his shirt. he's not talking about the pizza, or about the chessboard that wasn't half as expensive as he's making it out to be, he's talking about... this. all of this. derek gestures with his hand a little, pointing at stiles, then pointing at him. it's been - nice, having each other. it was nice, waiting to see stiles come over. it was nice, knowing that stiles ran up to see him. everything is just... nice, and maybe drawing attention to it will break the magic a little, but he wants to talk about it. he promised himself he'd be honest with stiles, back in the barracks. he needs to keep pushing for that, even when it's kind of hard to do. like now. ]
I mean - this is nice, right? All of this. Kind of makes me wish I'd given you more of a chance back home. Maybe I could have been happier, if I tried harder to connect with you. With Scott, too.
[ but that's easier said than done. stiles didn't treat him back home the way he treats him here. derek was on the run from hunters, constantly, and while veracity scares the shit out of him, the argents are so much worse. the death of the hales, the loss of laura, all of that is still so fresh back home. the kanima, gerard. there are so many factors in why derek couldn't have given stiles a chance that just... aren't here. but.
he still just - wants that. to have a relationship like this with stiles back home. caring and kind. supportive and understanding. he hopes he won't forget, when he's finally removed from duplicity.
derek shrugs, shaking his head. he looks away from stiles and the board like he's in thought, but then he frownss and looks back, just in case stiles decided to cheat and move a piece on the board while derek wasn't paying attention. this might be a sentimental and emotionally freeing moment, but derek still won't let his guard down enough for stiles to cheat. ]
Then again - you did get me arrested, and Scott is trying to convince my pack that I'm a murdering psychopath while simultaneously trying to blow his load in an Argent, so. Neither of you deserve me. Should've just let Peter eaten you.
[ he's teasing. well, he's teasing stiles, at least. scott's still on his shit list after not answering his fucking phone in the pool. ]
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still, he casually reaches for the napkin on the table, makes like he's just trying to wipe some grease on his thumb when really he's just readying himself to wipe up the table and spare the chess board should things go better than he expects them to. better, in that things go worse.
derek handles it like a pro, for the most part, and there's minimum spillage, though stiles' eyes immediately hone in on the little streak of soda that drips from the corner of derek's mouth. there's... nothing remotely sexy about someone dribbling on themselves - except to stiles, apparently, but he's thinking less about the mess and more about cleaning it up, swiping his tongue up derek's chin and licking into his mouth for that sweet, almost acidic taste—
jesus christ. stiles clears his throat and puts the rest of his pizza in his mouth, tearing the crust away. he drops the crust in the box and then crumples the napkin in his hand up a bit so he can toss it at derek for being. stupid. and dumb. stop wiping your hands on your shirt like a twelve year old, you massive child.
derek makes another move, and stiles shifts his attention to the board again, forcing himself to focus on this game and not on the fact that he totally just disappeared into his own head for a second. definitely not on the fact that derek could probably smell the brief spike of unexpected arousal— no. he was not aroused and he is not aroused and if he just keeps telling himself that, then it's true, right? if he can manage to steady his heartbeat enough now to get away with lying to werewolves, surely he can will himself into feeling absolutely nothing.
stiles doubles down on his concentration, sitting forward a little and ducking his chin slightly so he's eye-level with the game pieces. they've only just started, but stiles is already thinking far ahead, his eyes shifting from piece to piece, mapping out different plays in his head, trying to guess derek's most likely counter for any move he decides to make.
he glances up at derek, peers at him over the top of his queen. it takes him a second to realize derek isn't talking about the board and the craftsmanship, but that he's talking about the company. he confirms it with a little flap of his hand between himself and stiles, and stiles feels - good. it makes stiles feel really good and if he thins his lips a little, it's just to suppress a small smile.
and then derek keeps going, and stiles feels great, and then he feels a little sad because derek talking about wanting something that could potentially make him happier is just. it's hard to know about all the things to come for derek, all the things he'll go through, all the things that'll hurt him. stiles' smile fades a little as he suddenly remembers allison, and how stiles didn't get to tell her.
he should really tell derek. he needs to tell derek about erica and boyd. he needs to tell him about scott's plan for gerard, about the bite. he needs to tell derek about peter, and cora. about mexico. he needs to tell him a lot, before he can't.
stiles makes his move instead, picking up a piece and placing it down with intent, a clear counter to whatever derek may have had planned, if anything at all. he draws his hand back, pays attention to the rest of what derek is saying, and finds something to focus on. the worst thing to focus on, apparently.
stiles cringes slightly, because the last thing he wants to do is think about scott blowing his load anywhere, but especially not - jesus. he may have never been best friends with allison, but she had her moments when she wasn't trying to murder scott and derek and derek's pack. derek may not thinks so - and stiles wouldn't necessarily blame him -, but allison deserves a little more respect than that. maybe stiles just feels bad for his own failure to protect her. ]
Come on, man. [ stiles picks up his soda takes a sip, licks his top lip. he keeps it vague on purpose, doesn't specify what he has a problem with in that sentence. ] I thought we were over the Derek's The Murderer thing?
[ stiles sets his drink down on the floor again, fingers pushing the tab back and forth until it snaps off. he puts that on the table so he doesn't do something stupid like drop it in his drink, then reaches for the pizza crust he discarded earlier, folding it in half. he bites at the crease, separating it into two pieces, squashed up against each other. ]
And [ he gestures at derek with his crusts, emphasizing his point, ] I'm pretty sure there's nothing you could have done to make Scott like you back then. Don't get me wrong— I love the guy, but he's pretty blind to everything and everyone else when it comes to... girls.
[ he was going to say allison, but then there was kira, who scott was also pretty obsessed over. maybe not to the same extent as he was with allison, but. stiles is just calling it like it is. the next thing he says is a little quieter. ]
Trust me. It's going to get a lot worse before it gets better.
[ scott, he means - it still kind of baffles stiles that scott really forced derek to bite the man who orchestrated the murder of most of derek's family, even if the plan was more complicated than that - but also life for all of them in general. there's never time to breathe, never time for a break.
except right here, right now, which is almost kind of surreal. stiles drags himself away from that darker mood that's threatening to creep up, smirking as he tries to lighten things up. ]
If you'd have let Peter kill me, then where would you be? You told me I need you to survive - [ stiles hesitates for half a second, shrugs his shoulder nonchalantly. he's not going to try and argue that point, ] and you're not wrong. ... Obviously. But you need me just as much.
[ stiles' eyes flicker briefly toward derek's bicep. his sleeves may cover his arms, but stiles knows what's there, what's healing. he'd promised derek that if he ever got shot for pushing the guards too far, that he'd dig the bullet out with his own hands if he had to, and when it came down to it, that's exactly what he had done.
stiles picks up the tab he broke off of his can and flicks it at derek, his eyes shining slightly, crinkled near the edges. ]
Your turn, hotshot.
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he wipes his hands on his shirt again, sullenly twelve year olding. he takes a sip of his drink, he shifts his ass a bit to get comfortable, and he waits for stiles to make his move. it's in this new stretch of silence that - it hits him. he feels the heartbeat of arousal between them, that tiny little spike of adrenaline and energy and heat in stiles' stomach, and it catches on derek, almost even affects him empathetically. his eyebrows pinch and his lips drop open, and he stares at stiles.
he stares at stiles like he knows.
but he says nothing. even if the conversation didn't take a turn for the Slightly More Real, he would have said nothing. he gets through the come on, mans without really reacting, but - he does know he screwed up.
allison's gone. derek actually fucking forgot that allison's gone, through all the joy he felt in seeing stiles, and that's just... another reason why it's dangerous for him to treat this crush as something real. if he gets caught up in these... feelings, then he's going to fuck up. lose priorities, make stupid jokes without thinking. say stupid shit, like he always does when he's too happy. he needs to be logical, critical. mechanical, all the time. can't keep forgetting that.
stiles says it's going to get a lot worse. derek doesn't see how that's possible. ]
It can't get worse for me.
[ no more hales. peter - his best friend, once - dead, by his own hand. laura gone, because derek never told her the truth about the fire and let her go back home alone. things are supposed to get better for him, now that he's an alpha. just because scott's a horny little toad doesn't mean things are going to get worse for derek. he's already hit rock bottom. he refuses to believe things can be worse than they've been since the fire.
though - he knows that's not true. he knows the precarious situation he's in back home. the kanima, the alpha pack. allison's death and stiles' involvement in it. there's so much coming. so much he's not prepared for. just because things won't get worse for him - something he has to believe - doesn't mean things won't get worse for stiles and the rest.
derek sighs. rubs the side of his nose with his palm, avoiding getting pizza grease on it. he takes another bite, makes another move on the board, pushing his rook forward. he's taking aggressive actions, staying on the attack. can't let the tide turn. ]
If I go home, and I can remember, then - I'll do a better job.
[ he sets his piece down, right in position to capture one of stiles' pawns. he leans back on his ass, sets his hands on the ground after freeing them up a little, then stares at stiles, hoping this is... okay to say. ]
You didn't tell Allison about her death, but you told me. You told me about the Oni, and about the Nogitsune, and - and she's still alive, in my timeline. If I remember when I go back, then I'll save her.
[ he was always supposed to save everyone. the fact that he couldn't means - he wasn't good enough. and he can't go back and become an alpha that isn't good enough. what would laura's death be for, if derek just... misused her power, now that it's his own? he needs to save everyone. that's what he's been trying to do since peter. whether he likes it or not, allison is a part of everyone. ]
Like I said before. You gave her a second chance at being happy, while she was here. If I can save her, then - you did everything right by only telling me.
[ it's always the survivors who have to clean up after the dead. if stiles puts this in his hands - he'll do better. he takes a breath, looks away, trusts stiles not to screw with the pieces while his eyes are staring at... nothing. a spot on the wall, maybe. he grabs a slice of pizza, putting his weight on his other hand, then takes another huge bite. ]
Anyway, [ he says, through a mouthful of sausage, which is, indeed, what she said. ]
Scott couldn't have liked me back then. Agreed. But. [ he swallows. ] What about you? Anything I could've done to win you over? Other than not bleeding on your car. Or hitting you all the time.
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his skin feels warm, so he drags both of his hoodie sleeves up to his elbows. that little flash of arousal is mostly gone already, but he still takes a couple seconds to think about unattractive things. cold french fries, sunburns, sticking his fingers his derek's open wound to fish out a bullet. stiles shudders a little, pulls a tiny face as he blinks back into the present. he feels briefly queasy, but chases the feeling away with a slow, deep breath.
stiles still hasn't looked at derek, but his gaze lifts at the sound of his voice. he pulls another face, this one a little doubtful, and tries to cover it up by taking a long sip from his drink. stiles wishes derek was right. he wishes that there was nowhere for him to go but up, but stiles knows better. there's no sense in opening up that can of worms, though, not when things feel - okay. and maybe that's selfish, to want to keep this comfortable feeling that they've got going, to want to enjoy derek's company, to not want to hurt him, at least not yet. stiles will beat himself up over it later.
stiles reaches for another slice of pizza, folding this one in half this time. he watches derek take his turn, following the movement of his hand as he places his rook down. hmm. okay. a little forward, but he can work with it. stiles doesn't feel even remotely threatened yet even with his pawn in jeopardy, hands hovering over the pizza box with his attention drawn to the game. he plays out a couple moves in his head, plays out a couple more as he takes a bite of his slice, and then finds his attention pulled to derek as he continues.
it's honestly the last thing stiles expects to hear from derek - that he'll save allison. that he'll try, at the very least. allison's an argent. allison will hurt derek and his pack, and scott will hurt derek because of allison, and derek doesn't know any of that. but he doesn't ask, either, and that says - a lot. stiles doesn't want to assume that derek would put aside his animosity for all things argent for stiles, because derek barely knows him in his own timeline, but.
something in stiles' chest tightens slightly and he has to swallow to dislodge the breath stuck in his lungs. you did everything right. he did everything right. even if he couldn't bring himself to tell allison about her life and how its cut short - he still told someone, and that someone can still save her. he still gave her a chance. stiles' nose burns a little. he has to avert his eyes for a moment as he feels them prick with heat, but he doesn't cry. his eyes remain dry.
he does smile, though, small and faint and private. it feels good to not feel so guilty. he nods slightly, forcing himself to look at derek, but derek's looking away from him, so stiles just looks at the side of his face. the slope of his nose, the cut of his jaw, the line of his neck.
thank you, he wants to tell him, but his tongue feels stuck and derek spares him anyway, posing him more questions. stiles makes a curious, thoughtful sound, shifting his attention back to the game. he reaches out, fingers touching a bishop for a moment before he seems to change his mind, moving a knight instead. ]
I mean - definitely that. Like, definitely less hitting and less bleeding. In general. Anywhere. [ his fingers linger on the knight on purpose, almost like he's doubtful of finalizing the move, but he isn't. he's confident in the play. stiles licks at his top lip, then takes his hand off, setting his slice of pizza down afterward. ] But - and don't let this go to your head - but I think you'd already kind of won me over. I didn't understand you for a while, but once I stopped to listen to more than just Scott— once I started paying attention...
[ stiles shrugs, scratching between his eyebrows with his thumb nail. ]
I dunno. Talk to me more? Tell me things. I get that you were trying to like - protect yourself, and that me and Scott kind of stuck our noses in places where we didn't really belong, and Scott was just - willingly blind and deaf and love-struck, but. I mean, I figured out that Scott was a werewolf before Scott even figured it out. And I wasn't scared, you know? Like, everything pointed to my best friend being this mythical, mystical, dangerous creature, and it should have scared me, but all I wanted to do was - be there, I guess. Help him.
[ stiles shrugs again, lightly thumping the side of his loose fist against the edge of the table as he looks at derek. ]
I think I would have been pretty open to listening to you and like - being there. Too. For you. If you had just - pulled me aside, away from Scott, and just... talked to me. We're a lot better when we talk.
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[ derek condescendingly holds out his pizza crust to stiles, punctuating each peak and valley in his sentence with it. he holds it like he's aiming a gun at stiles, eyebrows raised as he waggles the crust a little, a speck of ham dropping off and onto the floor. derek frowns, picks it up, and eats it. three second rule.
anyway. whatever. he's just trying to keep the tension light. he doesn't know if he helped, promising to save allison. he doesn't know if stiles believes him - and even if he does, derek doesn't know if stiles has faith in him to see that promise through. after all, it's no secret that derek could hardly bring himself to feel too torn up over the idea of one less argent in the world. she's only seventeen, and that might make it harder to watch her die, but derek's still going to kill her mother when he goes back home, and he's not going to feel all that bad about it. the argents are... they deserve any tragedy that comes for them. including the death of a young girl.
but. stiles cares about her. scott cares about her, too - he shouldn't, but he does. derek's own relationship with allison doesn't matter, if saving her means protecting those two from heartache. he means it, when he says he's going to keep her safe. he wants to make stiles proud, and he wants to be the guardian and the hero that he always wanted to be. the man he'll never become, but can still dream of.
plus, he felt the emotion in the room. the spike of relief, the salt behind stiles eyes that barely started to sting. that's enough for him to know he's helping, by making a vow like that. derek's going to do everything he can, to be there for stiles. to help him. they're friends. from now on, they'll always be friends.
still. stiles has a point, telling him to talk to him more back home. derek needed some time to circle back to it, chugging back some coke and pulling a face when the bubbles burn his throat, but he gets there, in the end. he puts down his soda, wipes his hands off on his shirt again, like a douchebag. he doesn't make a move just yet, even though it's his turn. he just - rests his thumb over his own knight, idly stroking its tiny horse nose like it can actually feel it. eventually, he looks at stiles, and his voice comes out surprisingly soft. ]
You... are the only human I've ever met who hasn't thought of me as a monster. I'm already realizing that, back home. Realizing it even more, here. It's like - I don't know. You're...
[ good. empathetic. kind, perfect. so many things he could say. instead, he runs his thumbnail down the dark, wooden mane of his knight, looking at the chessboard. again, he needs to stay aggressive. can't risk losing the (perceived, but ultimately non-existent) upperhand that comes from going first. derek hops his knight forward, then leans back. ]
But - even if you're openminded - there's gotta be a limit to that. If I came up to you, two years ago, and I said...
[ he leans forward again. he loaf-hands, and he stares at the space between his palms, like he's reading a map, or deciphering kind of old stone tablet found outside of a pharaoh's tomb that's proven particularly difficult to translate. ]
"This is going to sound crazy, but I was trapped in some kind of Quantum Leap-esque Twilight Zone situation with you. We were in another world, living different lives, only instead of Scott Bakula and gremlins tearing up school buses, we --" wait.
[ wait, hold on. derek loaf-hands again, swinging his arms down hard like he's trying to kickstart a TV by hitting it. the gremlin tearing up a school bus thing was the simpsons parody of the twilight episode he's thinking of. what was the original episode? a monkey on an airplane's wing, or something? derek looks up from the chessboard, looks up from his hands. he stares at stiles and realizes he's spiralling drastically off-track. whatever. he snarls a little. fucking wait, he has a point, jesus. ]
If I said - "instead of being stuck with Scott Bakula and planes-slash-automobiles, we were trapped in a sexy hellscape with nothing but each other and the ever-present thread of BDSM, or murder, or murder-BDSM," [ he drops his arms to his sides, lowers his eyebrows. ] "And - I don't know - we got through it together, and now I trust you more than anyone, and we have to be friends because we were friends back in Cum City USA, or something, and I'm kind of running out of steam here, but -"
[ but. he... looks at stiles. a little deflated. ]
It's just - you wouldn't believe me. Right? I know I wouldn't believe me.
[ talking to stiles about laura, and peter, about how responsible he feels over the kanima, over kate, over scott, over how afraid he is of the alpha pack - he doesn't even know how he'd breach all of that here, let alone at home, when he's so much more guarded and afraid of letting someone like stiles in. he has no idea how he could talk to stiles honestly and just... not bring up duplicity, but he has no idea how he'd avoid it, either. ]
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he has half the mind to point out the flaw in derek's logic, to highlight all the times stiles actually listening to derek would have gotten derek hurt or killed. like how, for instance, if stiles had run when derek told him to, when derek had turned his back to the kanima just to put his hand to stiles's chest and push— if stiles had done what he was told, derek probably wouldn't be alive. not that stiles has any interest in boosting his own ego and making himself sound more important than he actually is, but. he kind of likes derek better when he's breathing.
stiles is tempted to reach for the piece of crust derek is pointing at him with, pluck it from his fingers and eat it just to be a little shit. he almost, almost goes for it when derek looks down, his fingers twitching impulsively, shoulder tightening in anticipation. he curls his fingers into a loose fist instead, tilts his head to bite his folded triangle of bread and sauce and cheese and fruit, and snorts a quiet laugh through his nose when derek... eats off the floor. three second rule indeed. stiles would have given him two extra seconds, probably, before giving him shit.
or maybe not, just because derek keeps wiping his hands on his shirt, which has zero relevance to him eating a piece of ham off the carpet, but stiles still wants to slap a bib on him anyway just to get him to stop. he doesn't actually care about the state of derek's shirt and how much grease he wants to spread everywhere, but derek slapped stiles' napkin missile away, so he's allowed to be just a little bit bitter.
stiles' gaze drops to derek's hand, watching him touch the knight. he immediately starts to try to figure out where derek's going to move it and what each move means for his own pieces, and he only glances up to see if he can work it out just by following the shift of derek's eyes. derek's looking at him, though, which stiles doesn't really expect, so he finds himself just looking back. he finds himself listening intently. he takes another bite of his pizza, the last bit before the crust, and he listens and he feels a quiet plume of affection swoop through his chest just over the softness in derek's tone, the honesty.
stiles presses his lips together, wrinkles his nose a little like it itches when he's actually just trying to bite back a smile, pizza tucked into his cheek so it puffs a little. he chews slowly, eyes flickering down only briefly to watch derek move his knight, and then back up again when derek keeps talking. it's not very like stiles to be quiet for long periods of time unless his life depends on it, but it's so easy to go lengths without speaking when derek is filling that silence with his truths and vulnerabilities.
stiles tosses his crust back into the box. he could probably eat another slice, maybe two, but. pizza might be good in the morning, too. or later. pizza again. whenever.
the twilight zone reference surprises him, but it's the simpsons reference that really tickles him. unexpectedly, his face breaks out with a big, dumb, grin and his eyes crinkle at the corners and he looks vaguely intrigued and more-than-vaguely impressed and. charmed, actually. the star wars reference was one thing. shakespeare. derek just keeps giving stiles these tiny glimpses of more, and stiles is. he loves it. he loves all these seemingly meaningless details, the insight.
stiles' grin softens a little as derek goes on, and he cringes at cum city usa, but by the end of it, stiles just looks... thoughtful. derek looks deflated, but stiles is still attentive, still watching him with curious non-judgmental eyes.
after a moment, he clucks his tongue. ]
Okay, well. First and foremost, [ loaf-hand, just one, ] don't ever try to top Bonertown, like, ever. Bonertown is gold, so you can get out of here with your try-hard [ he squints slightly, wrinkles his nose just barely ] Cum City USA.
[ stiles drops his loaf hand, then reaches out to make a move without any apparent thought, pushing a pawn forward and setting one of derek's pieces up to be captured unless he moves it. which stiles is maybe counting on, not for his next move, but possibly the one after, if things work out the way he wants them to. ]
Secondly... we - human, alpha werewolf [ stiles points to himself, then points to derek, just in case there was any confusion on who is who. also, this is probably the first time he's said the word werewolf out loud since being in the city. boy keeps his secrets and he keeps them well. ] - we were being chased by a freaky lizardy asshole? Like. That's... pretty crazy. Like, I know your life is wild but objectively, that is not a very normal thing that happens every day. To anyone. But it happened.
[ stiles pauses for a moment to take a sip of his soda, leaning back on one of his hands and stretching his legs out in the narrow space under the table. one of his knees pops loudly. he winces a little, then draws his legs back in so his feet aren't all up in derek's space. ]
So... who knows. I might believe you. I mean, don't say Cum City USA to me because sixteen year old me will absolutely, one hundred percent laugh in your face and also probably want to die at the same time, but.
[ he shrugs, sitting forward and setting his can down. he crosses his arms and leans them against the edge of the table, resting his chin on the criss-cross of his forearms. he tilts his head slightly, looking across the table at derek. ]
I'm a lot more open to things than you think. But I mean. I don't think you even need to mention - this place. I think if you just. Start talking to me, and explaining things to me when I get something wrong or I don't understand why you're doing something - without smashing my face into something first, thank you - I don't... think I'd see that as a reason not to trust you.
[ stiles scrunches his nose up again, but this time it is because it itches. he turns his head and tilts his head down for a moment, tucking his nose into the crook of his elbow to itch it because apparently uncrossing his arms and using his hands to scratch it is just way too much effort at the moment. he looks at derek for a couple beats of silence, after. ]
But... if you want to tell me about all of this, and you're not sure I'll believe you, just. Tell me something you wouldn't know if we weren't friends. Something I would know, too.
[ he pops his lips a couple times quietly, trying to come up with something. ]
Tell me about - I don't know, Julius Squeezer. Tell me about how I used to sit in the driveway in my Jeep for hours when I first got it. Tell me about -
[ stiles wets his lips. ]
Tell me about the station.
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derek's done eating, if only because stiles is done, too, and he doesn't feel like eating alone. he closes the box and tucks it away under the table; he'd take it out to the kitchen, if he trusted stiles alone with the board, but that's sure as shit not going to happen. when stiles cringes and gives him shit for Cum City USA, derek's got a litany of sick burns to throw back in his face, fully prepared to defend the name and entirely ready to die on Cum City USA's largest and stickiest hill, but.
he opens his mouth, says the start of the word well, and then stiles makes a move. it's fast. distracting. he just - pushes a pawn forward when derek's not looking, and that's, well. that's alarming. what? what just happened. derek sits up straight and instantly puts on his game face, staring down at the board and trying to figure out what the fuck he just missed. what the fuck stiles is thinking.
truthfully, stiles is always good at reassuring him. derek doesn't respond to everything he's saying about julis squeezer, about the jeep, about the station. he just...
he's going to have to go on the defensive, if he wants to save his piece, but that's not how he plays chess. he's reckless. derek ignores stiles' pawn and uses his rook to capture another piece, completely missing the fact that it puts his rook in danger until he's already made his move and taken his hand away. he winces, and it's obvious he's made a mistake, but he tries to wear a poker face anyway.
poorly. because he just looks mad. he takes a breath, shakes it off, hopes that stiles doesn't see the stupid shit he just pulled. right, okay. home. ]
Okay. The station. Yeah.
[ derek sighs through his nose, then leans back on his palms. for a second, he looks at stiles like he's still only concerned about the game, smile gone like it was never there. they were both so young, during the fire. would his life have been any different, if he stayed in beacon hills? if, instead of running from the argents with his tail between his legs, he'd realized how badly this poor, grieving kid had needed someone who understood what it was like to lose family, and just - stayed, and helped, and listened? would stiles have been happier? would derek?
sometimes, everything just hurts. the clouds cover the sun and make everything cooler, and derek realizes, when his eyes adjust to the shade, just how hard he's been hit by life. he feels a disconnect from his own body, like he's outside of himself. that happens here. he never should have been at that station. stiles should have never lost his mother. everything is always so... hard.
but then he looks up, and stiles is resting on the table, and he's safe, and he's quiet, and he's happy. life can't be all bad. not if he has stiles. how the fuck did he go so long without realizing how fucking likeable stiles is? kind and beautiful and honest. derek just-- stares, like he's seeing him for the first time. he has stiles. he can't lose stiles. ]
I never want to lose you. I hope I never... I mean - I hope we always...
[ his eyebrows pinch, and he sits up on his knees. he looks at the board, and he's almost annoyed that it's there. annoyed with himself for caring so much about whether he fucked up one move or not, like any of this actually matters. why are they wasting time playing chess? why are they playing chess, when they could be-- they could be... ]
I forfeit. I don't want to play anymore.
[ he looks at stiles, and his temper rises in him like a bullet, because it's been half of half a second since he's spoken and stiles still hasn't replied, so maybe derek's not making himself clear. in one hard, sweeping motion, derek pushes the chessboard and it's pieces off the table and onto the floor, each loose wooden game piece hitting the carpet so quietly they're barely even heard, but rolling and scattering across the apartment.
which means he's lost. he loses the game, he loses, he's lost, and that means stiles wins, and that means stiles can make him do something, and that's fine, derek doesn't care. they should be doing things. they should be doing things, they should be-- derek should be doing so much for stiles. he needs to show him how devoted he is to making this contract work, how desperately he wants this friendship to last, how terrified he is that he might go home and forget about the city and go back to being shallow and angry and alone, staring at stiles with resentment and disappointment instead of fucking realizing that stiles is his hero, and stiles is his savior, and stiles is smart and beautiful and could maybe even be his, if he just stopped being stupid and realized that this thing he feels between them goes both ways.
derek grips the side of the table, leaning forward, barely managing to avoid knocking over his soda. he doesn't know how to speak up. how to tell stiles he wants him. he just - stares, intense and frustrated and desperate, like he's on a time limit. like he's suddenly realizing how easily one of them could just go. like scott. like allison. like the nogitsune. like so many others who came before them.
he pitches forward, and his voice is deep, steady and demanding. his eyes are sharp, wolfish, predatory. he only has eyes for stiles. ]
Tell me what you want from me. Whatever it is, you can have it.
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stiles stares at his own pawn, at derek's piece that he used to bait this trap like he's just anticipating that derek will move it because that's the obvious play here. but he moves his rook instead, just like stiles thought he would, and he leaves himself wide open. stiles could probably end this game in two moves.
he takes his time. he really plays it up. stiles already knows what he wants to move next, but he lets his eyes wander from piece to piece like he doesn't have a solid plan, rubbing his lips together thoughtfully, his chin still rested on his arms. it's a terrible angle to see the board from.
derek is unusually quiet through all of this, but stiles just assumes he's sweating over his dumb mistake and trying not to draw attention to it or himself, unaware that he's actually drifted away a little in thought. he taps two of his fingers against the top of the table and he sighs, lifting his chin up off of his arm and reaching a hand over the board - only to stop and let it hover, because derek is saying something.
derek says something stiles doesn't expect and stiles takes his eyes away from the board to look at him, his hand still hovering over the pieces. his fingers curl a little, his brows furrow gently and his stomach swoops at the same time that his heart skips a single beat. stiles lips part. he starts to pull his hand back.
he doesn't know what to say. stiles doesn't want to lose derek either, but the reality is that he already has. in his timeline, derek has been gone for months and stiles has spent countless hours late at night, combing through different news outlets for reports of unusual wolf activity or trying, uselessly, to track down any recently-created social media profiles, just - trying to find him in the downtime. stiles doesn't want to think about the possibility of having to let him go again, so he thinks about chess instead.
and then derek is forfeiting and it catches stiles off guard enough that he sits up kind of abruptly, knocking his chest against the edge of the table. he's slightly confused, but he also kind of wants to laugh if this is how derek is going to handle a potential loss. it's not as if derek couldn't come back from his mistake. there are still moves he could make—
oh. okay, no, there are no moves left to make because derek just. sweeps the whole game onto the floor and stiles sits up and throws his hands out and looks at derek like— ]
Dude? Whoa, hey, what the - hell.
[ okay. well. game over then. forfeiture confirmed. stiles huffs a sigh. he drops one hand, scratches over his left eyebrow with his thumb on his other hand. he pauses when derek sits up, when he grabs onto the table, when he leans over it. stiles swallows quietly, instinctively, and slowly lets his fingers fall from the arch of his eyebrow.
okay. okay something is definitely happening here, but stiles isn't sure what. derek just stares at him and it's super intense and he looks kind of pissed off, and then suddenly he's leaning even closer and stiles feels something shift.
tell me what you want from me. whatever it is, you can have it.
stiles stares at derek for a handful of seconds that feel a lot longer than they are. he looks him right in the eyes, and he holds his gaze, and derek may not be shifted at all, but stiles can almost feel the wolf in him, thrumming just beneath the surface.
derek lost. they made a deal and derek lost and there's a power in stiles' hands now that he didn't have before, but he already knows what he wants from derek. he's known since before derek decided to call him a coward for not wanting to tell him.
but he's not a coward. he's not going to be a coward about this.
stiles leans forward slowly. derek is up on his knees, which puts him above stiles, but stiles doesn't make any move to get up from where he's seated on the floor, doesn't try to put himself on the same level as derek. he's okay with looking up at him. stiles leans forward until he's close enough to be considered in derek's space. and he says nothing.
for a solid ten seconds, he just looks derek in the eye and he says nothing. and then he does say something, and his voice is low, too, quiet because he's tilted in close. ]
I want you... [ stiles pauses for another second or two for suspense. really, he's just steeling himself. this isn't a big deal, but rejection still sucks, so he's preparing for the possibility of being laughed at. or, of derek smashing his face into the table. he does look kind of mad. stiles wets his lips, possibly deliberately, possibly in anticipation, and he presses on, tipping himself just the slightest bit closer. ] ... to kiss me.
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derek knew. derek knew that's what stiles wanted, or at least - he was hedging his bets on it. stiles has barely finished asking for a kiss before derek's darting forward, pressing their lips together and shutting his eyes. it's not the gentle, hopeful, romantic kiss that stiles might have expected - it's forceful and animalistic and frantic, it's open-mouthed and paired with derek's fingers going straight into stiles' hair, lightly tugging just to keep him close.
he wants more. he wants more, and he wants to give more, and he's sick of waiting, he's sick of being scared, he's sick of worrying about what this might mean or what he might feel or where it might go. the table between them is in the way, and derek gets frustrated enough to break the kiss and move it, toppling it over to join the discarded chessboard. the soda cans slide off and spill onto the carpet, the pizza box gets crushed underneath the table's side, but derek either doesn't notice or doesn't care.
derek closes the distance between him and stiles, moving forward on his knees. he puts his hands to stiles, one on his neck, one on his shoulder, and he bends down for another kiss. he leans in close, hovers his lips over stiles', and then - and then he stops. his chest clenches, and he worries that this is too much, too fast, but - but he can't have imagined that stiles wants this. stiles climbed those stairs, just for him. all they've wanted for a full fucking week now is to see each other, and he has to be right about this. he has to be right about this. ]
I...
[ he stops, and he hesitates, and he looks into stiles' eyes. he wishes his own were half as beautiful. that light amber, catching the light. those long lashes, framed by pale skin. derek's always liked brown eyes. ]
I can... you-- you deserve so much more than a kiss. You're-- so much.
[ he wants stiles to feel good. he wants stiles to feel loved, though he doesn't connect the word to his feeling when it hits him as hard as it does. stiles makes derek feel cared for and attended to and wanted, stiles makes derek feel like there's more to him than just a scared, angry wolf hidden behind slabs of muscle and a skin that was toughened against his will, more than the bullet wounds and the smell of ash and the grief. stiles makes derek feel like he matters. derek needs to be absolutely, absolutely sure that stiles knows he matters to derek, too.
but he's not good with words. not like this. it's always such a struggle for derek to communicate his feelings, when in the back of his mind there's always a voice telling him to stop and stay silent. he's never been able to filter honesty from self-deprecation, he's never been able to figure out which thoughts were real and which came from anxiety and trauma and inward hate. he's trying hard to get past that. he's always trying hard to get past that, with stiles. ]
Let me-- let me give you...
[ derek's hand slips down stiles' neck, down the front of his hoodie, settling just beneath his stomach. he doesn't ask for permission, when he starts to unthread the cord of stiles' sweatpants, but even like this, forceful and sturdy and broad, leaning down from a higher height, he's not... intimidating. he's not trying to be, at least. it would be easy for stiles to ask him to stop. one stray touch to his bicep and derek'll understand.
but he thinks he's reading this right, and he thinks that even if he doesn't know how to speak up, sometimes, stiles knows him well enough to fill in the blanks. he trusts stiles to understand what he's trying to say, or at least the vague feelings behind each fragmented false-start of a sentence. derek might be falling for stiles, and he wants to be good for him, he wants to be enough. he wants to show stiles how much he cares about him, how much he appreciates him, and he doesn't think the world has ever just given stiles the chance to - feel that kind of admiration. that blind, loving affection from someone who just wants him to feel good. derek doesn't know if stiles has ever felt... acknowledged. if he hasn't - he will tonight.
after undoing the knot on stiles' sweats, derek hesitates, looking at stiles' lips. carefully, he leans forward again, stopping and starting before they finally connect. he kisses him again, and it's-- it's soft, this time. carefully measured, with eyes half-open and breath painfully taut in derek's lungs. he doesn't break away until he needs to breathe so bad that his eyes are stinging, but he hopes that-- that that kiss communicated, maybe, that this isn't just lust, this is-- the opposite. derek's a little desperate, when he finds his voice, punctuating each word with a steady, calm insistence. ]
Let me... do more... for you.
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stiles slides his eyes closed and he breathes out though his nose and he presses the softest, appreciative whimper into derek's mouth, holding himself up on one hand and grabbing at the collar of derek's shirt with his other so derek won't pull away. but derek pulls away anyway, and stiles worries for a second that maybe he should't have tried to hold derek there, maybe that was a bad move, maybe that's why derek is — angry? derek shoves the table aside and sends everything on top of it toppling over with it and it doesn't scare stiles, but it does make him second-guess this for half of a second.
and then it clicks. derek isn't angry, not at him, anyway, he just — he wants to be closer to stiles and he wants to be closer as quickly as possible and the table is just a victim of derek's impatience. to get to stiles. instead of getting up and walking around the table, derek literally picked it up and pushed it over to cut out those few seconds of separation and stiles is - he's immediately turned on, and a little flustered because no one's ever - he's never had anybody feel that strongly about being separated from him that they would destroy anything in their way to get to him, not that he can ever recall.
derek moves in and he kneels over stiles and he puts his hands on him and he leans in, and stiles sits up. he stretches his body upward to meet him, but derek stops just out of reach. stiles tries to close the space, tries to sit up a little more, but it occurs to him that there's probably a reason for this. he wets his lips and he gently furrows his eyebrows, lifting his hand to touch his fingers to the back of one of derek's wrists, silently asking if something's wrong, if everything's okay. derek starts to speak, and then he stops, but stiles just makes sure he keeps looking at him. he makes sure he holds that eye contact, tries to to convey - comfort and security and trust. whatever it is, derek can trust him.
you deserve so much more [ ... ] you're-- so much.
his expression softens slowly, his eyebrows relaxing, smoothing out. stiles' chest feels a little tight all of a sudden. he closes his mouth and he swallows, and he stares up at derek in silence, his eyes shifting back and forth between derek's like he's reading a deeper meaning behind them. like he understands what derek is trying to say to him, even if he doesn't understand why.
nobody has ever really stopped to tell stiles that he deserves more, that he deserves better. he's never had anyone look at him the way derek is looking at him, he's never stared back at anyone and felt seen, the way he does right now. stiles doesn't think he deserves the world - he'd never be so conceited to believe anything so ridiculous - but there have been so many times where stiles has felt - invisible, or underappreciated, or overlooked. like he's less.
he doesn't feel like that right now.
stiles breathes in deep ask derek's hand drifts down his chest. he sucks in his stomach, his breath catching for a moment in his lungs, eyes watching derek's fingers as they pull at the drawstrings at the front of his sweatpants. derek towers over him on his knees, but it doesn't make him feel small the way it probably should. he just feels this swell in his chest, this pulsing burst of affection.
he doesn't reach to stop him even as his hands still, but he does reach out to rest his fingers against the side of derek's throat, thumb smoothing a gentle line across his adam's apple, and when derek leans down, when derek kisses him, a stark contrast from sharp and bruising kiss this all started with in that it's soft and it's slow and it's gentle - stiles understands.
derek pulls away from him, but stiles keeps his hand on his neck to keep him close, and as soon as derek's lips are gone he licks his own. he presses his forehead against derek's and he feels this rush of happiness in his veins, and he smiles. he smiles, and it's a little shy, and the breath that rushes out of him is soft, sounds like it could be a laugh. stiles nods, nose bumping against derek's. he doesn't know, specifically, what it is derek wants to do for him - he assumes, by the tug at the cord of his sweatpants, that derek is about to give him the best handjob of his life - but whatever it is, whatever derek wants to do, stiles wants it. his quiet little smile widens into something brighter, something sharp and teasing. ]
I have never loved the game of chess more than I do right now.
[ of course he has to say something a little stupid, a little shitty, a little - honest, if you squint. he presses his lips together, and he collects himself, reels himself in before he does something dumb to piss derek off, and he nods again. ]
Sorry. Sorry - yeah, yes. Please. Whatever - whatever you want.
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one last pull, and the thread on stiles' sweatpants comes completely undone. derek's expression slips, just a little, just enough to make him look awed less by stiles himself and more by what he's about to do. it was just... instinct, that got him to this point, with his knees sore against the carpet and his heart a jackhammer against his ribcage. it's gotta be courage that gets him the rest of the way.
he's about to tug stiles' sweatpants down when he looks back up and sees stiles' expression. the bratty little smirk, the glint in his eyes. he wants to reel himself in before he pisses derek off, but, well. ]
Shut up.
[ that doesn't happen. well, derek pretends that doesn't happen, at least. he sounds annoyed, but he's not, not really, and that's actually kind of obvious, try as he might to pretend otherwise. when derek rolls his eyes, he makes absolutely sure to shake his head at the same time, trying to compensate for the stupid smile that creeps into his expression. when he laughs, he tries to make it a snort, like he's scoffing and judgmental and frustrated, and that works, at first, but then he laughs again, clear as a bell, ruining the attempt. fucking stiles. fucking stiles.
truthfully, though? this is better. this helps. it was adrenaline and a fresh surge of fear that had derek panic about losing stiles, and that same impulse was what pushed him to corner stiles against the foot of the sofa, the cream-colored carpets well and truly fucked by soda by now. but derek doesn't want this to be... desperate. he wants this to be safe, he wants this to be happy, he wants this to be warm. he wants stiles to feel relaxed and loved and wanted just as he is, without heightened emotions playing too much of a role in this, and, well.
the two of them are assholes to each other. playfully. it hits derek, suddenly, that that's just how they flirt. the bullying, the namecalling. that was flirting. does stiles realize that? he'll have to ask. one day.
so derek keeps the act going. he huffs through his nose, he puts his hand on stiles' chest, and he pushes him back against the bottom of the couch, forcing him to lean back. he dips down and goes straight for his neck, swiping his tongue down the length of it and gently applying pressure to the first pressure point he finds. there's no subtlety, when he slowly reaches his hand into stiles' sweatpants, past his boxers, and straight for his cock. he squeezes, just lightly, coaxing him to a full hardness, and then - he moves.
derek moves until he's practically on all fours, his head between stiles' legs. he keeps eye contact as he lowers himself down, even as he tugs stiles' sweats and underwear down, exposing his cock to the cool afternoon air and tucking his waistbands beneath his balls. he's focused on stiles' expression, because he wants to see it change when he realizes what derek's about to do for him, but derek looks away before he really gets the chance to see the shift. he drops his eyes to stiles' dick, and he's... just...
he's stunned, for a second. he stares, but he doesn't let himself stare for too long, because he thinks stiles might get self-conscious, if he does. it's just - seeing stiles for the first time like this? up close, hard, all for him? it's... ]
Holy fuck.
[ a lot. derek swallows, wetting his lips, and he's fucking-- needy, suddenly. his chest feels tight and his cheeks get red and his mouth is actually watering, which he thinks must be pretty god damn pathetic. he has to swallow a few times, just to ground himself, and he feels like he's never done this before, when he finally wraps his hand around the base of stiles' cock, giving it a gentle squeeze. he's never... he hasn't ever felt like this. this consumed by want, for someone. this intensely aroused.
he takes another few breaths, and it hits him, again, that smiles smells like him. the soap, the shampoo. he smells like derek. he smells like he's derek's, like he's already been marked. jesus, he's not going to be able to get through this. derek looks up at stiles, and it takes a few tries for him to talk, just because his brain needs some time to remember how his mouth works. he laughs, again, but it's breathless and sorta slutty and-- really, really fucking horny. ]
You're... not going to get all self-conscious and contrary if I tell you that you've got a nice dick, right? I'm not going to have to deal with you whining and saying something annoying like -
[ he imitates stiles' voice, all high pitched and whiny - ] Nooo, my dick's stuuupid, I don't have a nice diiiick, don't saaay thaaaat - [ - and it's not an accurate imitation, but, still - ]
- or something, are you?
[ he starts to stroke stiles' dick, long and slow, just one firm, squeezing tug. derek... doesn't think he can wait for this much longer, and it's there in his voice, try as he might to sound normal. he arches his back a little, spreads his knees, still on all fours. he's-- uncomfortable, with his cock so tight and confined in his own pants. he clears his throat, keeps trying to talk, holding eye contact. ]
Because I'll kick you out with your sweats around your ankles if you pull that shit on me. I'm not kidding.
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he's still laughing to himself under his breath when derek plants his hand up against his chest and pushes him backwards. stiles goes easily, lets himself be tilted back with zero resistance, and when his shoulders thump against the bottom of the couch, it knocks the breath out of him a little. his smile fades slightly, not because he feels any less happy, but because he's sensing a shift in the atmosphere, and he's curious and - really horny. like, really unexpectedly turned on.
derek goes for his neck and stiles instinctively tilts his head back, lets the back of his skull rest against the top of the couch cushion behind him. he can't help the soft sigh of a sound that slips out as derek gently closes his mouth over his pulse and sucks, fingers flexing aimlessly by his thighs. he wants to put his hands on derek, wants to feel his skin warm under his hands, the solid muscle.
it doesn't take a lot from derek to get him fully erect. he's practically already there when derek sinks his hand past the waistband of his sweats and closes his hand around his cock, strokes him slowly. stiles lifts his head back up and tilts his chin forward, looks down to watch. the last time derek had his hand on stiles' dick it was dark and the space was close and tight, but he wants to see what it looks like, derek's hand curled tight just underneath the crown, but his sweats are still in the way—
and derek is moving. derek moves, and he dips his head in low between stiles lazily-parted thighs and he keeps his eyes on stiles' while he does it. stiles tenses immediately, but it's not a bad thing. his cock flexes in derek's grip and his lips part and his pupils dilate minutely, and stiles doesn't want to assume, but he feels like this is not something that's very easy to misinterpret. he wets his lips and he closes his mouth and he swallows hard. fuck. fuck, he's never— god. his dick is out and practically in derek's face and derek is staring at it and stiles doesn't know what to make of it. he starts to feel nervous, a little self-conscious because derek's not saying anything. until he does.
stiles' toes flex and he feels this weird wave of something close to pride roll through him, and he watches as derek swallows and as his face flushes red, he watches as he wets his lips and stiles— stiles really hopes this is going to turn out to be more than the handjob he originally thought he was about to get from derek - which would have been fine, too, don't get him wrong, but now he can't stop thinking about what it would feel like to slide his cock into derek's mouth.
stiles whimpers. it's just a tiny, swallowed sound, but he has to close his eyes for a second. he brings one of his hands up and he bumps the back of his fingers against the edge of his own jaw, like he doesn't even know what to do with his hands. derek's voice is - fuck, it's something else right now. it's a little deeper, smooth and rough at the same time and stiles doesn't realize it, but he starts to tighten the muscles in his lower back very slowly, arching it in, pushing his cock into derek's hand, pushing it closer to derek's mouth.
and then derek imitates him and his voice goes from attractive as fuck to annoying as hell. stiles closes his eyes in the slowest blink just to keep from rolling them instead, and without stopping to think about it, he takes his hand away from his own face and he reaches out and he slides his palm underneath derek's chin, fingers and thumb on either side of his jaw, and he lifts his head to make derek look at him.
it's hard to keep his voice steady when derek starts to stroke his cock, and it's hard to stay focused with his mouth so close to his dick, with his knees spread and his back arched. it's hard to say anything at all with derek looking up at him from between his legs, but damn it, he's going to try and he's going to nail this.
with much more confidence than he's actually feeling, stiles tilts his head and he leans in close, and it's slightly awkward and a little bit of a strain because he has to practically fold himself over, but stiles does it anyway, lifting derek chin a little bit more to lessen the reach. he tilts his face in close, and he purposely touches his thumb to derek's lower lip. just for a second, very light, and he kisses derek, soft and easy and appreciative of his subtle ("subtle") praise. it's just a brief brush of their lips, but stiles stays close when he parts from him. ]
I'd say thank you, actually. [ his heart's a little quick, but it's consistent, there's no skip. stiles wets his lips, sits back a little and lets his hand drift from under derek's chin, down the side of his neck. he doesn't know why, but he really wants to push his fingers through derek's hair - so he does. he slides his fingers through the dark strands and he lets his hand drift down the back of his neck. ] Now can you just - shut up and do something? Please?
[ he means to sound sarcastic and teasing, but he misses his mark by a mile because he just sounds soft and fond and quietly desperate, quietly needy instead. ]
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it's all very charismatic, honestly, and derek, despite his overall confidence and experience when it comes to sex, feels just a tiny bit rattled in the wake of it. when stiles stays close, when stiles touches his hair, when stiles says he'd fucking thank him instead of playing along and slapping at derek and calling him names, derek's expression is equal parts confused, pleased and impressed.
he, uh. he didn't think stiles had it in him. to surprise him, like this. to sound so charming, so in control. to be so fucking disarming. so - well. hot? derek thinks he's really, really hot, suddenly, and he actually has to scramble for something to say, caught off guard by how everything stiles is doing bolts straight to his dick. it's very, very rare for him to be flustered, and derek's not going to admit that that's what this feeling is, but he's obviously kind of embarrassed and maybe even a little shy as he tries to think of a response. stiles is gonna have to be pretty fucking lucky to ever see derek this thrown again. ]
Well - guess you're gonna be thanking me for a few things, then.
[ so, yeah. totally nailed that interchange, he thinks, nodding and trying to look very, very serious. he nods again, twists his very serious smile to the side like he's trying to very seriously hide it, and then very seriously shakes his head like he's embarrassed for thinking he could pull that off. god, okay. focus.
a part of derek feels as if he's slipping. the determination that got him to this point wavers like the tide, sometimes there, sometimes not. stiles is pressed up against the couch and every part of derek still knows in his heart of hearts that this is going to be good. he knows stiles is going to enjoy this, and he knows that he himself is going to enjoy giving him this - but now that he's at the eleventh hour, now that his body isn't soaked with adrenaline from table-flipping and chest-shoving, he's...
not anxious. something close to anxious. in the end, he's just gotta go for it, treat this like it's no big deal. he's gotta think of this as just one friend trying to take care of another, even if he knows that's not what they are. friends don't look at each other the way that stiles looks at derek, and friends don't get overwhelmed by a crashing tidal wave of hope and fear and longing the way that derek was fifteen fucking seconds ago. friends don't shove tables to the ground because it shaves three seconds off of being able to shove their tongue down their homie's throat. they stopped being friends a long time ago.
derek has to go for it. he has to go for it, both for the sake of his nerve and so he doesn't give stiles a fucking hernia from having to wait any longer.
crawling back down, derek stretches out over the carpet again when he drops between stiles' thighs. he's not going to waste time here with exploratory touches, he can't just keep staring. he has to go for it. he has. to just. do it.
one breath. one breath is all he takes to steel himself, and then he seals the very tip of stiles' cock between his lips. he sucks, just lightly, as he swipes the end of his tongue over the slit. he minds his teeth, and he swirls his tongue around the head until it's shiny with his spit, and he adds just a bit more suction, just enough to pull focus. derek wraps one hand around stiles' shaft and slowly starts to pump, using the other to roll stiles' balls between his fingers, gently massaging them, and he's already feeling more confident, already feeling more ready. more addicted. he likes this.
he fucking loves this.
he can feel the heat of stiles' dick now more than he did at the barracks. with his powers back, he can better sense his arousal, smell the blood and the lust crashing through his system. it makes his mouth water, which is conducive, to what they're doing, he guesses, and he closes his eyes to really focus. he thinks of the way stiles' hand felt on his chin, on his neck, in his hair, and he wants that again. his heart is a fucking mess, pumping loud enough to beat in his ears, and he loses a lot of shame, a lot of hesitation, the more this goes on. he stops trying to stay quiet. he doesn't mind if stiles hears the way his breathing comes staggered and needy, every time he pulls back to flood his lungs with air. he doesn't mind if stiles notices the way he rumbles in the back of his throat, deep and pleased and almost canine, every time stiles gives him a drop of pre to taste.
derek slips down lower, taking more of stiles in, taking him down inch by inch until he feels like he might gag. he squeezes his hand down stiles' cock as he goes, so that stiles is always feeling something - the soft, tight grip of his fingers, or the hot, wet suction of his mouth. derek squeezes his fist around the base of stiles' cock and he hums, appreciatively, like he's the one here who should be grateful, and if he drools a little from the corner of his mouth, he's far too engaged in what he's doing to care.
he slowly pulls back, keeping a long, dragging suction as he goes, his cheeks hollowed tight from the pressure of it. he lifts his lips from stiles' cock with a hard pop, and he gives himself a second to just collect himself. he looks up at stiles, and derek isn't smiling, not anymore. he's just - hazy, like he barely even notices stiles is there. he jerks stiles off, his hand wet and noisy, and his lips are red and glossy from precum and spit. he doesn't really think, when he swipes his tongue over his bottom lip to get it dry. to really taste stiles, already missing him. ]
You doing okay?
[ his voice is sort of raspy, but he clears his throat and fixes it, looking sharper now. he's enjoying himself, and he's pretty fucking positive that stiles is enjoying himself, too, but the last thing derek wants to do is overwhelm him. he only wanted a kiss, after all. ]
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