Work Text:
“Damnit, Stiles, I don’t want to hear another word out of you,” the sheriff raises his voice sternly, “You’re grounded. Give me your phone, computer, and keys.”
Stiles stares open-mouthed at his father, his own rage and disbelief apparent on his face. He doesn’t even try to hide it. His brows tip inward in anger.
“I’m seventeen, Dad, I’m not a fucking kid—”
“Language—”
“The pack needed me, something came up during the night and I couldn’t just sit here, I had to help them—”
“They can go without you for one night—”
“But what if they couldn’t! I’m the only human in the pack, Dad, they needed me—”
“What you did was dangerous, especially after I already told you you’re not allowed out of the house after eleven—”
“I don’t care, this was life or death—”
“Enough, Stiles,” John yells. He never yells at Stiles. “Phone, computer, keys, now.”
There’s nothing Stiles can do but obey. He can’t disrespect his dad any more than he already has, first by blatantly disregarding his rules, then by swearing and arguing at him. He has no choice.
Stiles is seething too much to say anything else. He shoves a shaking hand into his pocket and yanks out his phone, turning it off completely before his dad can look at it. It’s password protected, so if he tries to turn it on again, he’ll have to put in the password, and he doesn’t know Derek’s birthday. Only Stiles does.
He grabs his laptop off his desk, hoping the battery will die before his dad opens it. There’s no way he can turn it off right now; he’d have to open his laptop first, and he can’t get away with that with his dad right here. He hopes his porn stash will be enough of a distraction that John won’t go digging any more and find anything else incriminating.
At least he already knows about the supernatural, but it didn’t seem to help as much as he thought he would. Curfew, really? At Stiles’ age? With all he’d been through?
“Thank you,” his dad says with forced calm and politeness, as Stiles hands him his electronics. He thinks he’s in the clear, when John adds, “And your keys.”
Stiles swears in his head, digging out his keys and shoving them into the sheriff’s hand without looking. He’s so angry his eyes are watering.
“Try to get some sleep, son,” John finishes grimly, a bit sympathetically, before closing the door on his way out.
Stiles doesn’t respond.
Once the door is shut, he lurches over to his bed and silently hits his pillow with a fist, yelling invisibly into the air, no noise coming out. Damnit, he needs his phone, needed to check on the pack, on Derek, to make sure they were all right. He had had to rush back home before his dad woke up, and couldn’t stay at the fight long enough to soothe everyone’s wounds. They’re probably texting and calling him now, wondering why he isn’t answering.
“Fuck,” Stiles swears to himself under his breath. “Fuck fuck fuck.”
It’s not like there’s anything horrible on his electronics, and he can explain most of what’s on there, anyway, but they’re his. The keys to his jeep, his beloved car — it’s all he has. There’s something about his autonomy being taken away along with his things that makes him feel a little like he can’t breathe.
His palms are getting sweaty, and his chest is tight at the thought of not being able to contact his pack. What if there’s another emergency? What if someone needs him but doesn’t have a way to reach him?
He’s just about to go beg his dad for at least his phone back, or sneak out of the house again and walk to the store to buy a burner phone, when the window opens suddenly.
“Derek,” Stiles whispers, almost collapsing with relief.
The wolf climbs in through the window, leftover blood staining his skin and clothes. His black hair is messy and there are shadows under his eyes.
“Hey,” he says quietly, coming close to Stiles and meeting his gaze. “Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
“Dad took it away,” Stiles mutters angrily, and Derek nods in understanding.
“You okay?” he asks, eyes empathetic. He reaches for Stiles’ arm and tugs him closer. Stiles goes easily, melting into Derek’s arms and wrapping his own arms around the wolf.
“Better now,” comes his easy response. He heaves a sigh and buries his head in Derek’s neck. He smells like sweat, and a little like blood, but still Derek underneath, something earthy and comforting.
Derek’s palms are wide and warm on Stiles’ back, and he can feel Stiles unraveling in his grasp, sinking against him and relaxing a bit at last.
“It’s temporary,” Derek murmurs into his ear. They can’t risk the sheriff overhearing, can’t get Stiles in any more trouble. Stiles nods against his neck.
“How ‘bout you?” he finally whispers after another moment of calm silence. He burrows closer when he thinks about the battle they’d just escaped from.
Derek makes a questioning noise against the boy’s hair.
“Are you okay?” Stiles clarifies. His own clothes are torn and muddy, and Derek’s are not looking much cleaner.
“Better now,” Derek says with a smirk in his voice, and Stiles’ own mouth can’t help but tip up as well against Derek’s skin.
“Shut up,” he murmurs, his scent lightening up at last, heavy scents of anger and angst melting away slowly.
“I believe that’s my line,” Derek grins. Stiles laughs against his neck and doesn’t move his arms from around the wolf.
Little by little, now, things don’t feel quite so bad, anymore.
✴︎
Derek stomps up the metaphorical fifteen hundred steps to the loft, bags of groceries in his hands. The store had been loud, crowded, and overwhelming, the total ringing up wrong, Erica texting him at the last second to buy her tampons and ice cream, and some of the eggs cracked on the way out to the car.
It’s safe to say Derek’s not having a very good day.
He’s looking forward to getting home and collapsing on the couch, maybe in bed if he allows himself. Picking up a book or turning on some mindless TV. Maybe treating himself to a hot chocolate, if no one else is around to make fun of him for it.
If he hadn’t taken too long at the store, perhaps Stiles will still be at the loft. When he was leaving, the boy was doing his homework before he had to go home and make dinner. If Derek’s not too late—
“Derek!” Erica cries as he shoves the loft door open with his shoulder, both arms laden with groceries. “Did you get the one with peanut butter cups?”
“I got whatever you told me to get,” Derek grumbles, heading straight for the kitchen. It’s hard work being the alpha.
“Goody!” she cheers from the other room. “Can you bring me some?”
His mother never had a chance to tell him how tiring the alpha business would be, but he’s guessing her responsibilities weren’t exactly like this.
Wordlessly, Derek grabs a spoon from the drawer and fishes the melting tub of ice cream out of a bag. He walks into the main room, seeking out Erica, when he stops in his tracks.
She’s in his bed, in her pajamas, hair up and lounging under the covers. Boyd is on the couch reaching a magazine, and Isaac’s nowhere to be found.
All of this would usually be fine and normal, except — she’s in his bed.
No one’s allowed in Derek’s bed except for Derek.
Okay, there’s— there’s an exception, sometimes. Stiles is the exception.
Stiles, who did his homework earlier in the very same spot Erica’s hogging now. She probably thought it was okay, seeing the boy sit there so easily before, with no scolding from Derek.
Derek forces himself to take a deep breath, closing his eyes. It’s not just that someone else is in his bed, even if it’s pack. And it’s not that Erica is now covering up Stiles’ scent, the one that Derek was secretly so happy to have there, right next to his own, practically intertwined. He certainly wasn’t looking forward to getting back into bed just so he could keep smelling that same intoxicating cinnamon maple scent. Definitely not.
“Can you— can you move, please,” Derek grumbles in the most polite way he knows how. It comes out sounding gruff and frustrated, but it does the job. Erica scrambles out of bed immediately, her eyes widening and tearing up. Derek almost regrets his words, but he regrets Stiles’ scent being covered up even more.
“Sorry, Alpha,” Erica whimpers, sniffing as she moves forward, still eyeing the ice cream. Derek tells himself it’s just the hormones. He didn’t intend to be mean, really.
“It’s fine,” he says, soothing a palm gently down the nape of her neck for a second, showing her he’s not mad at her. He’s just having a day.
“Do you want some ice cream?” she offers as he extends the tub to her along with the spoon.
Derek shakes his head and goes into the bathroom, planning to take a shower instead. He’s still annoyed and his bed isn’t very appealing anymore.
He’s just about to close the bathroom door when he hears the loft door slide open behind him.
“Guess who’s bringing the party!” Stiles hollers with a grin apparent in his voice.
Oh no, please god no, not a party.
Derek’s about to growl, his day only getting worse, when he turns around and is only met with the sight of Stiles alone.
What party?
“It’s me, I’m the party!” Stiles explains with a dorky, goofy sideways smile. “We finished dinner early, and I thought you could use some help making dinner as well.”
It seems the loft door had opened, and in walked a literal angel in Stiles’ clothing.
“Stiles,” Derek nearly sighs out in relief. He had been planning to just order pizza, not wanting to cook after the day he’d had, but fuck, the groceries, he’d forgotten to put those away as well—
“You need some help with those, big guy?” Stiles guesses, following Derek into the kitchen.
Derek can only nod and continue to look a bit like a cat with all its fur standing straight up. Metaphorically, of course. Derek smoothes down his hair, just in case.
“Please,” he nearly begs, to Stiles’ patient smile. Stiles extends a hand easily, looking like he’s reaching for the grocery bags, when his palm finds Derek’s nape instead.
Just like Derek’s movement to Erica, the gentle warmth and pressure on the back of his neck is soothing like nothing else. Stiles is close by him now, and Derek can smell that wonderful cinnamon maple scent, for his nose only.
Then Stiles leans forward and rests his forehead against Derek’s.
“You doin’ okay, wolfy?” Stiles whispers just to Derek. The wolf can feel his shoulders start to drop of their own accord, feel his nape heat up where Stiles’ is touching him. He gives a jerky nod and meets Stiles’ eyes from centimeters away, who’s looking straight through him like he understands everything Derek’s feeling without being told. He probably does.
Derek reaches out and squeezes Stiles’ waist with his own large palm, as a thank you. He averts his eyes now, pulling back a bit at last with a sigh, letting go of his previous tension. With his lowered gaze he therefore misses the subtle blush rising on Stiles’ cheeks.
Stiles hears the thanks without it being spoken. He reluctantly lets go of Derek’s neck after tightening his grip in solace, just for a second.
“Anytime.”
✴︎
“Thanks for picking me up,” Stiles says gratefully as he stuffs his overfilled suitcase into Derek’s trunk. “The flight was hell, in case you were wondering. There was a baby on the plane, and I think I can actually still hear the ringing in my ears. The whole place smelled like bologna and I kind of wanted to gag the whole time, but see, if I opened my mouth, it would let more of the smell in, and then I’d taste it, so—”
“Welcome home, Stiles,” Derek breaks in patiently, opening the passenger door for his packmate.
“Right. Welcome home. Uh, to me. Thanks,” Stiles rambles gracefully, sliding into the seat with a relieved sigh. “I just feel disgusting, and like I left something behind— shit, where’s my phone?—”
“It’s in your pocket,” Derek says calmly, motioning to the rectangle sticking out of Stiles jeans.
“Thanks,” Stiles says again, patting his pocket. “I fucking hate airplanes, you know that? I hate ‘em.”
“I know, Stiles,” Derek smiles fondly as he pulls out of the cramped parking space.
Stiles won’t stop talking, won’t stop jittering his leg up and down, twitching and fidgeting and drumming his fingers against his leg. It’s a bit annoying, really, but Derek knows how the boy feels. He himself doesn’t do any better on airplanes.
It’s when they’re only halfway home that it gets to be too much.
Stiles keeps switching the radio stations constantly, and Derek was fine with Don’t Stop Believin’, really, even if it wasn’t his first choice. Now some song by a girl with a twangy voice is playing, and Derek might hate country music even more than airplanes. And that’s saying something.
“Stiles,” he nearly growls, tempted to just shut off the radio entirely.
“Sorry,” Stiles apologizes, sinking back into his seat, looking out the window now after he switches the song one more time to something less painful to both their ears. Derek’s just about to relax at the relief, when Stiles starts fidgeting again out of the corner of his eye.
“Stiles!” he all but snaps, taking one hand off the wheel and covering Stiles’ moving fingers with it. Desperate measures, and all that.
That shuts Stiles up, making him still immediately. Neither man moves for a moment, until Stiles tentatively, carefully, flips his hand and interlaces his cold fingers with Derek’s. Derek can hear Stiles’ heart slow down minutely, his scent warming quickly as the wolf squeezes his hand briefly.
Stiles doesn’t say a word the rest of the drive to his house, but his scent stays happy and content, and his body rests calmly against the leather seat at last. His eyes flutter a bit like he’s trying to fight off sleep.
He doesn’t move his hand away until he’s right outside his house, the other hand on the car door handle. He squeezes Derek’s palm once more in thanks, gives a quick grin, and shuffles away. Derek gives a tiny pleased smirk of his own.
✴︎
It’s another shopping day. They’re in Costco of all places, the pack following Derek around like small children, pointing at nearly everything and begging him to buy it. Well, mostly Erica is. Boyd is following calmly behind them, while Isaac is scrolling through his phone and occasionally pointing things out. Stiles is at Derek’s elbow, grabbing things here and there, gossiping with Erica every so often.
It’s when Derek throws a large blue bag of chocolate quinoa snacks into the cart that everyone grumbles.
“Derek, come on, that’s disgusting,” Erica whines, and Stiles snickers beside her.
“It’s healthy,” Derek explains. “You don’t have to eat them if you don’t want to.”
If he hadn’t already decided to never have kids, this experience confirms it.
“Can’t we get Kit Kats or something instead? I haven’t had Kit Kats in forever.”
“Kit Kats are gross,” Isaac drones from behind them, still staring down at his phone. And really, why did Derek think it was a good idea to turn a bunch of teenagers, again?
“Hey, all chocolate is good chocolate,” Stiles says, trying to keep the peace, before Erica disagrees.
“That is so not true!” she exclaims, pouting. “Dark chocolate is nasty. Derek eats baking chocolate, that has like no sugar, can you believe it? I thought you said you weren’t vegan,” she directs at her alpha. No respect for him, seriously.
Derek only growls lowly, and the little old sampling lady beside him with a net on her head and plastic gloves jumps about a foot in the air. Derek stares at her for a second longer, just to make sure she isn’t actually going to have a heart attack.
Erica sighs, not having won this argument, and drops sullenly back with Boyd, looping her arm around his. Derek doesn’t care to hear what they’re talking about.
“I feel like I’m saying this a lot these days, but you okay, big guy?” Stiles whispers just to Derek, pressing against his hip where they’ve stopped at a giant ramen noodle display.
Derek nods, not meeting his eyes. “It’s just — a lot. I hate Costco,” he sulks. “There’s too many people. Everything smells.”
“And the samples are too small, right?” Stiles jumps in. “Like how am I supposed to know if I wanna buy a twenty-four pack of energy drinks based off one tiny sip?”
“I don’t think you should be buying any energy drinks,” Derek mutters under his breath, but somehow Stiles still hears.
“Come on, they don’t even affect me,” Stiles returns, a bit of a whine sneaking into his voice. He’s been spending too much time with Erica. “It’s the ADHD, y’know?”
“Something’s affecting you,” Derek mumbles, and meets Stiles’ eyes long enough to see a grin spreading on the boy’s face.
“Come here, grumpypants,” Stiles says, weaving a wiry arm around Derek’s waist and leaning against him as Derek continues to push the cart with one hand, the other wrapping around Stiles automatically.
“Ooh, fancy olives! I want fancy olives!” Stiles points to a massive jar of “fancy olives,” green and jumbo-sized. Or maybe that’s regular size, at Costco.
So Derek picks up the jar of fancy olives with a sigh, and puts it in the nearly-overflowing cart. He doesn’t miss the stroke of Stiles’ thumb against his hip, or the way the boy tips his head against Derek’s shoulder for a few moments. They’re nestled together, and Stiles is warm for once, the soft, worn fabric of his flannel comforting against Derek’s skin. Or maybe the comfort comes from Stiles himself.
“You two make a lovely couple,” another sampler lady calls to them as they pass her by. Stiles beams and doesn’t correct her, scooping up a tiny sample of a cut-up piece of chicken nugget in a small white paper cup. He grabs one for Derek as well, grinning at him.
“Cheers!” he says before he digs into his favorite food. Derek forgets to eat his entirely, stuck in place, watching Stiles’ happy face as he closes his eyes in pleasure. He wordlessly holds his tiny cup out to Stiles when Stiles’ amber orbs open again, and didn’t know that Stiles’ beam could get any wider, as Stiles takes the cup gratefully.
Their fingers brush together, and Derek doesn’t shiver, and there most certainly aren’t sparks. It’s just cold in Costco. Everyone knows that.
✴︎
“I’m here for Stiles Stilinski,” Derek says urgently at the ER desk.
“Der, over here,” Stiles calls weakly from a few feet over. He’s curled into himself on a hard-looking chair, facing away from the entrance, which explains why Derek didn’t see him when he walked in.
The wolf leaves the desk immediately and goes to Stiles, crouching down on the floor and bringing a hand up to cup the boy’s face. Stiles leans into Derek’s palm, looking on the verge of tears from the relief of his touch.
“Did you drive here yourself?” Derek murmurs softly, stroking Stiles’ cheek with his thumb. Stiles’ own fingers loop around Derek’s wrist to keep him where he is.
“Yeah,” he says, voice rough and low. “Dad was working in the next city over. Scott didn’t pick up. It was you I wanted anyway.”
Derek doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he sighs, climbing into the seat next to Stiles instead, putting a heavy arm around his shoulders. Stiles sinks into Derek’s warm body, and it’s only a bit uncomfortable with the arms of the chairs in between them. The boy’s head falls onto his shoulder and Stiles hides his face from the rest of the leering waiting room.
“Are they gonna see you soon?” Derek asks after a moment, stroking Stiles’ back in what he hopes is a soothing manner. Stiles is wriggling now, trying to get as close to Derek as possible without actually climbing over the seats into his lap.
“They said any minute,” Stiles says quietly when he settles; too quietly.
“And how many minutes has it been?” Derek is almost afraid to ask.
“Fifty-six.”
Derek heaves another sigh, squeezing the boy closer to him before releasing him gently.
“Let me go talk to someone,” he decides, moving to get up, before Stiles hurriedly grabs his hand, pulling him back down in his weakened state. He’s clutching his stomach with the other hand, and his face is pale and sweaty when Derek turns to really look at him.
“Nonono, stay here, please,” Stiles nearly begs, pleading up at Derek with his sad eyes. “You can do the wolfy pain thing if you really need to, just— just don’t leave. Okay?”
It seems to have taken some effort for Stiles to get this out, either emotionally or physically, and he averts his eyes as his hand still fiddles with Derek’s, thumb rubbing back and forth. His fingers are freezing.
“Okay,” Derek agrees, too easily. The temptation to get help for Stiles is strong, and he likely could get somewhere with his general intimidating demeanor, but Stiles clearly needs him by his side right now, and who is he to deny him?
He sits back down heavily in the stiff chair, reluctantly letting go of Stiles’ hand to pull off his own leather jacket. He doesn’t care if it’s cliche — Stiles is cold and nearly shivering, clutching his stomach and looking miserable and in pain.
Derek lays the jacket over the boy, and its effect is like a weighted blanket. Stiles settles back in his chair immediately, bringing his legs up on the chair as well and resting his head on the armrest between him and Derek. He wants to put his head in Derek’s lap, but the armrests are getting in the way.
Derek rearranges the jacket slightly so one sleeve comes up to rest under his head on the armrest, blanketing his skull. He slides a hand through Stiles’ sweaty hair, scratching at his scalp lightly and pulling pain at the same time. He’s wearing a long sleeved shirt, so his wolfy actions remain undetected by others.
“Mmm, thanks, Sourwolf,” Stiles mumbles sleepily, calm for perhaps the first time in — well, at least fifty-six minutes, that’s for sure. He closes his eyes and reaches for Derek’s thigh, palm resting over it to anchor himself.
Derek does what he can to help, and prays the nurse calls Stiles’ name soon enough.
✴︎
+1
“Are you okay?” Scott yells to Stiles across the forest, moving closer to him now that the bad guy has been dealt with. Stiles is limping, holding his side, bleeding freely from multiple places on his body, but at least he’s alive.
“Fine,” Stiles grumbles, meeting up with Scott now. “Where’s Derek?” He’s out of breath, voice a little urgent.
“I dunno,” comes Scott’s reply, and Stiles wants to roll his eyes.
“What do you mean, you don’t know? Can’t you hear him? Smell him?” Stiles is in pain, and exhausted, and he’s just about had enough of Scott’s blatant disrespect and dislike of Derek right now.
“I guess so. He’s around here somewhere!” Scott says helpfully.
“Thanks, buddy,” Stiles mutters under his breath, patting Scott’s chest and turning to peer around the forest. It’s getting dark, and he just wants to find Derek already, make sure he’s okay so that they can go home.
But why hasn’t Derek come back yet?
He’s supposed to be here by now. They said they’d meet at this spot when they killed their respective trolls. What if the troll got to Derek first? Scott’s being utterly useless, and Stiles’ phone is shattered, so he can’t call Derek anyway. What if something happened?
“Derek?” he bellows into the too-quiet forest. “Derek!”
All that comes back to him is his own echo.
“I’m sure he’s fine!” Scott says enthusiastically. Stiles can’t even look at him right now.
He calls for Derek again, then once more, but there’s nothing.
“Come on, I’ll drive you home,” Scott offers, holding out his hand for the keys to the jeep.
But Stiles shakes his head. He’s not leaving without Derek.
He hobbles around from tree to tree, trying to go in the direction of Derek’s last location, but his side hurts and he thinks he might black out soon. Scott’s just standing behind him, watching, staring. Such a good True Alpha.
“Let’s go home, Stiles,” Scott urges again, irritation creeping into the edges of his voice now. Stiles knows the feeling.
He ignores Scott completely.
It’s another five minutes of calling and waiting and breathing, Stiles’ stress increasing and his chest tightening when there’s no sign of Derek. He’s just about to collapse on the forest floor out of pure exhaustion, tears making their way to his wide eyes, a strangled sob caught in his throat, when he sees him.
Derek comes limping towards Stiles, bloody, dirty, clothes in tatters. He looks as exhausted as Stiles feels, but Stiles has never been more relieved to see him.
“Derek,” he cries, meeting the wolf in the middle and throwing his weak arms around him. Derek catches him easily, closing his eyes and burying his nose in Stiles’ hair. They’re holding each other up now, Stiles hardly able to stand anymore.
Scott just hovers awkwardly by a tree and watches.
“Shh, I’m okay,” Derek soothes, clinging onto Stiles just as desperately as Stiles is clinging onto the wolf. Derek strokes down his back, up and down, broad, warm palm easing Stiles of the building adrenaline and fear of the last many minutes.
He didn’t know if he’d survive the battle himself, let alone see Derek again, and the emotions are all catching up to him.
“Where the hell were you,” Stiles almost sobs into Derek’s neck. There’s hardly a centimeter of space left between them.
“Doesn’t matter,” Derek mutters vaguely, not wanting to upset the boy any further. “I’m here now.”
It’s all so dramatic, but it’s them, it’s their stupid lives, and Stiles can’t do this anymore, can’t just sit back and pretend to only care about Derek as a friend, as pack, when the extent of his feelings go so much deeper.
He tips his head back, coming out of the safe haven of Derek’s neck, and finds his lips with his own.
Derek kisses back immediately, as if he’s been wanting to do this for years. His brows furrow with emotion and desperation as he kisses like Stiles is his entire world. Stiles holds Derek’s face gently in his hands, sliding his fingers into Derek’s hair and clinging on tight.
They don’t part for several moments, lips sliding together wetly and urgently. When they finally break away, Scott is nowhere to be seen, but neither man notices.
Stiles' heart is finally calming down, and he finds himself able to breathe a little easier, even after the intensity of their kiss. The person he loves most is here in his arms, safe, warm, alive. Stiles’ pain is nonexistent anymore, replaced by an overwhelming feeling of love and emotion, gratitude and security and affection.
“You’re — you’re my comfort person, you know that, right?” he whispers against Derek’s lips. He himself has to have noticed how much calmer he is when Derek’s around him, how much more settled and grounded he feels, softening immediately when the wolf is close.
Derek can only nod around the lump in his throat. He presses a kiss to Stiles’ cheek, still a little damp with blood, then another one to his jaw, and finally his neck. He hides his face there for a moment, just breathing Stiles in, body releasing itself of tension at last, hardly feeling his own pain anymore, either.
“You too,” he breathes out into Stiles’ skin. Stiles pets through his hair, cupping Derek to his neck like he’s something precious.
They stand together for far too long in the middle of the dark, cold forest, keeping each other warm, feeling calm and at peace and finding comfort in each other for hardly the first or last time. Their bodies melt into each other perfectly, limbs and muscle fitting together like puzzle pieces sliding together, like lock and key, like sun and moon.
Like Stiles and Derek.