Fic: Teen Wolf: state of readiness | NC17 | Derek/Stiles (5/10)
"I've never been so exhausted in my life," Derek moans from his sprawl on Stiles' bed.
"So why aren't you being exhausted at your house?" Stiles whines. "You've got a late-night session with Lydia tonight. You could be napping."
Stiles is making it a point to keep his back to Derek and stare at his computer. When Derek climbed through his window just after school and flopped backwards onto his bed, his shirt rode up and Stiles cannot look at that strip of skin right now. He has a chem exam tomorrow, for God's sake.
"Somebody might find me there," Derek mumbles forlornly.
"Somebody might find you here," Stiles retorts, spinning around in his desk chair to make his point. "On. My. Bed. Somebody with a month's supply of wolfsbane bullets and a gun to put them in."
"Your dad is working a double-shift, Stiles. He won't be home until tomorrow." Derek's got one arm thrown up over his face but there's a sliver of a smile that Stiles can see beneath it.
"I'm finding it a little uncomfortable that you know my dad's schedule," Stiles says primly.
"I don't know why. There's a copy of it hanging on your fridge next to the grocery list. You're out of milk, by the way. I couldn't find the dry erase marker."
Stiles opens his mouth, but closes it again without speaking.
"Besides, he told me himself," Derek adds, "right after he asked me if we were having sex."
Stiles feels all the blood drain from his head and he's immediately dizzy; Derek is right there, pushing his head forward and down to his knees.
"Deep breath," he says calmly.
"He-"
"Don't talk," Derek shushes him, rubbing circles at the small of Stiles' back. "Breathe."
"You-"
"Maybe you should lie down," Derek says, helping Stiles stand and then reclining him on the bed.
"How? How did you even have this conversation?" Stiles asks weakly.
Derek stretches out beside him on one elbow, rubbing his belly like you might do for a small, scared child. These little touches that Stiles gets now? Are absolutely the best thing to come out of the War on Weakness. Hands down. But even they aren't enough to distract Stiles from the impending doom of a sex talk with his dad.
"How do you and my dad have any conversation?" Stiles squeaks. "I mean, maybe 'Hey Sheriff, nice day out' and 'Hello Derek, thanks for not eviscerating anyone this week'. That I can see. But how do we go from that to 'By the way, Derek, I've been meaning to ask, are you by any chance boning my underage son?!!' "
Derek huffs a laugh that he promptly swallows when Stiles glares at him.
"I went to see him, okay?" Derek says calmly.
"You…sought out…the company of my father?" Stiles' eyes are giant in his face right now; he can feel it. He has anime eyes.
"I wanted to ask for his help," Derek continues. Stiles just stares more.
"What are you saying? I don't understand what you're saying," he babbles. "Are you speaking a foreign language? Am I? I feel like I'm stuck in that episode of TNG where the universal translator wasn't working."
"I don't know what that means."
"SEE?!!? Foreign language!" Stiles rises up part way, then gives up and slumps back down again. He kinda regrets it, because for whatever stupid reason, Derek takes that as his cue to stop touching him. "What did you tell him?"
"I said you liked it rough."
"I hate you so much right now." Stiles can feel the bed shaking from the force of Derek's suppressed laughter.
"No, you don't."
"Seething," Stiles emphasizes. "Seething and acidic hatred."
"That sounds dire," Derek says solemnly.
"You don't come back from hatred like this," Stiles declares. "I mean it, Derek. You should probably start looking for the pack's new google-shaman as soon as possible."
"I'll try Craigslist."
Stiles is no match for a funny Derek; he-he's just really cute when he's funny, and Stiles loves it because he's pretty sure he's the only one Derek lets himself be funny with. He can't prove it, but still. Stiles cracks up, and then they're both howling (ha ha) until Stiles is actually wiping tears.
"Seriously, though," Stiles asks, after the hilarity mellows and he's got his breath back, "why did you go talk to my dad?"
Derek's got his hands behind his head, fingers laced as he reclines against Stiles' pillows. It's a good look for him, comfy in Stiles' bed. Stiles would like to see it more often. Daily, even. Perhaps with a smidge less clothing, but beggars can't be choosers.
"It was right before we started your sessions, before the Rodriguez's came," Derek says. Stiles tenses; Derek's eyes are closed but Stiles can feel that he's very alert, waiting for Stiles' reaction. "I told him that I was trying some new things, and trying to make it so the humans in the pack would feel a stronger bond, be more supported, without having to drain them so much physically."
"Derek…" Stiles can feel his pulse pick up, and Derek obviously does too. He sits up and squeezes Stiles' shoulder.
"I didn't tell him, okay? I didn't. I wouldn't do that." Derek the Shitty Liar stares him right in the eye, and Stiles sees nothing, so he knows it’s the truth. He relaxes and Derek lets go.
"Did he buy that? I mean, the man snoops out cover stories for a living, you know." Stiles grins lopsidedly.
"It had the virtue of being true," Derek shrugs, "if a little lean on a couple details."
"How lean? Inquiring minds want to know."
"Not that lean," Derek grumbles. Stiles just stares, pointedly, and Derek sighs.
"I told him I'd been reading up on ADHD, and making sure I took that into account-" Stiles flushes, unsure whether he should be angry or appreciative. He's quite certain Derek did exactly that. "-but I'd appreciate it if he would let me know if he saw any changes in you, good or not."
"Wow." Stiles realizes his mouth is open in surprise and snaps it closed.
"What?" Derek says gruffly.
"That's pretty good," Stiles says admiringly.
"I feel like I should be a little insulted by how amazed you are."
"No, I mean it, really. You didn't even have to lie." Stiles grins.
Derek does an odd thing right then, sort of a head-duck and a shrug. It seems almost…deferential, which is a word that exactly no one ever has used to describe Derek Hale.
"I kind of…don’t really want to lie to your dad," he says quietly. "Ever. I respect him."
The 'and I want him to respect me' goes unspoken, but it's clearly there. Stiles doesn't know what to do with that; it makes him a little skittery.
"I guess it's a good thing we're not having sex, then!" he blurts out.
Derek jolts in surprise and flushes a tiny bit. "Yeah, good thing," he says stiffly. "Can I go back to my nap now?"
Stiles remembers Derek's original reason for coming through the window and takes a critical look at him. The werewolf juju can do a lot, but it can't completely eliminate exhaustion. With dark circles under his eyes, dull hair, and his scruff looking more neglected than rebelliously unshaven, Derek's a little ragged.
"That master schedule could have used a little more foresight," Stiles says, as Derek kicks off his shoes and resettles himself. "We all rotate in and out, but you didn't plan for any days off for yourself."
"So?
"Soooo, you've been working for…" Stiles does some quick mental math "…fifty-three consecutive days, some of them eighteen hours long or more. You don't need a nap; you need a medically-induced coma."
"Your nagging housewife shtick needs work," Derek snipes.
"I'm serious, dude."
"Don't call me dude."
"Derek-"
"Alphas don't get days off," Derek growls.
"You know what? That's it! Even God took a day of rest." Stiles rises and looms over Derek where he's struggling to get his head under the covers and shut Stiles out. "Gimme your damn phone."
"What?" Derek peers up at him, fingers tangled in Stiles' bedspread. "Why?"
"Phone, now." Stiles snaps his fingers. "Or I'm going digging for it," he threatens, flexing his fingers and looking pointedly at Derek's hip pockets.
Derek gives him a toothy smile.
"I oughta make you do it, too, pup," he says, but fishes it out himself and tosses it to Stiles, who promptly starts typing. "How do you know my passcode?" Derek asks, glaring.
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because it's 'W-O-L-F'?" Stiles rolls his eyes. "Way to be cryptic, man."
Derek flushes, growling something vague and unintelligible. Stiles taps out a message and sends it to the entire pack.
THIS IS STILES. I'M KIDNAPPING DEREK FOR THE NEXT 24 HOURS AND MAKING HIM SLEEP. EVERYBODY BACK THE SCHEDULE UP BY ONE DAY. THIS PHONE IS TURNING OFF UNTIL TOMORROW NIGHT. CALL ME INSTEAD IF YOU ***REALLY*** NEED HIM, BUT IF YOU DO THEN SOMEBODY BETTER BY GOD BE DEAD.
He thinks for a moment, then sends an addendum:
OR AT LEAST MISSING A LIMB
…then another…
OR ACTUALLY MISSING ALTOGETHER
Derek's phone immediately blows up with the pack's responses.
"Thank u baby jesus…"
"I'll get the keg, ppl"
"Nite-nite cranky-Daddy!"
"FINALLY!!"
"YES! Pay up motherfuckers!"
Stiles smirks and shows the screen to Derek, who frowns at his phone as if confused. "They know I can see this, right?"
"They're probably counting on sleep deprivation to strip your memories."
Derek sighs and rolls his eyes, resuming his fight with the blankets and beating Stiles' pillow into submission in an attempt to get comfortable.
Stiles switches Derek's phone off as promised, and twirls his chair back to his computer, where the chem study sheet stares at him. He listens to Derek toss and sigh and generally ruin a freshly made bed for as long as he can stand it before rounding on him.
"You're pathetic, you know that?" He tries for mocking, but he's pretty sure it ends up sounding indulgent. Derek just stares as he approaches the bed.
"Get up, c'mon, get up," Stiles says, motioning for Derek to rise.
"You're kicking me out?" Derek says, and now that does sound pathetic. Stiles has a sudden mental picture of Derek, head down and shoulders drooping, shuffling sadly out his window like Werewolf Eeyore.
"Don't be ridiculous," Stiles scoffs. "You're so exhausted you'd break your neck climbing out. Take your pants off."
Derek's eyes go wide, then narrow in suspicion.
"Is this where you stealth-cam me onto your Facebook?" But he obeys anyway, hopping clumsily out of one leg of his jeans while Stiles starts retucking sheets.
"If only. Shirt too, c'mon." Stiles doesn't want it to seem creepy, and makes a point to just glance at Derek for a progress-check, not lingering. Even though Shirtless Derek is incredibly linger-worthy, as per usual.
"I'm having uncomfortable Miguel flashbacks," says Derek, who nevertheless removes his shirt and his socks as well.
"Derek, man," Stiles says as he snaps the blanket out and smoothes it back, "you need twelve solid hours, minimum. You're not gonna get it crawling into bed with your jeans still on. Now get in, I'll be right back."
When Stiles comes back upstairs with two bottles of water, Derek's watching the door, but his eyelids relax and start to droop as soon as Stiles enters and closes it behind him. Stiles puts one bottle within Derek's reach, and goes around the foot of the bed to set the other down before unbuttoning his own jeans and sliding out of them.
Derek's eyes go back to alert status.
"What are you doing?" Derek asks softly while Stiles bats his laptop shut and closes the shades. Derek's got only his boxer briefs on, but Stiles keeps his t-shirt as well. Too much skin-to-skin and this'll go wrong. Sure, it might be one of his many Derek-centric fantasies, but it's not what he wants to happen today.
"I'm demonstrating my learnings to my teacher via practical application," Stiles says. "Scoot." Derek does in fact scoot, making room for Stiles, who climbs into bed.
"When you're tired and/or stressed and/or have trouble sleeping, you should seek out the pack," Stiles paraphrases from Derek's first session with him. "Being around them will be familiar, will make you feel safe and cared for, and you'll sleep better."
Stiles curls himself into Derek's side. Derek's arm lifts and wraps around him, his palm fitting comfortably in the small of Stiles' back.
"Proximity is good; physical contact is better," Stiles recites, smiling against Derek's chest, which quakes momentarily as Derek laughs.
"You're a good student," he says, relaxing a little into the mattress. Stiles continues to quote Derek's lessons.
"Don't be afraid to be the one to reach out. The more you do, the more the pack will reach back." Derek doesn't acknowledge that quote at all.
"You were doing all right up 'til then," Stiles says softly, nudging Derek with his chin to make his point. "It'd be nice if we knew when you needed us sometimes."
"I came here, didn't I?" Derek protests, but it's weak, like he's only doing it out of contrariness, not in actual rebuttal.
"And it took me an hour to figure out what you really wanted. Shoot for making things a little less obscure next time and just tell me, how 'bout it?" says Stiles. "Consider it bolstering my self-esteem, if you have to."
"I'll work on it," Derek mumbles, shifting onto his side and facing Stiles. He starts to manhandle Stiles into rolling over.
"Oh, no you don't," Stiles protests, digging into the sheets with both hands. "You came to me hoping for nice comfy pack feels. That means I get to be the big spoon and you get to be the little spoon."
Even as he says the words, he knows it's a lost cause. Derek's having exactly zero trouble shifting Stiles into little spoon position.
"Not gonna happen." Derek is unperturbed as he yawns. His breath is warm against the back of Stiles' neck and Derek noses there for a moment, breathing deeply as Stiles squirms against him, struggling to think unsexy thoughts.
"Not fair," he grumps, relenting with a sigh.
"Alphas are not little spoons," Derek says, his arm warm and heavy across Stiles' waist. Despite it being the middle of the day Stiles is pretty sure he's going to nap happily, all snugged up to a nice warm werewolf giving off Alpha vibes.
If only the Alpha would nap.
They lay there for another fifteen minutes during which Stiles knows Derek isn't asleep. "Derek. What's up? Seriously."
Stiles is genuinely curious as to what sort of conversation they're going to have. About sixty-five percent of any random interaction between them is Stiles gleaning information from Derek's endless variations of frowns and glares. He's facing away from Derek , though, so once again-like the night on the porch-Derek will have to use actual words.
"I guess…I'm not really sure what I'm accomplishing." Derek rubs his face in Stiles' hair again, as if he might find the answer in there. Stiles gets lost in the euphoric tingle it causes for a minute before Derek's words sink in.
"The sessions?" he asks. "I think they're great. Allison seems to have more empathy for the wolves after all the reading you gave her. Scott's started thinking of the pack and not just himself. Isaac is a billion times more secure, and though I question the sanity of anyone teaching Lydia how to use actual weapons, it definitely rounds out her ability to defend herself with something besides chemical compounds."
"Stiles…" Derek interrupts.
Derek's always interrupting, always has to be a fly in the sweet, syrupy flow of Stiles' stream of consciousness.
"…do you know everyone's weakness?" He is clearly surprised, and Stiles feels him go very still behind him.
Stiles isn't sure how to answer. He knows it was supposed to be a secret; hell, that part was his idea. But everyone just kept telling him. It wasn't like he was prying it out of them. He hadn't even asked.
"I didn't ask!" Which is basically him saying yes without actually saying yes. "Honest. They just all sort of told me what they were working on. Without provocation or invitation from the Stillinski side of things."
Derek rubs his nose behind Stiles' ear and runs a hand down from his shoulder to elbow and back, soothing him.
"Shhh, hey, it's okay," Derek assures him. "I wasn't accusing you of anything. In fact, just the opposite."
"I don't know what that means," Stiles duplicates Derek's earlier comment, while trying not to get lost in the ear-rubbing.
"Did you know that none of them have told anyone else?" Derek asks. There's an odd note in his voice that Stiles can't quite place.
"What do you mean?" he asks.
"I mean, you know the focus of every pack member, and you're the only one besides me who does."
Derek lets that sink in for a moment, but Stiles doesn't really know what to say. Derek's arm returns to its place around his belly, and he snugs Stiles a little closer, speaking softly into his ear.
"Everyone-even Jackson-trusts you with the knowledge of their biggest vulnerabilities," Derek says. "That says a lot about your place in the pack…how they feel about you. How much it's changed."
Stiles isn't sure what to say to that, his mind whirling. It makes sense that maybe Scott would tell Allison, or that Lydia would tell Jackson, but he didn't go into this expecting to be everyone's confidant. The day Boyd came around asking Stiles for tips on how to "think outside the box" when it comes to battle strategy was definitely a ten on the surreality scale.
But as packmates came and went in a steady parade to confide their fears or seek his advice, Stiles had only been thinking about what it meant to each of them. He hadn't really considered it as a reflection of Stiles himself. It makes him feel warm inside, and also proud that Derek saw it first. He's turning out to be a pretty canny Alpha.
Before Stiles can bumble out some meaningless platitude in reply-or ruin the moment with a cheap joke-Derek is whispering again.
"Even me," he admits.
"I d-don't know where you're getting that," Stiles stutters.
"Stiles, your Alpha just admitted to you that he's exhausted and that he's not sure he knows what the hell he's doing," Derek says dryly. "It doesn't get much more vulnerable than that. People trust you; I trust you."
"Thank you," Stiles says softly. Derek squeezes Stiles in reply.
"I think you're doing alright, for the record," Stiles says, wriggling back into Derek's chest to emphasize his point. "Especially for being an unplanned Alpha."
"You make it sound like I only have a pack because somebody didn't wear a condom," Derek says wryly.
"You know what I mean." Stiles snorts. "It's not like you were trained, or had anyone you could go to for advice once you became the Alpha. And no, Voldemort Hale doesn't count." Lydia and Stiles had shared two bottles of red wine one night soon after Gerard vanished, and ever since then Peter had been referred to as He Who Shall Not Be Named.
"You've had to figure everything out on your own. And yeah, you made some pretty questionable life choices in the beginning, of which I may have been a vocal critic-"
"Stiles…" Derek groans.
"-however, in the last couple months you've really started to come into your own. Everyone thinks so. They're all a little stoked about it, actually."
"Really?" Derek asks. It's just a tiny bit disbelieving. Stiles will never tell him, but right then Derek sounds like a teenage girl whose best friend just told her that the captain of the football team was going to ask her to the prom.
"You just said that I have the ear of the entire pack, so you'll just have to trust me on this one, okay?" Derek could hear if he was lying, of course, but there's nothing to hear. It's the truth.
"Yeah, okay."
Stiles doesn't need to see his face to picture the smile on it. He can hear it in Derek's voice, feel it pressing lightly against his nape. Derek's asleep minutes later, knees tucked just behind Stiles'.
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part six