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rabid1stTitle: There It Is
Author: Rabid1st
Rating: Teen
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Derek/Stiles
Warning(s): Angsty Suffering with bad dreams
Spoiler(s): Set at the start of Season3b, speculation from the 3b Sneak Peek on Revelations
Word Count: 4300
Summary: This is a fluffy, pre-slash story. Stiles can't sleep. He's having bad dreams. Derek comes home and finds Stiles sleeping in his bed.
Disclaimer: Teen Wolf and these characters are not mine. This fic represents fair use for fan purposes.
At LiveJournal: http://rabid1st.livejournal.com/404963.html
At AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/938187
There it is, Stiles thought as he pulled open Derek's door.
A slight puff of air wafted by his nose carrying the whiff of lemongrass and lavender and something woodsy. Most werewolves couldn't abide the chemically saturated products found in every supermarket. They always went organic. Many, also, went fragrance free. But not Derek. He didn't have an inconspicuous bone in his hot, leather clad body. So, of course, he had commissioned eau de Derek.
Underneath the herbal signatures was a hint of an animal scent. Not wet dog, as Stiles had once spitefully described it to Scott. Not sweaty human either. Fur maybe. Warm and wild, like a cat that's been lying in the sun. Stiles used to love scooping Sgt. Pepper, his mom's old tabby, out of a sunbeam and rubbing his face in the soft sweetness. The cat had reacted just as he imagined Derek would, squirming for immediate release.
“Never love a wild thing,” his dad told him once, quoting Truman Capote. “You'll end up looking at the sky as they fly away.”
The cat had vanished a few days after Stiles lost his mom. Just like Derek, again. No, that wasn't fair. Sgt. Pepper hadn't bothered to say goodbye or look back or whatever. But Derek had. Derek had left him a key and a cell number and a note. Stiles paused in the doorway, key in hand, to read the note again.
“Leaving for awhile. Lease is paid through March. Use it if you need it.”
He needed it. He needed to feel safe. But mostly, he needed some clue about where Derek had gone and how long it might be until he returned. They were foundering without him, all of them. Scott was struggling with authority issues. His own and his father's. Lydia walked a tightrope between good and evil. Stiles hadn't slept through the night in six weeks. His stomach churned constantly. Every breath burned through him. His head ached and his mouth tasted like metal. He would nod off at stoplights. They said his head injury wasn't the problem, though he'd been out for a good twenty minutes. Of course, he couldn't tell the doctors about his sixteen hours under water. Talk about oxygen deprivation to the brain.
And then there was the darkness around his heart. He'd told Scott about the dreams. But he'd shared none of the details. They were too disturbing to talk about. Night terrors, the doctor called them. Panic attacks in his sleep. The triggering images came back to Stiles in flashes—rape and murder, blood and breaking bones. He'd burned. He'd drowned. He'd been blown apart. But the worst parts didn't involve what happened to him. The worst things were the ones he did to others. He could vividly remember strangling women with his bare hands. Hands that, on another night, had buried a knife in his dad's chest. He'd started mixing antihistamines and alcohol to knock himself out for a few hours. But the dangerous combo usually wore off before dawn. Every night he woke up sweat-drenched and screaming. Afraid to lay down again, he would turn on the computer and watch reruns of sitcoms as the night hours ticked away. He wasn't sure how much longer he could go on with no sleep, laboring to breathe, to walk, to live. The entire bottle of sleeping pills looked more and more inviting every night.
His phone dinged and he jumped. The keys in his hand escaped his numb fingers, clinking to the floor. Weariness hit him like a cement truck. He couldn't bear to go on like this.
Kill yourself, an inner voice said. Get it over with.
Stiles gave an involuntary shudder. He'd slipped into another one of those tingling states where the world seemed muffled and remote and his mind produced evil suggestions. The doctor had explained these were mini sleeps, his body trying to catch up on rest even as he force marched it through another day. Detached by exhaustion, he'd started to see himself as an unwieldy meat-puppet. His body had became something he was shifting from place to place, until he just gave up and died. He bent to retrieve the keys and dropped his phone.
Seriously. Kill yourself. I bet Derek has knives. Slit your useless throat.
“Stop it,” he said, aloud, the sound of his voice startling in the echoing space. “Stop saying that.”
It wasn't wolfsbane this time. It was the darkest part of him, giving up on life. Stiles knew he was losing the fight for sanity through sheer exhaustion. He glanced at the cell as he picked it up from the floor.
Scott: Found anything?
He shut the door and, leaning on the cool surface of it, fumbled out an answer. He had to correct the spelling twice. Rage boiled up in his chest and he nearly threw the phone across the room. But he managed to hold on for one more try at typing. In his mind, his fingers wrapped around a knife hilt, stabbing the blade down into his belly again and again.
Stiles: Just got here
Scott: I'm going to text him again.
“Yeah, like the 800th time is going to be magic,” Stiles muttered.
He didn't bother answering Scott. What point would there be? Instead, he tucked the phone back in his pocket and started searching for something, anything to tell them where Derek might have gone. But the maid, or someone, had done an excellent job cleaning up after Jennifer's mayhem. There were no crumpled notes in the trash. No scraps of paper with addresses on them laying out for inspection. Stiles ended up sitting on the bed, simply staring at the long, low table beside it. Too tired to search one more drawer, he just sat. Not even curious about what Derek Hale might keep by his bedside. There were two books on top of the table, both leather bound. The first one was in Cyrillic or something. The second one was a journal penned in the same hand as Derek's note.
Despite a ghost of interest when he opened the latter, Stiles would have slammed it closed if he hadn't been so dazed. As it was, he just stared at the page it fell open to, until a name leaped out at him. His name. Half-way down the page. Not just once but three times in a row.
Stiles. Stiles. Stiles. God.
It must mean something. But Stiles had no idea how to interpret it. Probably he'd done something to irk Derek. That could be anything. The next paragraph was about some plan Derek had to organize his CD collection. Boring. All of it was boring. Books Derek had read. Werewolves he knew. Supplies he needed for the apartment. How much he distrusted Peter. The raw emotion in that paragraph caused a twinge of guilt. Stiles closed the journal. He opened the bedside table's drawer to tuck the diary away, but immediately reconsidered. They might find some clue in those pages. He would read it once he'd searched everywhere else, privacy be damned.
The drawer contained a reading light, a comb, a partially completed crossword puzzle book, two pens, a tube of sexual lubricant, condoms...extra sensitive rather than extra large. Thank god, Stiles thought, and then frowned at his brain for thinking that. And a vibrator. Whoa. Phallic. Dark blue. Ridged. About seven slender inches. Stiles stopped his fingers just above it, letting them hover. No. Best not touch that. No telling where it had been.
His phone rang. Scott, again. Stiles closed the drawer. He fell backward onto the bed as he answered.
“Hey,” he said.
“So?”
“Nothing.”
“Damn. I think Deaton knows something. But he won't tell me.”
Scott outlined a plan to find Derek another way. Stiles barely listened. He pawed by his hip for the diary. As he lifted it above him, he saw a thin sheaf of paper poking out near the last page. His fingernail teased at the edge of the paper until it slipped into view. It was a photo. A photo of him printed from a cellphone image. He remembered when it was taken, too. Scott took it. After Stiles had fallen asleep during one of Deaton's endless lectures, Scott had snapped a few candids. He'd posted a series of images to Facebook the next day. Stiles sprawled in an undignified mess across two chairs. Stiles drooling. Stiles with his shirt riding up and one hand on his bare belly. Why did Derek Hale have a photo of him? The shirt riding up one. In his journal? He carefully slipped a finger into the page so he could see if there were any clues. One of the pages was blank. The other said, Stiles sleeping. There was also a number: 15,343. Really helpful Derek, thanks, Stiles thought.
“And just a little Internet stalker creepy,” he said out loud.
“What is?” Scott said, reminding Stiles that the world still existed. “Stiles are you awake?”
“Yeah,” Stiles said. “I'm awake. Just...” He yawned, curling onto his side. “...really tired. Dude, why would Derek Hale have a picture of me?”
“Derek has a picture of you?”
“In his diary, yeah.”
“Derek keeps a diary?”
“Journal, planner, whatever,” Stiles said, yawning again. “It's a picture from your Facebook page.”
“Dude, Derek goes to my Facebook?”
“Scott? God! Will you focus? Why does he have this?”
“I don't know. Maybe in case he ever has to identify your body,” Scott said. “Or, is it full of holes? Because he might throw knives at it or darts. Or maybe he just yells at it after you piss him off. Or...”
“Scott!”
“...maybe he looks at it when he jerks off. Is it sticky?”
“I am hanging up now. I'll see you later. Okay?”
He gave the photo a wistful poke, wishing he could sleep like that again. It used to be so easy, to just drop off into oblivion. Maybe he could sleep here. Maybe, lying across the foot of Derek Hale's bed, he'd be safe from the monsters. The phone and photo both slipped from his fingers. The pic fluttered all the way to the floor. Stiles could hear Scott's tinny voice somewhere in the far distance calling his name. He tried to say goodbye. But his lips felt rubbery and numb and he didn't want to talk anymore. He just wanted to drift away on this lovely river current and not wake up again for days.
*****************************************************************
There it is, Derek thought, as he stood by the dining table, looking toward his bed.
He tried to never acknowledge that oh, so familiar skip of his pulse as his insides turned to jelly. He hadn't felt it one time in six weeks. But six seconds after walking in his front door, there it was again. Because Stiles Stilinski was asleep in his bed. Slivers of his skin were exposed, clothing askew. His feet were on the floor, as if he'd tipped over in a faint. Derek let his gaze glide along the boy, taking his time in a way he rarely allowed himself. He noted the cellphone by a hand and the diary at a hip. Stiles had been spying. Not that Derek was stupid enough to put anything too incriminating where Peter might find it. But a smart kid like Stiles might put two and two together and get five. Peter already knew, of course. He kept making those sly remarks. Derek leaned over to pick up the fallen photo.
He compared it to the original work of nature and wondered how much further down he would go into Hell's many circles for his current thoughts. As a sort of reality check version of a cold shower, he did the math in his head. Never mind that natural born werewolves aged differently than humans. His slower development might account for some of the attraction, but he was a grown man with issues. And at least two psychotic exes. More might be headed to town at this very moment. Stiles was an innocent. He would turn eighteen on April 8th in fifteen months or 448 days or something like 10,800 hours. Derek could learn to play the piano in 10,000 hours. Stiles could meet a nice girl and have something like a future to look forward to with her. Nothing was going to happen with Stiles.
Derek had just closed his special drawer on the photo and his journal when Stiles screamed. The smell of terror filled the air and instantly raised Derek's hackles. A growl rumbled in his chest as he whipped around to see Stiles thrashing and arching off the bed. Breath stuttered in his throat. His nails tore into the bedding.
“No,” Stiles said, between gritted teeth. He whimpered, hands flying up as if warding off an attack. “God. Please. Help me.”
“Stiles?” Derek reached for him and got a fist to the jaw for his trouble. “Ow! Stiles, wake up!”
Derek seized Stiles by both shoulders, shaking him. For a moment he thought it had worked. Stiles shot to a sitting position, as if coming out of his nightmare. But his eyes were wild and vacant. His gaze focused beyond the waking world. Stiles lunged at Derek, clawing and screaming. His nails slashed down Derek's face, drawing blood.
“Stay away from me.” Stiles shrieked, his teeth chattering with panic. “I'll kill you. I swear.”
His fingers closed around Derek's throat. Had Derek been mortal he might have been seriously injured. As it was, he felt the choking pressure bending his hyoid bone. He caught Stiles by the wrists, breaking the choke hold. Stiles fought to be free, wrenching back with surprising strength. He landed another punch and a knee almost to the groin. Derek rolled away from the blow just in the nick of time. They wrestled around on the bed while Derek sought an effective grip that wouldn't hurt Stiles too much. There would be bruises on both of them. He was sure of it.
“Come on, Stiles,” he pleaded, “Wake up.” Finally, he roared. “Stiles?”
It wasn't quite an Alpha voice, but it did the trick. Stiles startled into awareness. He blinked up at Derek, confusion flooding his eyes. Only then, did Derek register that he was straddling hips he'd been longing to grab for months. He quickly eased back and to the side.
“Derek?” Fear and wariness followed on the heels of the confusion, as if Stiles didn't quite believe what he was seeing. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to wake you.”
“Why are you here?”
“I live here.”
“You...?” Stiles let out a shuddering breath. His gaze flitted to one side, and then the other, taking in his surroundings. “Oh, right.” The tension melted from his body. “I'm at your place.”
“What are you doing here?”
Stiles tugged against Derek's grip and Derek released him. He sat up, adjusting his clothing and combing shaking fingers through his hair. Derek rolled to the side of the bed and stood.
“I was,” Stiles began and then yawned. “Looking for you.” He braced his elbows on his knees so he could cradle his head in both hands. “Some sign of where you might be.” He cut his gaze to the side, glancing behind him to the bed. “Must have fallen asleep.”
“You look like hell.”
“I haven't been sleeping. None of us have.” He turned slightly toward Derek. “You came back.”
“You left me a gazillion messages,” Derek said.
That brought Stiles fully awake. He surged to his feet. Only to totter and nearly fall back down. Derek darted forward to brace him at the elbow.
“Another person might answer one of them,” Stiles said.
“I came home,” Derek said, with a shrug.
Stiles clutched at his chest, as if he were having a heart attack. Derek listened and heard his pulse skipping along as it usually did. Maybe a little faster than it should be, but nothing serious.
“Oh, there it is,” Stiles said, “My special Derek Hale feels.”
Derek lifted both eyebrows. “Feels?”
He had to fight down the urge to smile. He couldn't believe Stiles would use that term in casual conversation. It was completely ridiculous and utterly adorable. Especially in light of the horror he'd obviously just been living in his dream.
“That's twitter-speak for a burning desire to hit or hug someone,” Stiles explained, his eyes going glassy again as he added, “Or whatever.”
“Whatever?”
“Yeah, whatever you feels,” Stiles said, he weaved dramatically as he waved a hand. “Like I feels the need to throw up or maybe die.”
“You're babbling,” Derek told him.
“See? More feels. It's been too long, Derek. I've missed our little talks.”
“Sit down, before you fall down.” Stiles obeyed, sinking onto the edge of the mattress again. Derek left him there and walked to the dining table. “Now, tell me what's happening.”
“So you didn't bother to read or listen to any of the gazillion messages,” Stiles said, slurring his words.
“I read the one that said, 'Lassie, come home!'”
Eyes closed, Stiles snickered. “See? That's a play on the movie...which is why I wrote, 'Timmy has fallen down the well.' Or did I send that? I don't remember. Yeah, never mind. Like I said, I don't sleep. So...”
“Bad dreams?” Derek asked as he dragged his luggage across the table to him. He noted exactly when Stiles realized he was trying to help.
“Sorry, yeah,” he said, nodding. He pushed his hair back from his forehead and stared at Derek's face, as if seeing it for the first time. His gaze traced the scratches Derek knew were almost healed. “Did I hurt you?”
“No more than usual,” Derek said, zipping open the leather satchel. “Nothing says welcome home like you punching me in the face.”
“That's not funny,” Stiles said. “I didn't mean it. I was dreaming about...about...”
Their eyes met and Derek gave a terse nod. He held Stiles' gaze for a few moments longer than strictly necessary, before going back to his task. The last thing he wanted was for Stiles to relive whatever had happened in that nightmare. He drew out what he'd gone to fetch, an amulet of red and black stone. They were rare talismans, designed to absorb dark energy. This one was wrapped in tissue paper. As he unfolded the sheets, he revealed a silver key chain setting. He tossed the gift at Stiles, who tried to catch it and failed. Derek sighed and went to retrieve the amulet from the floor.
“Keep this on you at all times,” he said, handing it over. “It should help.”
Stiles turned the smooth stone in his hands, caressing it with elegant fingers. Those fingers. That mouth. His soulful eyes, peering up at Derek. “What is it?”
“Something to stop bad dreams,” Derek said. “You aren't the first people to do that ritual, you know?”
“This will let me sleep?” Stile said, clutching the amulet into a tight fist. His voice broke on the shores of the idea. The forlorn hope in it cut straight to Derek's heart.
For a second he imagined them living in this apartment, Stiles playing the piano, pausing to look up at Derek just like that, like he'd created the world. But reality asserted itself over the idealized scene. Derek didn't own a piano and, even if he did, Stiles wouldn't play it. Stiles would play hip-hop on his laptop. And thrash Derek's orderly existence. He would eat peanut butter from the jar. Pile his crap everywhere. And bounce around like a puppy on meth as he explained the nuances of whatever television show had captured his elusive attention in the moment.
“It should.”
A second later, Stiles gave Derek a preview of the life he was summarily rejecting in his mind. He launched himself off the bed and into Derek's arms, kissing his neck and cheek. He wriggled, ecstatic. Derek lost his breath and most of his reason. His hands rose of their own accord to stroke up Stiles arms.
“Oh, my, God,” Stiles said, between the two kisses. “It's love. I love you. Did you bring one for Scott, too? And Allison?”
And since he needed to know, he pushed away from Derek, breaking the spell. And was gone, over at the table, searching the luggage. Derek wanted to sit down. He could feel the sting of a blush all over his skin and knew he must be red to the roots of his hair. His heart rate had spiked to the point that he might shift. This wasn't happening. This really couldn't be happening. As if he'd spoken aloud, Stiles stopped rummaging and looked over at him.
“What?”
“Boundaries,” Derek said. “Personal space. Has anyone ever talked to you about personal space?”
“Oh, Dude, all the time,” Stiles said.
“Feels,” Derek said, making fists with both hands. Afraid he was going to die any second from whatever had gone wrong with his heart, he added, “Special Stiles feels.”
“You want to punch me? Rip my throat out?” Stiles asked. He bared his teeth, snapping them together. Then, he put on a grumpy face and gruffly quoted something Derek knew intimately, “'Stiles. Stiles. Stiles. God!'”
Derek gave up. Why fight it? The love gods hated him. He'd probably pissed on someone's altar. He closed his eyes and let his chin fall toward his chest. He remembered writing that. How he couldn't get the images of Stiles out of his head. Wet Stiles, panting and pressed against him in the pool, holding him up, saving him. Derek had never felt anything like the electric surge that had jolted through him when their eyes met. And he'd never wanted to feel it again. But he had, just a few weeks later, when a paralyzed Stiles crashed into him. Now all it took was a flexing of the fingers, a moistening of the lips to completely undo Derek's composure.
He'd been so happy to have Jennifer in his life. She'd been the perfect distraction. If only she'd been sane, perhaps he wouldn't have considered Stiles again. But, maybe it wouldn't have mattered in the end, because Jennifer didn't spark off his passion the way Stiles could. He understood all of those Greek poems about lads with womanly limbs and sweet faces, now. He'd actually started to avoid Stiles. Because, while bisexuality was common among his kind, Derek didn't want to go Greek to the extent of pedophilia. Assuming Stiles would even reciprocate. He seemed oblivious.
Or he had, until just this second, when Derek forced himself to look up again. The amulet was taking effect and Stiles was swaying, nearly asleep on his feet. But when he met Derek's eyes he startled, muscles jumping as they sometimes do at the threshold of slumber. In that second or two of lucidity, it seemed as if he could read Derek's every sinful thought. His eyes went round and filled with wonder.
“Or...am I saying that wrong?” he asked. “Maybe it's,” he dropped his head back and closed his eyes, panting out, “'Stiles, Stiles, Stiles.'” He sighed into the dramatic pause, moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue, and added, “'God!'” drawing the word out with an orgasmic breathlessness. He smiled sweetly. Head tilted so his lips were kissable, eyes still shut, he asked, “Was Scott right about the masturbating?”
“Scott?” Just when he thought it couldn't get any worse.
“Oh, yeah,” Stiles said, bringing his chin down. His heavy lidded eyes tried to stay open. “I might have told him about the picture of me you stole off of Facebook. But it's not like he won't smell it, right? So...”
“Smell it?”
“You on me,” Stiles said, speaking slowly as if he were very, very drunk. Or talking to a moron. “Or me on you. After the sex.”
“What?”
“Scott's going to know, so we might as well be up front about it.”
“What?”
“Why do you keep saying what? We are having sex, right?” Stiles took another deep breath and then pouted. “This isn't one of those hilarious misunderstandings, is it? Because, in my defense, I haven't slept in six weeks. Things are very fuzzy in my brain.”
“We aren't having sex,” Derek told him.
“Why not?” Stiles whined. “Why is it always no sex for Stiles?”
“Because you are sixteen. And I'm not. And you're half-witted.”
“And you're not?” Stiles said on a snort, totally disagreeing, apparently.
“You need to go home, Stiles.”
“You're going to let me drive? In this condition? Your amulet has fuck' m'up.”
“Fine. I'll take you home.” He crossed to Stiles and seized an elbow. “Put you to bed.”
“Climb in with me? Oh, you want to, don't you? Don't you? Use your words, Derek.”
Stiles leaned into him, draping a heavy arm around his shoulder. Derek tried to steer the boy toward his door, but Stiles was remarkably hard to steer. He kept sniffing Derek's neck, which was really distracting.
“You've got a bed, Derek. And pillows. And sheets. And...you smell like sunny kitty. Yeah, I'm just...What are we talking about?”
“I have no idea.”
Stiles let his head loll to the side. He squinted at Derek, his heavy lashes fluttering and way too close.
“You are looking at my lips,” he said. “Because you so want to kiss me. You want to kiss me and cuddle me and take my picture.”
“Okay, you can sleep here,” Derek said, “Just stop talking.”
“There it is,” Stiles muttered. And he let Derek take him back to the bed.
The End
Author: Rabid1st
Rating: Teen
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Derek/Stiles
Warning(s): Angsty Suffering with bad dreams
Spoiler(s): Set at the start of Season3b, speculation from the 3b Sneak Peek on Revelations
Word Count: 4300
Summary: This is a fluffy, pre-slash story. Stiles can't sleep. He's having bad dreams. Derek comes home and finds Stiles sleeping in his bed.
Disclaimer: Teen Wolf and these characters are not mine. This fic represents fair use for fan purposes.
At LiveJournal: http://rabid1st.livejournal.com/404963.html
At AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/938187
There it is, Stiles thought as he pulled open Derek's door.
A slight puff of air wafted by his nose carrying the whiff of lemongrass and lavender and something woodsy. Most werewolves couldn't abide the chemically saturated products found in every supermarket. They always went organic. Many, also, went fragrance free. But not Derek. He didn't have an inconspicuous bone in his hot, leather clad body. So, of course, he had commissioned eau de Derek.
Underneath the herbal signatures was a hint of an animal scent. Not wet dog, as Stiles had once spitefully described it to Scott. Not sweaty human either. Fur maybe. Warm and wild, like a cat that's been lying in the sun. Stiles used to love scooping Sgt. Pepper, his mom's old tabby, out of a sunbeam and rubbing his face in the soft sweetness. The cat had reacted just as he imagined Derek would, squirming for immediate release.
“Never love a wild thing,” his dad told him once, quoting Truman Capote. “You'll end up looking at the sky as they fly away.”
The cat had vanished a few days after Stiles lost his mom. Just like Derek, again. No, that wasn't fair. Sgt. Pepper hadn't bothered to say goodbye or look back or whatever. But Derek had. Derek had left him a key and a cell number and a note. Stiles paused in the doorway, key in hand, to read the note again.
“Leaving for awhile. Lease is paid through March. Use it if you need it.”
He needed it. He needed to feel safe. But mostly, he needed some clue about where Derek had gone and how long it might be until he returned. They were foundering without him, all of them. Scott was struggling with authority issues. His own and his father's. Lydia walked a tightrope between good and evil. Stiles hadn't slept through the night in six weeks. His stomach churned constantly. Every breath burned through him. His head ached and his mouth tasted like metal. He would nod off at stoplights. They said his head injury wasn't the problem, though he'd been out for a good twenty minutes. Of course, he couldn't tell the doctors about his sixteen hours under water. Talk about oxygen deprivation to the brain.
And then there was the darkness around his heart. He'd told Scott about the dreams. But he'd shared none of the details. They were too disturbing to talk about. Night terrors, the doctor called them. Panic attacks in his sleep. The triggering images came back to Stiles in flashes—rape and murder, blood and breaking bones. He'd burned. He'd drowned. He'd been blown apart. But the worst parts didn't involve what happened to him. The worst things were the ones he did to others. He could vividly remember strangling women with his bare hands. Hands that, on another night, had buried a knife in his dad's chest. He'd started mixing antihistamines and alcohol to knock himself out for a few hours. But the dangerous combo usually wore off before dawn. Every night he woke up sweat-drenched and screaming. Afraid to lay down again, he would turn on the computer and watch reruns of sitcoms as the night hours ticked away. He wasn't sure how much longer he could go on with no sleep, laboring to breathe, to walk, to live. The entire bottle of sleeping pills looked more and more inviting every night.
His phone dinged and he jumped. The keys in his hand escaped his numb fingers, clinking to the floor. Weariness hit him like a cement truck. He couldn't bear to go on like this.
Kill yourself, an inner voice said. Get it over with.
Stiles gave an involuntary shudder. He'd slipped into another one of those tingling states where the world seemed muffled and remote and his mind produced evil suggestions. The doctor had explained these were mini sleeps, his body trying to catch up on rest even as he force marched it through another day. Detached by exhaustion, he'd started to see himself as an unwieldy meat-puppet. His body had became something he was shifting from place to place, until he just gave up and died. He bent to retrieve the keys and dropped his phone.
Seriously. Kill yourself. I bet Derek has knives. Slit your useless throat.
“Stop it,” he said, aloud, the sound of his voice startling in the echoing space. “Stop saying that.”
It wasn't wolfsbane this time. It was the darkest part of him, giving up on life. Stiles knew he was losing the fight for sanity through sheer exhaustion. He glanced at the cell as he picked it up from the floor.
Scott: Found anything?
He shut the door and, leaning on the cool surface of it, fumbled out an answer. He had to correct the spelling twice. Rage boiled up in his chest and he nearly threw the phone across the room. But he managed to hold on for one more try at typing. In his mind, his fingers wrapped around a knife hilt, stabbing the blade down into his belly again and again.
Stiles: Just got here
Scott: I'm going to text him again.
“Yeah, like the 800th time is going to be magic,” Stiles muttered.
He didn't bother answering Scott. What point would there be? Instead, he tucked the phone back in his pocket and started searching for something, anything to tell them where Derek might have gone. But the maid, or someone, had done an excellent job cleaning up after Jennifer's mayhem. There were no crumpled notes in the trash. No scraps of paper with addresses on them laying out for inspection. Stiles ended up sitting on the bed, simply staring at the long, low table beside it. Too tired to search one more drawer, he just sat. Not even curious about what Derek Hale might keep by his bedside. There were two books on top of the table, both leather bound. The first one was in Cyrillic or something. The second one was a journal penned in the same hand as Derek's note.
Despite a ghost of interest when he opened the latter, Stiles would have slammed it closed if he hadn't been so dazed. As it was, he just stared at the page it fell open to, until a name leaped out at him. His name. Half-way down the page. Not just once but three times in a row.
Stiles. Stiles. Stiles. God.
It must mean something. But Stiles had no idea how to interpret it. Probably he'd done something to irk Derek. That could be anything. The next paragraph was about some plan Derek had to organize his CD collection. Boring. All of it was boring. Books Derek had read. Werewolves he knew. Supplies he needed for the apartment. How much he distrusted Peter. The raw emotion in that paragraph caused a twinge of guilt. Stiles closed the journal. He opened the bedside table's drawer to tuck the diary away, but immediately reconsidered. They might find some clue in those pages. He would read it once he'd searched everywhere else, privacy be damned.
The drawer contained a reading light, a comb, a partially completed crossword puzzle book, two pens, a tube of sexual lubricant, condoms...extra sensitive rather than extra large. Thank god, Stiles thought, and then frowned at his brain for thinking that. And a vibrator. Whoa. Phallic. Dark blue. Ridged. About seven slender inches. Stiles stopped his fingers just above it, letting them hover. No. Best not touch that. No telling where it had been.
His phone rang. Scott, again. Stiles closed the drawer. He fell backward onto the bed as he answered.
“Hey,” he said.
“So?”
“Nothing.”
“Damn. I think Deaton knows something. But he won't tell me.”
Scott outlined a plan to find Derek another way. Stiles barely listened. He pawed by his hip for the diary. As he lifted it above him, he saw a thin sheaf of paper poking out near the last page. His fingernail teased at the edge of the paper until it slipped into view. It was a photo. A photo of him printed from a cellphone image. He remembered when it was taken, too. Scott took it. After Stiles had fallen asleep during one of Deaton's endless lectures, Scott had snapped a few candids. He'd posted a series of images to Facebook the next day. Stiles sprawled in an undignified mess across two chairs. Stiles drooling. Stiles with his shirt riding up and one hand on his bare belly. Why did Derek Hale have a photo of him? The shirt riding up one. In his journal? He carefully slipped a finger into the page so he could see if there were any clues. One of the pages was blank. The other said, Stiles sleeping. There was also a number: 15,343. Really helpful Derek, thanks, Stiles thought.
“And just a little Internet stalker creepy,” he said out loud.
“What is?” Scott said, reminding Stiles that the world still existed. “Stiles are you awake?”
“Yeah,” Stiles said. “I'm awake. Just...” He yawned, curling onto his side. “...really tired. Dude, why would Derek Hale have a picture of me?”
“Derek has a picture of you?”
“In his diary, yeah.”
“Derek keeps a diary?”
“Journal, planner, whatever,” Stiles said, yawning again. “It's a picture from your Facebook page.”
“Dude, Derek goes to my Facebook?”
“Scott? God! Will you focus? Why does he have this?”
“I don't know. Maybe in case he ever has to identify your body,” Scott said. “Or, is it full of holes? Because he might throw knives at it or darts. Or maybe he just yells at it after you piss him off. Or...”
“Scott!”
“...maybe he looks at it when he jerks off. Is it sticky?”
“I am hanging up now. I'll see you later. Okay?”
He gave the photo a wistful poke, wishing he could sleep like that again. It used to be so easy, to just drop off into oblivion. Maybe he could sleep here. Maybe, lying across the foot of Derek Hale's bed, he'd be safe from the monsters. The phone and photo both slipped from his fingers. The pic fluttered all the way to the floor. Stiles could hear Scott's tinny voice somewhere in the far distance calling his name. He tried to say goodbye. But his lips felt rubbery and numb and he didn't want to talk anymore. He just wanted to drift away on this lovely river current and not wake up again for days.
*****************************************************************
There it is, Derek thought, as he stood by the dining table, looking toward his bed.
He tried to never acknowledge that oh, so familiar skip of his pulse as his insides turned to jelly. He hadn't felt it one time in six weeks. But six seconds after walking in his front door, there it was again. Because Stiles Stilinski was asleep in his bed. Slivers of his skin were exposed, clothing askew. His feet were on the floor, as if he'd tipped over in a faint. Derek let his gaze glide along the boy, taking his time in a way he rarely allowed himself. He noted the cellphone by a hand and the diary at a hip. Stiles had been spying. Not that Derek was stupid enough to put anything too incriminating where Peter might find it. But a smart kid like Stiles might put two and two together and get five. Peter already knew, of course. He kept making those sly remarks. Derek leaned over to pick up the fallen photo.
He compared it to the original work of nature and wondered how much further down he would go into Hell's many circles for his current thoughts. As a sort of reality check version of a cold shower, he did the math in his head. Never mind that natural born werewolves aged differently than humans. His slower development might account for some of the attraction, but he was a grown man with issues. And at least two psychotic exes. More might be headed to town at this very moment. Stiles was an innocent. He would turn eighteen on April 8th in fifteen months or 448 days or something like 10,800 hours. Derek could learn to play the piano in 10,000 hours. Stiles could meet a nice girl and have something like a future to look forward to with her. Nothing was going to happen with Stiles.
Derek had just closed his special drawer on the photo and his journal when Stiles screamed. The smell of terror filled the air and instantly raised Derek's hackles. A growl rumbled in his chest as he whipped around to see Stiles thrashing and arching off the bed. Breath stuttered in his throat. His nails tore into the bedding.
“No,” Stiles said, between gritted teeth. He whimpered, hands flying up as if warding off an attack. “God. Please. Help me.”
“Stiles?” Derek reached for him and got a fist to the jaw for his trouble. “Ow! Stiles, wake up!”
Derek seized Stiles by both shoulders, shaking him. For a moment he thought it had worked. Stiles shot to a sitting position, as if coming out of his nightmare. But his eyes were wild and vacant. His gaze focused beyond the waking world. Stiles lunged at Derek, clawing and screaming. His nails slashed down Derek's face, drawing blood.
“Stay away from me.” Stiles shrieked, his teeth chattering with panic. “I'll kill you. I swear.”
His fingers closed around Derek's throat. Had Derek been mortal he might have been seriously injured. As it was, he felt the choking pressure bending his hyoid bone. He caught Stiles by the wrists, breaking the choke hold. Stiles fought to be free, wrenching back with surprising strength. He landed another punch and a knee almost to the groin. Derek rolled away from the blow just in the nick of time. They wrestled around on the bed while Derek sought an effective grip that wouldn't hurt Stiles too much. There would be bruises on both of them. He was sure of it.
“Come on, Stiles,” he pleaded, “Wake up.” Finally, he roared. “Stiles?”
It wasn't quite an Alpha voice, but it did the trick. Stiles startled into awareness. He blinked up at Derek, confusion flooding his eyes. Only then, did Derek register that he was straddling hips he'd been longing to grab for months. He quickly eased back and to the side.
“Derek?” Fear and wariness followed on the heels of the confusion, as if Stiles didn't quite believe what he was seeing. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to wake you.”
“Why are you here?”
“I live here.”
“You...?” Stiles let out a shuddering breath. His gaze flitted to one side, and then the other, taking in his surroundings. “Oh, right.” The tension melted from his body. “I'm at your place.”
“What are you doing here?”
Stiles tugged against Derek's grip and Derek released him. He sat up, adjusting his clothing and combing shaking fingers through his hair. Derek rolled to the side of the bed and stood.
“I was,” Stiles began and then yawned. “Looking for you.” He braced his elbows on his knees so he could cradle his head in both hands. “Some sign of where you might be.” He cut his gaze to the side, glancing behind him to the bed. “Must have fallen asleep.”
“You look like hell.”
“I haven't been sleeping. None of us have.” He turned slightly toward Derek. “You came back.”
“You left me a gazillion messages,” Derek said.
That brought Stiles fully awake. He surged to his feet. Only to totter and nearly fall back down. Derek darted forward to brace him at the elbow.
“Another person might answer one of them,” Stiles said.
“I came home,” Derek said, with a shrug.
Stiles clutched at his chest, as if he were having a heart attack. Derek listened and heard his pulse skipping along as it usually did. Maybe a little faster than it should be, but nothing serious.
“Oh, there it is,” Stiles said, “My special Derek Hale feels.”
Derek lifted both eyebrows. “Feels?”
He had to fight down the urge to smile. He couldn't believe Stiles would use that term in casual conversation. It was completely ridiculous and utterly adorable. Especially in light of the horror he'd obviously just been living in his dream.
“That's twitter-speak for a burning desire to hit or hug someone,” Stiles explained, his eyes going glassy again as he added, “Or whatever.”
“Whatever?”
“Yeah, whatever you feels,” Stiles said, he weaved dramatically as he waved a hand. “Like I feels the need to throw up or maybe die.”
“You're babbling,” Derek told him.
“See? More feels. It's been too long, Derek. I've missed our little talks.”
“Sit down, before you fall down.” Stiles obeyed, sinking onto the edge of the mattress again. Derek left him there and walked to the dining table. “Now, tell me what's happening.”
“So you didn't bother to read or listen to any of the gazillion messages,” Stiles said, slurring his words.
“I read the one that said, 'Lassie, come home!'”
Eyes closed, Stiles snickered. “See? That's a play on the movie...which is why I wrote, 'Timmy has fallen down the well.' Or did I send that? I don't remember. Yeah, never mind. Like I said, I don't sleep. So...”
“Bad dreams?” Derek asked as he dragged his luggage across the table to him. He noted exactly when Stiles realized he was trying to help.
“Sorry, yeah,” he said, nodding. He pushed his hair back from his forehead and stared at Derek's face, as if seeing it for the first time. His gaze traced the scratches Derek knew were almost healed. “Did I hurt you?”
“No more than usual,” Derek said, zipping open the leather satchel. “Nothing says welcome home like you punching me in the face.”
“That's not funny,” Stiles said. “I didn't mean it. I was dreaming about...about...”
Their eyes met and Derek gave a terse nod. He held Stiles' gaze for a few moments longer than strictly necessary, before going back to his task. The last thing he wanted was for Stiles to relive whatever had happened in that nightmare. He drew out what he'd gone to fetch, an amulet of red and black stone. They were rare talismans, designed to absorb dark energy. This one was wrapped in tissue paper. As he unfolded the sheets, he revealed a silver key chain setting. He tossed the gift at Stiles, who tried to catch it and failed. Derek sighed and went to retrieve the amulet from the floor.
“Keep this on you at all times,” he said, handing it over. “It should help.”
Stiles turned the smooth stone in his hands, caressing it with elegant fingers. Those fingers. That mouth. His soulful eyes, peering up at Derek. “What is it?”
“Something to stop bad dreams,” Derek said. “You aren't the first people to do that ritual, you know?”
“This will let me sleep?” Stile said, clutching the amulet into a tight fist. His voice broke on the shores of the idea. The forlorn hope in it cut straight to Derek's heart.
For a second he imagined them living in this apartment, Stiles playing the piano, pausing to look up at Derek just like that, like he'd created the world. But reality asserted itself over the idealized scene. Derek didn't own a piano and, even if he did, Stiles wouldn't play it. Stiles would play hip-hop on his laptop. And thrash Derek's orderly existence. He would eat peanut butter from the jar. Pile his crap everywhere. And bounce around like a puppy on meth as he explained the nuances of whatever television show had captured his elusive attention in the moment.
“It should.”
A second later, Stiles gave Derek a preview of the life he was summarily rejecting in his mind. He launched himself off the bed and into Derek's arms, kissing his neck and cheek. He wriggled, ecstatic. Derek lost his breath and most of his reason. His hands rose of their own accord to stroke up Stiles arms.
“Oh, my, God,” Stiles said, between the two kisses. “It's love. I love you. Did you bring one for Scott, too? And Allison?”
And since he needed to know, he pushed away from Derek, breaking the spell. And was gone, over at the table, searching the luggage. Derek wanted to sit down. He could feel the sting of a blush all over his skin and knew he must be red to the roots of his hair. His heart rate had spiked to the point that he might shift. This wasn't happening. This really couldn't be happening. As if he'd spoken aloud, Stiles stopped rummaging and looked over at him.
“What?”
“Boundaries,” Derek said. “Personal space. Has anyone ever talked to you about personal space?”
“Oh, Dude, all the time,” Stiles said.
“Feels,” Derek said, making fists with both hands. Afraid he was going to die any second from whatever had gone wrong with his heart, he added, “Special Stiles feels.”
“You want to punch me? Rip my throat out?” Stiles asked. He bared his teeth, snapping them together. Then, he put on a grumpy face and gruffly quoted something Derek knew intimately, “'Stiles. Stiles. Stiles. God!'”
Derek gave up. Why fight it? The love gods hated him. He'd probably pissed on someone's altar. He closed his eyes and let his chin fall toward his chest. He remembered writing that. How he couldn't get the images of Stiles out of his head. Wet Stiles, panting and pressed against him in the pool, holding him up, saving him. Derek had never felt anything like the electric surge that had jolted through him when their eyes met. And he'd never wanted to feel it again. But he had, just a few weeks later, when a paralyzed Stiles crashed into him. Now all it took was a flexing of the fingers, a moistening of the lips to completely undo Derek's composure.
He'd been so happy to have Jennifer in his life. She'd been the perfect distraction. If only she'd been sane, perhaps he wouldn't have considered Stiles again. But, maybe it wouldn't have mattered in the end, because Jennifer didn't spark off his passion the way Stiles could. He understood all of those Greek poems about lads with womanly limbs and sweet faces, now. He'd actually started to avoid Stiles. Because, while bisexuality was common among his kind, Derek didn't want to go Greek to the extent of pedophilia. Assuming Stiles would even reciprocate. He seemed oblivious.
Or he had, until just this second, when Derek forced himself to look up again. The amulet was taking effect and Stiles was swaying, nearly asleep on his feet. But when he met Derek's eyes he startled, muscles jumping as they sometimes do at the threshold of slumber. In that second or two of lucidity, it seemed as if he could read Derek's every sinful thought. His eyes went round and filled with wonder.
“Or...am I saying that wrong?” he asked. “Maybe it's,” he dropped his head back and closed his eyes, panting out, “'Stiles, Stiles, Stiles.'” He sighed into the dramatic pause, moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue, and added, “'God!'” drawing the word out with an orgasmic breathlessness. He smiled sweetly. Head tilted so his lips were kissable, eyes still shut, he asked, “Was Scott right about the masturbating?”
“Scott?” Just when he thought it couldn't get any worse.
“Oh, yeah,” Stiles said, bringing his chin down. His heavy lidded eyes tried to stay open. “I might have told him about the picture of me you stole off of Facebook. But it's not like he won't smell it, right? So...”
“Smell it?”
“You on me,” Stiles said, speaking slowly as if he were very, very drunk. Or talking to a moron. “Or me on you. After the sex.”
“What?”
“Scott's going to know, so we might as well be up front about it.”
“What?”
“Why do you keep saying what? We are having sex, right?” Stiles took another deep breath and then pouted. “This isn't one of those hilarious misunderstandings, is it? Because, in my defense, I haven't slept in six weeks. Things are very fuzzy in my brain.”
“We aren't having sex,” Derek told him.
“Why not?” Stiles whined. “Why is it always no sex for Stiles?”
“Because you are sixteen. And I'm not. And you're half-witted.”
“And you're not?” Stiles said on a snort, totally disagreeing, apparently.
“You need to go home, Stiles.”
“You're going to let me drive? In this condition? Your amulet has fuck' m'up.”
“Fine. I'll take you home.” He crossed to Stiles and seized an elbow. “Put you to bed.”
“Climb in with me? Oh, you want to, don't you? Don't you? Use your words, Derek.”
Stiles leaned into him, draping a heavy arm around his shoulder. Derek tried to steer the boy toward his door, but Stiles was remarkably hard to steer. He kept sniffing Derek's neck, which was really distracting.
“You've got a bed, Derek. And pillows. And sheets. And...you smell like sunny kitty. Yeah, I'm just...What are we talking about?”
“I have no idea.”
Stiles let his head loll to the side. He squinted at Derek, his heavy lashes fluttering and way too close.
“You are looking at my lips,” he said. “Because you so want to kiss me. You want to kiss me and cuddle me and take my picture.”
“Okay, you can sleep here,” Derek said, “Just stop talking.”
“There it is,” Stiles muttered. And he let Derek take him back to the bed.
The End