Chapter Text
When it started, there wasn’t a sickening crunch as some supernatural creature threw Stiles up against a hard surface (again). There was no car accident or even a brutal lacrosse match to single out as the moment when Stiles’s back finally decided enough was enough; the final nail in the coffin that was his own fucking body was foregoing sleep for nearly three days in a row (also, again) before passing out in his ergonomically unsound chair. That was what was too much: sitting.
And it hadn’t been a kind of pain that he could just sleep through and laugh off later as a sign that he was “getting old” because there hadn’t even really been any pain at all, initially. Not anything noticeable, anyway—Stiles had been pushing through what he’d considered mild discomfort for years, ignoring little twinges in his legs and arms, glaring his way through bleary migraines, all for the sake of surviving and making sure the rest of his pack did the same. Instead, Stiles had opened his eyes… and promptly closed them again when he realized the room was spinning; the intense vertigo he’d experienced had been enough to draw an involuntary whimper at the mere thought of trying to sit up from his awkward angle on the chair.
Following closely after were what felt like fever aches in his joints and almost constant nausea, bad enough that he couldn’t simply grit his teeth and push through it anymore, but still, that was exactly what he tried to do. Despite the worried looks directed at him and exchanged between his dad and Scott and the rest of the pack still stuck in Beacon Hills, Stiles continued to insist that he was fine, that he would be fine, that it was just some weird bug. He’d even tried looking into supernatural illnesses, hexes, anything to explain why even lying down was no longer something he could manage for more than a couple of hours at a time.
The eventual answer had been laughably mundane, in a “sad clown” sort of way: his spine was fucked. As it turned out, all of those years spent running with wolves had taken a toll on his back, gradually, until Stiles couldn’t ignore it anymore. After spending nearly an entire night trying to find a position comfortable enough to just let him sleep, he’d come to only a couple of hours later, all but bound to the mattress by shooting pains traveling from his hip to his neck, and vertigo that persisted even with his eyes scrunched tightly shut.
Stiles let out a pathetic whine at the sound of the CHiPS theme blaring at him from across the room on his desk and opened his eyes just enough to peer at the offending phone screen, now lit up and displaying a picture of his dad’s face, unimpressed with Stiles managing to catch him eating a McRib at one in the morning. He turned to burrow his face into his pillow, letting his eyes slip shut again as he grumbled at himself for not having the foresight to charge his phone before going to bed. After a few seconds, he groaned again, then began the slow process of easing himself out of his blanket cocoon, practically rolling off of the mattress more than pushing himself up.
Once he was untangled from his bedding and mostly upright, his phone went silent, but Stiles didn’t rush as he hobbled over to take his phone off of the charger and call his dad back. They were both used to this routine by now; his dad wouldn’t start to be concerned unless Stiles didn’t manage to call him back after an hour or so, and only then because he was away on a work retreat and unable to simply make the short trip from the sheriff’s station to their house to check in. Still, Stiles all but had to strong-arm his dad into going on the retreat in the first place, after spending nearly a month assuring him that he’d be able to manage a week on his own, like the adult male he legally was.
Stiles tapped out the password to open his lock screen and grimaced at the time on his phone, closer to noon than he would’ve preferred since he was trying to reassure his dad how fine everything was. He tapped on the phone again to open up a text message and sent off an “I’m fine,” even as he knew his dad wouldn’t accept anything less than hearing him directly after missing a call, not after the months Stiles had spent stretching his definition of “fine.” Predictably, the baseline of CHiPS started up again just as he tugged a flannel shirt off of its hanger in his closet, and he swiped the “accept” button on his phone at the same time he began worming his other arm into one of his sleeves. “Hey, Pops,” he opened with, doing his best to keep any signs of strain out of his voice as he transferred his phone to his other hand and reached back to slip into the other sleeve. “How’s day two?”
“Son,” his dad opened with wryly, then humored him by answering, “the complimentary breakfast was fantastic. Beyond compare, really.” Stiles paused in finally managing to wrestle into his second shirt sleeve by leaning against the wall, sensing a trap. At his continued silence, his dad went on, “Though there’s no point in comparing if I don’t know what you ate for breakfast.”
“Nobody likes a braggart, Dad,” Stiles remarked dismissively, pushing away from the wall before using it to start stretching out his arms and chest. “The more you load up on bacon and cinnamon rolls out there, the longer you’ll be having oatmeal when you get back.”
“Stiles.” His tone dropped abruptly into Dad Voice: no-nonsense, but also not angry. “How are you doing?”
“Fine, Dad,” Stiles assured, pausing in his physical therapy exercises to ensure he sounded as ‘fine’ as possible. “You just caught me while I was getting dressed, ‘s all. On my way to the store now.”
He heard a barely restrained sigh before his dad repeated, “Stiles.”
“Seriously!” Stiles insisted, cursing inwardly when he sounded a little breathless. “I’m just going through the doc’s stretches before I head out.”
His dad didn’t bother holding back his sigh this time. “It’s only day two, Stiles; just… take it easy, okay?”
Stiles hummed and braced his hips against his desk so he could tip backward, now stretching out his spine. “Same goes for you—don’t think I don’t know you’re going to get the greasiest burger they have for lunch.” Before his dad sighed in his ear a third time, Stiles added softly, “I’m doing okay, Dad. All right? I got out of bed and I’m driving to the store; it’s Boys Gone Wild over here.”
“You’re taking your meds when you need them?” his dad pressed.
Stiles feigned a wounded gasp, putting his hand to his chest before reaching up further to start in on his neck stretches, pushing against his chin with the tips of his fingers. “I think I’m more hurt by your skepticism, but yes, okay? Yes, I’m taking my meds when I need them.” When he absolutely needed them, but still. “Anyway,” he rushed on when his dad started to speak again, “I’m going to make that store run now before I wind up stuck in that crazy Beacon Hills rush hour traffic. Love you, Pops, make good choices, go Beacon County P.D., bye!”
He hit the “end call” button as he heard his dad tell him to “eat something first,” then took his first dose of Adderall for the day before shoving his feet into a nearby pair of shoes and making the trek downstairs. His phone pinged a few more times as his dad likely texted him further instructions about taking care of himself, threatened to sic Parrish on him, etc., and he turned down the volume before slipping it into the pocket of his flannel, knowing that if he was truly worried about him, his dad would’ve immediately called him back. By the time he was setting foot on the first-floor landing, Stiles was already hobbling a little, since going down stairs seemed to take more out of him than going up, so he took a detour from heading right out through the door as he’d initially intended, and stopped in the kitchen to eat a protein bar and take one of his prescription-strength ibuprofens.
The drive over to the grocery store was thankfully short enough that Stiles’s hip didn’t start to feel cramped; he also managed to score a parking spot right next to one of the shopping cart stalls and was therefore able to grab one right away and lean onto the handlebar with his crossed forearms. He still had just enough vanity left in him to forego using one of the motorized scooter carts, if only because it was tiresome telling off the people in the store who thought he was screwing around or “too lazy to walk.” Instead, he used the cart as a makeshift walker, of sorts, bracing himself against it when he had to as he meandered through the aisles.
Stiles slowed to a stop in front of the produce section and looked over what he could eat without risking inflammation in his back—because that was a thing he actually had to worry about now, especially if he was going to be alone for just under four more days. Passing right over the tomatoes and peppers and his hankering for Mexican food, he was just eyeing the asparagus when someone familiar moved past his peripheral vision, catching his attention. Dark jeans, dark shirt, black leather jacket, and yep: Derek Hale was strolling down the bread aisle.
Since he was still hunched over his cart with a rainbow mountain of produce between them, Derek didn’t appear to immediately notice Stiles’s eyes fixed on him as he moved further away. He watched the werewolf reach out and grab a loaf of wheat bread then drop it into the basket hooked in the crook of his other arm, and tried to process in those few seconds that Derek was back in town, and then wondered when the hell that had happened. Especially considering how frequently they’d kept in touch while Derek was out… finding himself or whatever: at no point in their semi-weekly check-in text exchanges did Derek ever mention that he would be in the Beacon Hills Safeway. Or Beacon Hills, in general.
His mouth opened to call out something to that effect just as Derek’s broad back was rounding the end of the aisle, but then Stiles remembered that technically he hadn’t mentioned anything about being in Beacon Hills either. Or that he’d been in Beacon Hills for the past six months, ever since he dropped out and moved back in with his dad. Stiles tore his gaze away and instead peered down at himself, knowing everything about him looked “tired,” from his hair to the rumpled, worn sleep shirt and pants he hadn’t bothered to change out of before throwing on his flannel. Even his shoes looked pathetic, the heels all but collapsed because he was more often than not too impatient and too hurt to do anything more than walk around on them.
Normally, all of this wouldn’t have bothered Stiles much—he’d been back home long enough that most people who saw him now weren’t shocked to see the sheriff’s son bumming around, even if the pity and speculation still continued. If Stiles had ever felt any inclination to shrink away from humiliating himself, he almost never would’ve left the house; he just couldn’t stand being useless. And the thought of looking and feeling useless in front of Derek Hale had Stiles hunched over and motionless in the grocery store, hoping that nothing drew the werewolf’s attention to his presence.
“Stiles?”
“Fuck me,” Stiles mouthed silently, resting his forehead against his arms for a moment, then he straightened up as much as he could while the sound of Derek’s footsteps drew closer from behind. Despite his embarrassment, the small smile he gave was genuine as he turned back around to face him, only for it to waver at the frown pulling at Derek’s impressively thick eyebrows. He cleared his throat before drawling, “Derek.”
“What are you doing here?” The intensity of Derek’s downturned features made his question seem more like a demand, even if his voice lowered as he drew closer.
“Uh,” Stiles drew out the word, leveling a look pointedly at both Derek’s basket as well as the store around them. “Shopping. Not usually a lot of ulterior motives to be found in a grocery store, unless you think Ellen is a lamia.” He tilted his head in the direction of the lone clerk manning the open checkout lane. “Or, y’know, you want to make produce innuendos.” His brain caught up to the implications of what he’d just said and he cleared his throat again, feeling his face heat up.
He couldn’t help another quick pass over Derek with his eyes and inwardly groaned at himself for it: being away from Beacon Hills had only made the other man even more devastating. Less product in his thick, black hair; more stubble, bordering on an actual, full-blown beard now; ridiculous eyebrows still furrowed over his impossible eyes; a body that looked like it stood proudly on a cliff and declared that no clothes would ever truly contain it, it only chose to be clothed. It was unfair of Derek and the universe to spring this on Stiles now, after spending so long communicating with him via text and the occasional call—over the phone, it had been easy to start dropping the occasional ambiguously flirtatious remark. In person, though…
“I thought you were at school.” Derek’s eyes were taking note of Stiles’s appearance in return, his brows dipping even more severely. “Did something happen? Were you attacked?”
“Nah, man, nothing like that,” Stiles assured, his fingertips toying with the cuffs of his shirt as he bore the brunt of Derek’s scrutiny. “I, uh, haven’t been at school for a while now. Y’know how it is.” Derek’s reply was a single arched eyebrow, one that Stiles returned in kind. “Yeah, you do, considering nothing in your last text mentioned that you would be in the neighborhood.”
Derek was back to frowning again. “I thought you were at school,” he reiterated. “I didn’t see the point. Are you hurt?” he asked, still looking Stiles over like he was trying to solve a puzzle.
“What, because you didn’t check in?” Stiles snorted, misunderstanding Derek’s question on purpose. “Water under the bridge, dude.” He leaned back into the cart as Derek tilted forward, his nostrils flaring like he was trying to sniff out a secret Stiles wasn’t telling him, the cheater. “Hey, personal space!”
Derek’s features were beginning to pinch into “who or what do I need to kill?” territory. “Stiles, what—”
“Derek, there is nothing going on right now, okay?” Stiles cut him off, his voice starting to sound a little clipped as tension began to knot between his shoulders and up into his neck. “There was no attack, I’m not sick, it’s nothing out of the norm, everything’s… everything’s cool. Whatever reason you didn’t tell anyone you’d be in town, it’s all good. We just text each other so we know we’re both still alive, right?”
His throat clicked audibly when he swallowed, and Derek’s eyes zeroed in on it, moving in even closer until Stiles knew there would be no overlooking the wrinkles in his clothes or the dark circles under his eyes, maybe even the lingering scent of all of the medications he had to take now—he’d never bothered to ask any of his supernaturally-enhanced friends if they could smell the Adderall on him, before his list of daily meds extended. He had half a mind to ask Derek about it, but that would only invite more questions that Stiles didn’t feel like answering while he was in the middle of trying to finish up a grocery run before he was too sore to put everything away when he got back home. “What brings you back around here, anyway? Your last text mentioned…” Stiles pretended to think about it for a moment, even though he could recall months of their past exchanges vividly, “Montana?” Derek had punched a moose in the face, and Stiles would never stop giggling about it for the rest of his life. He’d also taken a picture of a flannel shirt on display and sent it to Stiles with the attachment, “You’d sell this better.”
Derek blinked once, as if shaking himself mentally, and his frown lessened in magnitude long enough for him to reply, “I’ve been doing some repairs in the loft and working my way down through the rest of the building. My investment’s only worth anything if it doesn’t wind up condemned.” He delivered the last part of his explanation with all of the deadpan awareness of a member of the Addams family, and Stiles felt his heart clench for a beat—Derek heard it, too, if the way his gaze darted down to his chest briefly before returning to meet his eyes was any indicator. “I would’ve told you if I’d known you would be here.”
Stiles’s own brows narrowed along with his eyes as he squinted at the other man. “But you still would’ve come back if you’d known I was here.” He shrugged under the force of Derek’s hard stare, holding back a wince as the motion pulled at the tension along the right side of his spine. “Just good to know, ‘s all.” He took advantage of Derek’s confusion to start pushing his cart away, deciding to get a couple of cans of soup for easy prep that wouldn’t leave him too exhausted and hurt to eat in the first place. “Anyway, now that we both know we’re in town, don’t be a stranger.”
While he wasn’t surprised by the hand that immediately landed on his shoulder, Stiles was a little surprised when it just settled there over the top of his shoulder blade without pulling him back. He still made sure his exposed neck was angled away from the touch in case Derek tried to leech some of his pain with his sneaky werewolf ways, but just the weight and the warmth of someone’s hand—Derek’s hand—resting like it belonged there had about the same effect, leaving Stiles slightly breathless. He swallowed again, waiting on Derek to say something this time while he cursed himself for feeling so self-conscious, like his pain was something to be ashamed of.
“Stiles,” Derek said his name again, his concern bleeding into his voice so he sounded impatient, maybe a little hurt, even. “Yes, I still would’ve come back if I’d known you were here. What the hell?”
Stiles exhaled sharply through his nose, trying to expel the jumble of nerves clustering between his shoulders and tightening his chest. “I dropped out,” he muttered, not bothering to face Derek this time. “I dropped out and I moved back in with my dad, and I haven’t said anything because it’s humiliating as all hell, all right?”
His frame deflated into a slouch as Derek tugged on his shoulder, turning him around to face him. It had been easy over the phone; whether Derek was cracking one-liners or just lines with varying degrees of subtlety, they’d have Stiles fighting to keep a stupid grin off his face for the rest of the day. But now, in person? All Stiles could do was brace himself for the moment when the flirting stopped, when it turned into pity; when Derek stopped talking to him altogether.
To his relief (and suspicion), Derek let his hand drop away from Stiles’s shoulder, leaving Stiles feeling oddly off-kilter from its sudden absence. “You thought I’d judge you for dropping out,” he summarized flatly, before rolling his eyes. He followed up with, “You’re an idiot.”
“Yes, I feel much better about it all now, thank you.” A smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth as he faced his cart again, resuming his trek to the soup aisle. Derek kept pace with him along the way, so Stiles resisted the urge to lean as heavily on the cart as he had been, even though he knew he’d be dealing with the consequences later.
Stiles grabbed a couple of cans of soup that he didn’t have to strain too much to reach, dropping them in with the meager amount of groceries in his cart, and cursed Derek’s knack for observation when the werewolf asked, “Is your dad working a lot of doubles?”
“Oh, nah. He’s, uh, actually at a work retreat for the rest of the week, so it’s just me making all the bad choices I can, while I can. Hey—” Stiles cut off with an abortive attempt to retrieve a can of soup as Derek picked it up out of the cart and scanned the label, unimpressed with the nutritional information if his skeptical eyebrow was anything to go by. “Dude, can I just get my soup on?”
“I don’t know, can you?” Derek deadpanned, then grabbed the other can and replaced the soup on the shelf. “I don’t even think you can call that soup,” he scoffed over another half-hearted complaint from Stiles, before turning the cart around by the corner of its basket and steering them right back towards the produce section. He continued to ignore the token protests leveled at him until Stiles pointed out that he couldn’t afford all of the ingredients Derek was tossing into the cart, and then Stiles found himself on the receiving end of the patented Hale Bitch Face. “Why would you be paying for it? You’re letting me use your stove. Renovations, remember? This spares me another night of peanut butter sandwiches.”
“Uh-huh.” Stiles’s tone was thick with disbelief, but he also wasn’t going to fight against spending more actual, in-person time with Derek. “Are you planning on using the dishwasher, too?”
“Yes, Stiles, I still remember how to use a kitchen.” Derek mentioned nothing about expecting Stiles to help clean up, and while he was ultimately grateful, Stiles also realized that he still had some pride left to wound. He trailed after Derek as the other man went through the store, putting back some of the other items Stiles had already picked out and adding new ones instead. Before Stiles really had the chance to get his bearings, Derek was paying for everything in the cart and leading the way out to the parking lot.
Stiles was still reeling a little during the drive home, knowing that Derek was going to be in his house, in his kitchen, making soup, of all things. Even after pulling up into the driveway, Derek was already collecting all of the reusable bags from both of their vehicles and carrying them up to the porch before Stiles had time to push open the door and spill out of the Jeep, leaving his lackluster human body to amble up the pavement empty-handed. He let Derek into the house, and then everything after was an almost overwhelming flurry of being pushed into a chair and made to watch someone else cook in his kitchen and put his groceries away since apparently Derek was no longer pretending that any of the stuff he’d bought—apart from the initial loaf of bread—was for himself.
The longer Stiles sat there while Derek made chicken stew from scratch, the clearer it became that what he was feeling wasn’t insecurity, but anxiety; seeing Derek tearing apart an actual rotisserie chicken and drop the carcass in a stock pot to make broth was almost too much for Stiles to comprehend. He started tapping his fingers against the table, one by one, surreptitiously counting them at first to reassure himself that this was all real, and then to brace himself for when he was alone again. When Derek finished up his business in Beacon Hills and went back to traveling between other packs; when he found out that Scott had all but had to push Stiles out of his pack entirely just to keep him from running himself entirely into the ground.
“It’s weird being the one feeling compelled to fill the silence,” Derek announced out of the blue, making Stiles jump a little in his seat and grunt when the motion jolted his back. “There, that. And trying to hide it from me. Stiles, what’s going on?” Derek finished placing the lid on the pot and set the heat on the range, then turned and leaned back against the counter behind him so he could look down at Stiles head-on. “How long has this been going on?” he amended.
Stiles considered not answering for a few seconds, or at least stretching out the truth, but the whole truth of it was that he was already exhausted enough without trying to pretend like everything was fine. Not having to rest for the remainder of the day after making something to eat already made his back feel lighter with relief, like he’d be able to actually sit long enough to watch a show he enjoyed, instead of trying to keep his hip from locking up. It was his fear of becoming used to that feeling, of Derek being around only to fuck off again, that had him confessing honestly, “Months. Almost a year, now.”
“The night you started texting me,” Derek deduced anyway, recalling the random question Stiles had fired off at him in the middle of the night when he’d been unable to sleep, unwilling to talk to anyone who knew what had happened to him. While they’d already checked in with each other after Derek left so they both at least knew the other was still alive, they hadn’t started to keep in touch with each other regularly until Stiles had sent a 2:00 AM text asking Derek where his current favorite place to eat was, and that chain restaurants didn’t count. After some customary griping about what time it was (and an equally customary attempt from Stiles to figure out exactly what time it was to try and pinpoint Derek’s time zone), they’d started up an ongoing game of “Guess Where Derek Is.” As if he was suddenly recalling all of their exchanges just like Stiles was, Derek huffed through his nose, shaking his head. “I guess I should have been asking about you, too.”
Stiles made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, shrugging. “The fact that you didn’t was pretty much the reason I started texting you so much in the first place.” He almost unconsciously began to stretch out his sides by doing one of the exercises that helped stave off migraines, partially as an excuse to break eye contact with Derek. “Some of the pack thought I was a hazard to myself—or more of one, whatever. The rest I pushed away because…” Stiles grunted, breathing deeply a few times as he tried to unknot the right side of his lower back, “I didn’t want anyone pitying me. So. I didn’t tell you about all of…” he gestured toward himself with the hand that wasn’t gripping the underside of his chair, "this because I liked that you and I were still, y’know, the same, and I didn’t want that to stop."
He threw a glance up in Derek’s direction and noticed the frown on his face seemed to change, becoming something different—almost wounded, but deeper. Haunted, Stiles thought, but then Derek was looking away from him, angling his head to peer back at the chicken simmering on the stovetop. He started adding various spices to the stock pot and resumed chopping other ingredients to throw in with all of the focus and precision of a chemist. “You’re so certain it would have,” he said softly, nearly plaintive, and Stiles watched in a close-to-disconnected sort of fascination as Derek’s throat bobbed once, swallowing.
“It’s not… it’s not like I thought you were a dick or anything, dude,” Stiles defended awkwardly. “I thought it would be like… uh… like with Scott all over again,” he managed to keep his voice steady, but it was a close thing as he mentioned the alpha of his former pack. “He didn’t drive me away from the pack or anything; it was just… I mean, what was I going to do? I can’t really be part of it if I can barely even sit in one spot for an hour of semi-decent research, right? He didn’t see it like that,” he added quickly when Derek’s features started to harden. “I did. I convinced myself I had to be more than ‘just’ human so I kept pushing myself too far, and Scott started feeling like he had to give me the bite or something to protect me—shit, Derek!”
Stiles sprang out of his chair and stumbled towards Derek, eyes fixed on the werewolf’s hand even as his supernaturally-enhanced healing was already sealing the wound. He reached out to bring the back of Derek’s previously bleeding hand closer for inspection, shooting him a dirty look when he caught his hazel eyes rolling impatiently. Stiles’s thumb smoothed over the spot just below the knuckle of Derek’s index finger, seeking reassurance after watching the dumbass cut himself with a paring knife. “What the fuck, dude?”
“He tried to give you the bite?” Derek demanded as if Stiles wasn’t now eyeing the leftover traces of blood on the knife squeamishly. Without looking away from him, Derek turned on the faucet and held the blade underneath the stream to rinse it off.
“No, nothing like that,” Stiles corrected hastily, looking back up at Derek’s scowling face and relinquishing the other man’s hand when he registered he was still holding it. “He just started to freak out over the risks I kept taking; he said everything was getting too dangerous and I was getting too reckless, and that it was, I don’t know, triggering some kind of instinct he had to keep his pack safe and strong.”
“Was Deaton around for any of this?” Derek’s voice was low but rough, almost a growl. Stiles abruptly noticed how close they were still standing to each other at almost the same time Derek did, and they both leaned away incrementally, Stiles’s brows furrowing in confusion as Derek took a slow, deep breath through his nose. He turned away long enough to turn off the water, then grabbed another knife from the block and went back to chopping up the rest of a carrot on the cutting board while Stiles watched him, feeling off-balance. “If Scott’s been feeling that way for this long, his emissary should have said something: they promote and ensure balance in a pack, and if their alpha is that desperate to force the bite on someone—even for their ‘protection’—then who exactly does that remind you of?”
Stiles swallowed, reliving the rush of nerves that had him agreeing with Scott that distancing himself from the pack was the best course of action: he’d already drawn the same comparison to Peter then, and hadn’t wanted to be responsible for pushing Scott down the same route. “Good ol’ Uncle Creeper,” he quipped half-heartedly. Before he could begin to worry in earnest about how much his self-pity party had affected the balance of the entire pack, Derek guided him backwards to sit at the table again, his hands like two searing brands on his shoulders as he kept them there, even through two layers of clothing. “What’re we going to do?” Stiles asked, resolutely not thinking about how not wrong it felt having Derek standing so near, how easy it had always been to find themselves in close proximity of each other without even being aware of moving.
“We’re not going to do anything,” Derek answered immediately, his grip on Stiles’s shoulders tightening for a moment, as if making sure he stayed put. He dipped forward even further to ensure that he had Stiles’s undivided focus, then continued, raising his voice when he anticipated an argument, “Either of us approaching Scott is a bad idea—you’ll wind up being pushed out of the pack for good, and I’ll just be another werewolf encroaching on his territory.”
“But you’re a Hale,” Stiles said, simultaneously confused and relieved that his last tie to his former life in Beacon Hills wasn’t moving on without him the same as everyone else.
“That’s why there would be a problem,” Derek explained, easing up his hold on Stiles but still leaving his hands in place. Stiles only half-noticed that Derek’s thumbs started to massage his shoulders—just tiny, circular strokes around his collarbones, as if he was seeking out where Stiles’s muscles were most knotted. Instead, most of his attention was taken up by how close Derek’s face still was to his own, how it was still next to impossible to describe the color of his eyes when he wasn’t wolfed out. He remained silent, considering as Derek said, “Regardless of how Scott normally feels, right now he’s a werewolf whose pack is falling apart, and—hey—that’s not your fault.” He gave Stiles a little shake from side to side, just enough movement to jolt him out of the guilt he started to sink back into. “He’s an alpha acting more and more on instinct, and since this territory has belonged to my family for generations, he’s not going to want me around unless I submit to him.”
Before Stiles could undo all of the stretching he’d done and tense up again, Derek tapped his fingers against him, lightly thumping on the thick fabric of his flannel. “All I’m going to do is tell Deaton to actually follow through on the promise he made to hold the territory in trust for his former alpha. Whatever loyalty he may have sworn to the Hales, I don’t care. He’s stood by and watched while his new alpha’s pack falls apart, and if he doesn’t do anything to try and restore balance,” he spat out bitterly, “then it won’t matter anymore if there’s a Hale around; the territory will be considered ‘open’ by neighboring packs and it won’t be too much of a struggle for them to replace Scott if he’s alone, true alpha or not.”
“How are—we’re just…” Stiles sputtered, his thoughts racing almost too fast to put words to. “We leave everything up to Deaton, just like that?” He winced almost imperceptibly at the hopeful uptick to his question, so used to being in the thick of things that it was difficult not to expect himself getting involved—which was part of what had led to this whole mess in the first place.
“Not exactly ‘just like that,’” Derek amended after a pause, as if he’d expected Stiles to put up more of a fight. “He helped put Scott where he is now, and he gets to handle everything that comes with it. If he doesn’t, then he has to deal with the remaining Hales and try to negotiate the terms of the shared territory between us and Scott.” He huffed, his lips tilting at the corners in a wry grin. “He’ll find himself in a situation that no one enjoys: forging a truce with Peter.”
Stiles’s responding snort sounded like more of a grunt as his nerves settled, leaving him with a persistent twinge in his side and the reminder that he had yet to take the rest of his pain meds since returning from the store. Derek’s hands were still cupped around his shoulders, unmoving. After a beat, he withdrew just enough to put some space between them, and Stiles felt an odd pang over the small amount of distance after noticing again how closely Derek had just been leaning into his personal space. “I was kind of expecting you to already be halfway to Deaton’s by now, or at least trying to call him for answers.”
“That doesn’t always work out so well for me,” Stiles pointed out wryly, doing his best to refrain from squirming in place despite the knots along his back and neck threatening to become something worse. He took advantage of the opening Derek had left to lever himself out of the chair, keeping his eyes averted from the other man’s when he couldn’t simply go from sitting to standing without bracing himself against the table for a few seconds. He still felt a little thrown when Derek continued to stay in place, merely rising to his full height along with him and letting his hands fall back to his sides. “Dude, I’m not going to later either,” he smirked, trying to rub his hip as surreptitiously as possible. “I really haven’t had anything to do with wolfy stuff in months. Well, other than you.”
Instead of saying anything, Derek merely reached out for Stiles’s side as if he intended to slip his hand underneath his layers of clothing and touch him directly, but froze in place when Stiles flinched and braced more of his weight against the table. “Don’t,” Stiles protested, his vulnerability making him sound harsher than he’d intended. “I’ve been getting by; I’ve been handling all of—” he indicated his side with a sweep, “this, and I don’t need you taking any of my pain only for it to come back again because that is going to suck when you leave.”
Derek’s arm dropped back to his side but he moved closer to Stiles, regardless. He was silent, looking him over long enough that Stiles started to feel pulled apart and pinned underneath his gaze. “Stop assuming that I don’t think you’re ‘worth’ anything because you’re human or in pain. I left Beacon Hills because I had to, and I stayed away because I thought I was doing everyone here a favor.” He brought his hands back up but made a show of replacing them on Stiles’s shoulders, over his shirts. He went quiet again for a moment, frowning in thought, before stating as if what he was about to say wasn’t a monumental piece of information, “You’re my anchor.”
Stiles wasn’t so much rendered speechless as he was suddenly unable to string words together coherently. When his sputtering turned into a jumbled mess of unfinished questions, Derek went on just as matter-of-fact, “You have been for a while. You’ve never abandoned me, even when I gave you every reason to; why can’t I do the same for you?”
“You don’t owe me for any of that,” Stiles insisted, words coming back to him. “I didn’t do anything as, like, a favor—”
“I know,” Derek interrupted, huffing in exasperation. “Neither am I. Now sit down and let me finish making your fucking soup, Stiles.”
“I thought it was your soup, too,” Stiles retorted contrarily, even as he sank back into the chair. He noticed Derek’s smug expression and made a face up at him, which only drew another huff from him—this time one of amusement. “Can I get my pain meds or would that deprive your wolfy side of playing fetch?”
Derek merely rolled his eyes and returned to adding all of the roughly-chopped vegetables to the stockpot. “How bad is it?” He continued to face the stovetop, even if his attention was still directed toward the human sitting behind him. “How do you usually ‘deal’ with it?” He scraped the last of a heap of carrots and celery into the bubbling water before turning down the heat and replacing the lid on the pot. He spared one prompting glance over his shoulder at Stiles as he grabbed a pan and set it on the burner next to the pot, his eyebrow lifting in a silent “well?”
“The usual,” Stiles answered evasively, then gave Derek an eye roll of his own when the werewolf only lifted his other eyebrow to join the first, all while somehow managing to add butter to the pan without looking away from him. “Oh my God,” he muttered, rolling his head back on his neck and to the side in another round of stretching. “Meds, a bunch of different exercises from physical therapy, walking for a half hour a day, avoiding nightshades when my back flares up really bad, that sort of thing. Being able to move helps with the ADHD stuff, too.”
Derek nodded slowly, adding a mound of leeks he’d chopped to the pan and coating them with the melting butter. “Okay. Take your meds, eat, and then you can take me out for a walk.” He was back to smirking again, likely hearing the way Stiles’s heart fluttered in his chest over Derek’s dry delivery. “This will need a few hours to simmer before it’s ready, anyway.” Before Stiles could point out that he’d tried to buy the cans of soup so he’d have something for lunch in the first place, Derek started throwing together a salad with some of the chicken he’d set apart from what was simmering on the stove.
“Y’know,” Stiles said with a grunt as he pushed himself back up onto his feet, “the worst part about you cracking a dog joke is that nobody would believe me if I tried to tell them you just cracked a dog joke.” He reached his arms up over his head and extended his fingertips towards the ceiling, letting out an involuntary groan from the back of his throat when the stretch pulled at the muscles in his back in just the right way. He brought them back down when he heard the leeks start to sizzle loudly in the butter, and glanced over in time to catch Derek staring at where his shirt had ridden up a little.
Derek’s eyes widened before he hastily pulled the pan away from the heat, giving the leeks a stir before setting it back down. Instead of blushing the same way Stiles knew he was, Derek gave him an easy smile that wasn’t quite a smirk but was still annoyingly pleased with himself. “I was right,” he commented lowly, the confident lilt of his voice unfairly making Stiles’s heart flutter again. “You would’ve sold that shirt better.”
Stiles started sputtering for a second time before declaring, “None of this is attractive at all,” his eyes narrowing when Derek merely grinned wider. “And listening to my heartbeat is cheating,” he added, pointing at him in accusation.
“So, you’re aware you just lied,” Derek noted, still smiling as he finished up tossing the salad. “Interesting. Take your pain meds, Stiles.”
“And there’s the patented Derek Hale Bossiness that I didn’t miss. At all.” The sound of the werewolf’s soft, teasing laughter filled the kitchen as Stiles opened the cupboard where they kept the cereal: a reminder to take his pain meds with food, if not to just take them at all. He continued muttering indignantly as he set up his first handful of pills for the day, but with a smile threatening to take over his entire face. Then he spent all of lunch with a pleasant thrill thrumming through him, nearly overpowering the sensation of the right side of his back attempting to pull his muscles into spasms while his meds fought to do their job.
After they were done eating, Derek added more water to the stockpot and turned the burner on the stove down to its lowest setting, then went outside to walk laps around the block with Stiles while he kept an ear out for the soup’s progress. Even if Stiles initially found amusement in being out in the open with Derek Hale, former murder suspect (even if Stiles was partially responsible for that suspicion, twice), the repetitive scenery of the neighborhood was boring, and when combined with Stiles’s earlier drive to and from the store, he had to cut his usual half-hour walk short by about fifteen minutes in order to try and avoid becoming a tired, irate lump on the couch for the rest of the day. If Derek noticed the slight drop in his mood, he didn’t comment on it, instead pushing him down onto said couch before going to check on the soup and clean up everything he’d used for lunch.
Despite his best efforts to avoid otherwise, the muscles in Stiles’s right side began to ache along his spine, making it all but impossible for him to find a comfortable position. By the time Derek returned to the living room, Stiles was scowling at everything, tucked into the side of the couch with a throw pillow wedged tightly into the space between the cushion and his lower back. Just like he’d muscled his way into Stiles’s house, Derek dropped down next to him on the furniture and looped an arm around him, pulling him closer with a quiet snort when Stiles grumbled about being bullied.
Before he could complain about how he’d just gotten the pillow placed where he wanted it, Stiles cut off abruptly with a whining groan when Derek’s fingers dug into the knotted muscle of his hip with unrelenting precision. A swear caught on Stiles’s lips as Derek kept fucking digging, pushing through the hard muscle and refusing to relent until it practically unraveled underneath his fingertips, leaving Stiles panting and slumped against him as he soothed over the spot. Then he was seeking out knot after knot in the same fashion before Stiles could catch his breath, pushing, pulling, rubbing until Stiles was embarrassingly close to sobbing or drooling. Or both.
Once Derek couldn’t find any more places to torture him, he manhandled Stiles again until he was slumped helplessly against the werewolf’s ridiculous body, his face burrowed into the crook of Derek’s neck. Broad, warm hands started smoothing over Stiles’s back, tracing the lines and planes of him in slow patterns, and Stiles caught himself nuzzling into Derek’s shirt, his own fingers splayed and rubbing the other man’s sides. He breathed in through his nose, long and slow, inhaling the scent of leather and musk and deodorant and Derek, and the sigh he let out sounded like more of a moan to his ears. “Are you pain-draining me?” he mumbled, surprised by how slurred his speech was.
But he was even more surprised when Derek seemed to actually understand him, half-explaining, “It’s a pack thing.” And the most astonishing thing was how he sounded just as drunk on couch cuddles as Stiles did.
“I’m… human?” Stiles rolled his eyes at himself, then thumped his forehead against the solid curve of Derek’s shoulder when the other man confirmed patronizingly, “Yes, Stiles, you’re still human.” Before he could say anything about muscle relaxers and superpowered werewolf massages inhibiting his ability to think straight, Stiles found himself being adjusted again like a doll until his hips were slotted right up against Derek’s so he was all but nestled firmly in his lap.
“Humans in packs feel the bonds, too,” Derek continued haltingly, his hands migrating further and further down Stiles’s body until they were working their magic on his ass, the heat of them practically searing through the thin material of his sleep pants.
Stiles’s breath stuttered, both at the sensation of Derek’s unrelenting fingers chasing away all of the tension in his ass, as well as the slight embarrassment he felt knowing that his pants were also too thin to do anything about hiding how hard he was. He was mostly distracted from shrinking away in mortification by the feel of Derek’s lips and stubble brushing all over the side of his face, almost like open-mouthed kisses, hot around the shell of his ear. Thanks to an abortive jerk of his hips, Stiles could also feel Derek’s mutual interest pressing against him through the rough denim of his jeans.
His next thrust was more intentional, experimental, drawing out a hissed “Jesus, Stiles” from the werewolf underneath him. Stiles only moaned again, caught up in the friction and heat between them, until he was jolted out of the moment by the sound of CHiPS blaring from his shirt pocket. He pushed away from Derek, falling backward onto the other side of the couch and nearly fumbling his phone onto the floor.
Stiles swiped to accept the call, finding mild consolation in the sight of Derek still sprawled and dazed, his ruffled hair and clothes the only other visible evidence of what they’d been doing; in contrast, the side of Stiles’s face felt warm where Derek had rubbed against him, heralding the beginnings of beard burn. He cleared his throat before opening with, “Hey, Dad,” and grimacing when he still sounded a little winded.
“Stiles? Are you doing okay?” His dad already sounded concerned. “Did you actually take your muscle relaxer or were you just going to claim you did so we’d make it through to my next paycheck before you need another refill?”
The most annoying part about this conversation was that Derek was listening in, already coming out of his temporary haze and frowning as he sat up, straightening his clothes. “Wha—no! I mean yes, I took all of my meds!” He mirrored Derek’s skeptical eyebrow with one of his own, then stuck out his tongue when the other man snorted disbelievingly and left the room to go check on the soup again. “Like you suddenly know everything about me,” Stiles muttered under his breath, knowing the werewolf would hear him.
Of course, because his mouth was right next to the phone he was still holding, so did his dad. “If you want to call a couple of decades of compiled experience sudden, sure,” he said wryly, before assuring, “I believe you, kiddo. Just let a parent worry about his son, all right?”
“Fine,” Stiles made a show of heaving a put-upon sigh. “I really am okay, though: ate lunch and everything. And it wasn’t grease on a bun. Speaking of which…”
“I didn’t have a burger for lunch,” his dad stated plainly. “And heating up what you call ‘salt in a can’ doesn’t make your choices any better than mine.”
Stiles cleared his throat imperiously. “Okay, one: I am a young adult, and am therefore practically expected to eat food that I will regret later. Two: I didn’t have soup for lunch, I had a salad—I’m having soup for dinner, made from scratch, because apparently that’s a thing Derek knows how to do.” He found himself holding his breath, for some reason, while waiting on his dad’s response.
There was a pause, and Stiles noticed that the sounds of Derek moving around in the kitchen had ceased as well since the mention of his name. “Derek Hale?” His dad’s tone was pointedly neutral; the one he used on first-time offenders and teenagers who weren’t his son to get them to break and spill everything they were holding onto.
Stiles made a face, rolling his eyes even if his father couldn’t see him. “You don’t have to say it like he was accused of murder or anything like that. Twice.” He heard the general clatter of food prep resume in the kitchen and smirked, pretty sure that Derek had just similarly rolled his eyes at him.
“By you,” his dad was quick to point out. There was another, briefer pause, and then he asked in a much quieter voice, “Any particular reason he’s back in town? Do I need to come back early? I can—”
“No! No, there’s nothing like that, Dad, promise,” Stiles interrupted, waving his free hand around at the empty living room. “Derek’s just making sure his building doesn’t collapse. We ran into each other at the store and he followed me home.”
“Because you were going to eat salt in a can,” Derek interjected, suddenly passing by him on his way back to the opposite end of the couch. He smirked at the dirty look Stiles shot him, then spoke up louder as he sat down, “Sheriff Stilinski.”
“Derek,” Noah returned, now shifting into the dry, trolling voice that never meant anything good for Stiles. “Careful: if you feed him, he’ll never leave.”
“How does that joke even work? He’s the one making dinner,” Stiles argued. He shot dual affronted glares at his phone and at the werewolf sitting next to him when Derek added “lunch, too” at the same time his dad corrected that it wasn’t a joke, it was a warning. For Derek. “Oh, haha,” Stiles laughed sarcastically, resolutely ignoring a sudden rush of anxiety over being “too much” for Derek.
His dad’s chuckle was easygoing, inadvertently reassuring him before he could start to feel like a burden. “Well, at least it doesn’t sound like you’ve been hiding another camping trip from me, so that’s something I don’t need to worry about. Though I am thinking Derek showing up the moment I’m out of town is a hell of a coincidence.”
Stiles felt his face start to redden: his dad was aware that he and Derek kept in touch, and there may or may not have been previous instances of commenting that Stiles hadn’t said anything about his “boyfriend” recently, and Stiles protesting that it “wasn’t like that, not really.” Not that he could refute his dad’s implications now—not when Derek was sitting right next to him. Not when they’d just been dry-humping each other in the living room. He bit back a curse when doubt started to seep in, picking apart what Derek had meant by it being “a pack thing.”
He felt a rush of gratitude for his dad when he seemed to pick up on his momentary discomfort and veered slightly away from the topic to say, “I don’t care if you’re both adults now—no using my house to run underground poker games or a brothel. If you get dragged in by the cops, I’m not bailing you out.”
“Well, since we’re not the plot of an eighties movie, I think your house is safe.” Stiles relaxed, sinking back into the cushions after realizing just how much he’d tensed up. “I’m doing okay, Dad,” he reiterated, and for once none of that statement felt like a half-truth, which he found to be equal parts relieving and exhausting. “Don’t have too much fun out there with Gilhouley: I’m not bailing you out.”
“Love you, kiddo. I’ll wait to check in with you until tomorrow so I don’t look like I’m nagging.”
“Uh-huh, and it has nothing to do with you actually going out to have fun during your office party. Love you, too, Pops,” Stiles went on over his dad’s protests, hoping that he’d spend the rest of the day enjoying himself instead of worrying about his son. “Make legal but questionable choices!” He hit the “end” button just in time to hear his dad sigh his name in the long-suffering manner he was used to, then set his phone to “silent” before dropping it on the coffee table.
He found it more than a little challenging to look in Derek’s direction again after ending the call, caught up in the awkward emotional whiplash of wondering if Derek was actually interested, or if it was just more fun werewolf shenanigans. Stiles had never been one to shy away from research, though, so he abruptly turned to face him and asked, “So, has all of this been a pack thing?” Perhaps he’d asked a little too abruptly, considering the way Derek froze up in surprise. “You said, you know, pack bonds and stuff, that you weren’t taking my pain but then…” he gestured at Derek’s corner of the couch like he was showcasing an instant replay.
Stiles’s apprehension all but bled out of him as the self-assured tilt of Derek’s mouth returned. “That wasn’t a pack thing, Stiles.” His arm stretched over the back of the couch, looking more at ease than Stiles could recall ever seeing him before, and leveled a look at him that had Stiles suddenly feeling like he was perhaps wearing too many layers of clothing for the climbing temperature in the room. Derek’s visible, slow inhale as he took in the evidence of Stiles’s attraction to him was as unfair as everything else about him, especially when he grinned and said pointedly, “I’ve never wanted to fuck Isaac.”
“And we’re back,” Stiles uttered faintly before he could stop himself, heat pooling in his groin at the intensity in Derek’s low voice. Equally of their own volition, the next words out of his mouth were, “It’s not just because I’m your anchor or whatever?” He swallowed audibly when Derek leaned across the length of the couch and into his space, automatically licking his lips and feeling another pulse of warmth when Derek’s eyes were seemingly drawn to them.
“Stiles.” Derek moved even closer until they may as well have been kissing. “It’s not because you’re my anchor. Fuck, you don’t even realize the sounds you were making, do you?” His hand settled back over Stiles’s hip, where all of this had started, and Stiles could feel his thumb arcing slowly back and forth like a brand. “Like that,” Derek all but whispered, eyes still on Stiles’s mouth, which Stiles realized was open and that he’d just let out another moan without even noticing. “Being my anchor is just a bonus—my wolf might want you, but I want you, too.”
Derek’s fingers had inched from Stiles’s hip to the inseam of his sleep pants, where there was no mistaking his hardening dick. He tucked in to the side of Stiles’s face to trace his nose over the same spot he’d just left raw, scenting him as he flattened his hand so he could palm Stiles through his pants. He angled his wrist so the heel of his hand pressed down just right, so Stiles swore, already panting, and tilted away enough to glare at him. “You are not making me come in my pants like I’m still in high school, you asshole.”
The grin Derek flashed him wasn’t reassuring as much as it was smugly triumphant, and then he shrugged. “Fair enough,” was all the warning Stiles was given before Derek stood up… and then dropped down onto his knees on the floor, in front of Stiles’s legs. He kept his eyes on Stiles’s for a sign to stop as his hands splayed over the younger man’s thighs, pushing them apart, and then as he shifted his hold to pull Stiles closer towards him and the end of the seat. He only paused when Stiles’s breath hitched, looking up at him with his fingers dipped into the elastic waistbands of his pants and underwear.
Stiles shook his head, then cursed and said in a rush, “I meant keep going, I’m just—I’m… oh, shit!” Derek lifted him off the couch just enough to tug his pants down, freeing Stiles’s cock. He peered up at him again, the palms of his hands smoothing over Stiles’s thighs, and then Derek curled his fingers around his erection, gripping it just enough to hold it steady while he enveloped the tip with his mouth. Stiles’s hips bucked involuntarily and he hissed in pain before he could bite back the noise, prompting Derek to immediately pull off of him.
Before he could even think of anything to say, Stiles found his favorite throw pillow wedged between his lower back and the couch, followed by his legs being propped up on the coffee table on either side of the other man in front of him. Derek was lightly massaging his hips again, touching more to soothe than to chase away pain, and then his mouth was back on Stiles’s dick even as Stiles started to plead for him to keep going. The younger man lost himself in how hot Derek felt around his cock—how hot he looked as his eyelids fluttered shut for a moment like he couldn’t help it, how he worked his way down Stiles’s shaft as far as he could go and then just sort of angled his face into the crease of Stiles’s thigh and breathed in as much of his scent as he could through his nose.
Stiles probably would have been embarrassed had Derek not seemed so turned on already, the grip he had on his thighs tightening, holding him down against the couch as he worked over Stiles’s cock from the root to the slit. All Stiles could do was literally hold on, the fingers of one hand burying into Derek’s hair and tugging while the other white-knuckled the arm of the couch. When Derek pulled back again, careful not to dislodge Stiles’s hand, it was only to dip in at a slightly different angle, freeing up one hand to pay just as much attention to the younger man’s balls.
“Fuck,” Stiles bit out, too close to being overwhelmed by the sight of Derek sucking him off and instead sinking into the couch behind him, throwing his head back on the cushion so he could stare dazedly up at the ceiling. His fingers kept pulling gently at Derek’s hair, carding it, scratching lightly over his scalp, and just focusing on the feel of it against his skin, while the werewolf’s responding moans and rumbles stimulated Stiles’s dick until it was too much. His orgasm took him by surprise, stuttering out of him almost too quickly and barely giving him enough time to try to warn Derek, who made his attempt useless anyway by doubling down stubbornly until his nose was up against the thatch of dark, wiry hair at the base.
“Oh my God,” Stiles choked, distantly aware of the sound of something crashing after one of his legs kicked out on the coffee table. “You…” He sucked in air that somehow felt both too thick and too thin at the same time, trying to will his brain to come back online, and looked back down in time to see Derek grinding his own erection against the heel of his hand while he continued to lap at Stiles’s cock to the point of overstimulation. The sight of the werewolf coming in his pants like Stiles hadn’t wanted to was, ironically, the hottest thing Stiles had ever seen, erasing all capability of coherent thought.
And somehow became even hotter when Derek more or less collapsed into him afterward, wrapping his arms around Stiles’s waist and burrowing his face into the crease of his thigh, all while a low rumble continued to resound from his chest. Stiles returned his hand to Derek’s hair, not quite sure when it had been removed, and stroked through it while they both waited on their breaths to return to normal. He could feel the cooling sweat on his skin, in his hair, under his bare ass on the couch, and Stiles gradually started to actually care enough about it to feel self-conscious; and he didn’t even have to worry about come in his shorts.
As if he’d been thinking along the same lines, Derek mumbled, “I’m going to borrow your washing machine,” though he didn’t seem particularly fazed. In fact, he tugged Stiles’s pants off of his legs completely before rising to his feet, leaving him on the couch feeling like grunge Winnie-the-Pooh. “You should go start up the shower.”
Stiles scowled up at him, irate. “Way to romance a guy,” he griped. “Just because I’m a dude doesn’t mean I don’t—”
“I’m going to throw our clothes in for a wash and then join you in the shower,” Derek stated calmly, then snorted in amusement at Stiles’s eloquent, “oh.”
He stood in front of him expectantly for a few seconds until Stiles realized what he was waiting for and obstinately shimmied back into his underwear. “I’m not walking around the house naked,” he declared, though he did slip out of his flannel shirt and toss it at Derek’s widening smirk. “Oh my—you’re not either; you could give Mrs. Sherman a heart attack!” he protested fruitlessly as Derek tugged his shirt up and over his head, unconcerned. He watched as Derek turned and strode out of the room, distracted by the swell of his ass in his underwear, then called out after him when he was out of sight, “You’re only using me for my appliances!”
Derek’s only answer was a repeated command to go start the shower, which, honestly, Stiles hadn’t had one since late yesterday morning, so he was probably due. “Nice to know you’re still bossy as ever, by the way: it’s comforting when you can count on some things never changing.” He huffed a laugh as he started trudging up the stairs, able to make his way to the second-floor landing with more ease than when he had to descend the stairs.
By the time the hot water from the showerhead was hitting the back of his neck, the post-sex haze and the drowsy effect of the muscle relaxer he’d taken were working in tandem with the heat, so when Derek stepped into the shower it was to find Stiles leaning against the wall with his head tilted back and his eyes closed. He chuckled when Derek’s hands immediately tipped his head away from the stream, assuring that he hadn’t fallen asleep standing up, and then after explaining how the pain meds worked, Derek proceeded to manhandle him through the rest of the shower the way he had throughout the rest of the day. Not that Stiles was complaining about the sensation of Derek’s hands working shampoo into his hair or helping him soap up the parts of his body that were tougher to scrub now with his back refusing to bend that way—which pretty much meant his shoulders, back, and feet; some days he had trouble with just reaching his junk, but he wasn’t going to bring that up while he was enjoying being touched so much.
The rest of the late afternoon and evening was spent in much the same fashion, with Derek maneuvering and bossing Stiles around his own house while Stiles griped at him for it, but actually kind of reveled in not wearing himself out from pain and exhaustion before 4:00 PM. By the time dinner rolled around, Derek had thickened the chicken stock with starch so they were both able to fill up on stew and bread until Stiles was glad he’d put on another pair of sleep pants instead of seeing if Derek would help him battle his way into some jeans. Afterward, Derek tried to push him back onto the couch while he cleaned up the kitchen alone again, but Stiles amazingly had enough energy to help load up the dishwasher, then sit at the table and annoy Derek while he scrubbed the stuff that wouldn’t fit.
He wasn’t entirely sure what the reasoning was for Derek not leaving at the end of the day, but he also didn’t question it when the other man’s head-to-toe wall of solid muscle pressed up against him in his bed, nosing at the nape of his neck. Stiles drifted, just shy of falling asleep, warm and full and aggressively snuggled by a werewolf, but he couldn’t quite ignore the tension along his spine, throbbing in his hip and making it all but impossible for him to find a comfortable position for his head. The more he tried to subtly squirm around on the mattress, the more he could practically hear Derek’s mounting frustration.
Stiles turned around to face him, to apologize and explain that it always seemed to get worse at night, no matter how tired he was before he tried going to bed, but Derek spoke first, his voice seeming loud in the quiet stillness of the room even though he was barely speaking above a whisper. “Stiles, just let me take some of your pain.” He inched closer until the space between them was almost nonexistent, the glimmer of light from the porch and the half-moon just enough to limn the side of his face, reflect in his eyes. “I’ll still be here when it comes back.”
Letting out a shuddering exhale, Stiles nodded, barely, not trusting his voice. Derek’s arms shifted around him, pulling him in until their foreheads were touching, until their legs were tangling with each other’s, and then one hand slipped underneath Stiles’s shirt and splayed firmly across his lower back. Stiles’s eyes slipped firmly shut, his body tensing as he braced himself for the absence of pain, and then it was bleeding out of him, fading away, and it seemed to take the air out of his lungs with it.
His eyes opened wide again in shock, stunned by the sudden lack of hurt, the sharp contrast immediately drawing attention to just how much Stiles had been coping with for so long—even before he’d had to move back in with his dad; likely before he’d even finished high school in the first place. The relief was too much, like Derek had pulled gravity from the room, leaving Stiles floating and giddy, but also overwhelmed, discovering that it was possible to feel this pain-free even while knowing that it was only temporary. He’d tried to prepare himself for the moment when everything came back, but he’d been right: there was no way to go back without being hurt again.
Derek was shushing him, tucking Stiles’s face into the crook of his neck and pressing kisses into his hair, and Stiles realized he was crying: big, wracking sobs shaking his entire body as he wailed brokenly. He alternated between thanking Derek and cursing him out, clinging to him while Derek continued to murmur nonsense at him, rubbing slow circles over every part of Stiles that he could reach. “I’ll still be here,” he repeated, over and over, a promise Stiles could barely hear over the sound of his own harsh breathing until it started to sink in, become something he could hold onto and use to anchor himself.
As his sobs tapered off, he could feel his limbs becoming both heavier and lighter in the way that heralded sleep, when he wasn’t just finally passing out from exhaustion as was often the norm. Before speech became too much effort, Stiles mumbled “thanks” into Derek’s chest, his voice rasping and thready. Derek still understood him all the same, nuzzling over the top of his head again and squeezing him in a full-body embrace that made him feel grounded, protected, and “you’re welcome” was the last thing he heard before he drifted off completely.