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"Don't be nice to me," Derek said, and the moment teetered on the thinnest edge.
He said it sharp, and helpless, and half-turned away. His head was bowed and his nape exposed. In that second Stiles could snap at him or simply leave. He had never allotted much patience for Derek, or kindness, which was fair since Derek paid him back in kind. They were allies tethered through shared history and the pack, but there was never any fellow feeling between them. Just a few tender fleeting gestures of compassion felt at the very worst of times. Boyd's death. Sheriff Stilinski's disappearance.
Stiles could sneer at him in derision, or snort and walk off. But he stepped closer, closer. He put his callused human hand high on Derek's shoulder, fingers lightly gripping Derek's neck. Derek glanced at him edgeways. The look on Stiles' face was open, wondering and tender. Gentle, and kind. "Sweetheart," Stiles quietly said. The word should have been alien from his mouth but it came so naturally. It pierced Derek right through.
**
Don't be nice to me, Derek all but shouted, every day, every decision. Living in destroyed and abandoned buildings, scowling, shoving everyone aside. I don't want pity. I don't want kindness.
**
He saw Stiles and Scott falling over each other like puppies tugging at ears and tails. When he'd first met them they were too small for their hands. But their shoulders have broadened and their voices have deepened and they're grown now, they're men.
Scott is his brother. But Stiles is -
**
They aren't friends.
**
In his bathroom, alone, under harsh lights, Stiles stares at his reflection. He looks tired and thin. He forms the word in his mouth. Sweetheart. Tries to make it natural. Thinks of the one it's meant for. Tries again. Sweetheart, dear. Baby. Sweetheart.
Watches his face. Watches it soften. He's not sure he means it, at first. It would be unspeakably cruel to say it without meaning it, so he has to be sure. He licks his lips. He forms the word in his mouth, then holds it there. Holds it there. The shape of it under his tongue. Until he can taste it, and then he swallows it down.
**
Stiles is not nice and Stiles is not kind. Stiles is a little shit.
**
But to his friends, and to his family. Derek had seen it. He'd seen Stiles and the way he – he'd felt it, rarely. The warmth of being one of those so jealously guarded few.
**
He wants it desperately even as he turns from it. Pushes it away even as he yearns.
But he melts into the grip on his shoulder and his neck, suddenly and embarrassingly pliant.
**
The moment teeters. It pivots. It turns to something new.