Derek ordinarily wakes up when Stiles gets home from work. Not so much because he’s a light sleeper as because Stiles announces his arrival with a loud fanfare Derek might have previously assigned to the birth of a king. Tonight, however, he wakes up feeling disoriented, because it never happens.
Where is he? Home. Night, bed. The room is pitch dark and silent. What time is it?
He looks at the clock: Stiles should have been home two and a half hours ago. What does that mean?
It means Stiles is late. It’s night and he’s late. Work to home, Stiles is late.
Derek’s just thinking about calling him when he realizes—he’s there. Right next to him, Stiles is in bed. Judging from his rapid heartbeat, he’s still awake—anxious, even. Derek takes a second to register the meaning of things around him.
Then he snags a couple fingers in Stiles’ t-shirt. “Hey,” he tries to say; it comes out an airy croak.
Stiles glances at him over his shoulder. “Hi,” he says. “Did I wake you?”
“No,” says Derek irritably. That’s exactly the issue. “What gives?”
Stiles looks away. “I dunno.”
There’s a sudden flashback to the dream Derek was having: he was buying a shit-ton of laundry detergent for visitors from Australia. Stiles was one of them. They couldn’t find a laundromat, so Derek was buying weird, boat-shaped jugs of organic detergent. He tries to mentally calculate how much he spent on it. Stiles is being quiet. “Wha’s wrong.”
Stiles runs a hand through his hair. A splatter of wayward rain hits the window. Derek is temporarily distracted by a flash of annoyance; there was no forecast for rain tonight. He ran the sprinklers for nothing. Stiles is upset. Derek tugs once on his shirt. “Just had a shitty day,” Stiles says. Pauses. “Like, a really shitty day.”
Derek is awake now. He doesn’t bother asking Stiles if he wants Derek to hold him; Stiles usually wants to be held, and the way his nerves are popping in the air around him like sparking bubbles just means he wants it roughly sixty percent more. Derek coils his arms around Stiles’ middle, drags him back against him. “What happened.”
The room rings with silence for a second.
“Matt’s being such a dick lately, I don’t know why,” Stiles bursts out, voice up in his throat like he’s close to tears. “I thought we were, like, work friends, but—I think he—” He breathes for a second, staggered and weird. “I don’t wanna talk about it,” he finishes lamely. He sounds a little surprised by that realization. He also sounds like, left unchecked, he’ll slide right into a panic attack, the slow and bitter kind like water around your ankles. The kind that only comes around in the middle of the night. Derek won’t let it happen.
“Then you don’t have to,” Derek tells him, squeezing his ribs. “I’ll talk. Wanna know about my day?”
“Yes,” Stiles says tearfully.
“Okay.” Derek’s not good at this part, but it seemed to help last time. Something about listening, and being compressed, seemed to help. “Um, I got up at—at ten,” he begins, pulling the blankets up over them both. “I ate a bagel. Whole wheat, with cream cheese. And I had coffee. I put sugar in it. Then I went for a—a run…” He carefully goes through his day, minute event by embarrassingly minute event, feeling Stiles relax incrementally in his arms. Occasionally he has to pause to remember what exact stupid and boring thing he did next, but Stiles just patiently pets his arm hair the wrong direction. Something Derek wouldn’t put up with otherwise; it feels weird. Stiles’ anxiety eventually stops buzzing around his ears, though, settles into a dull hum deep in his bones and against Derek’s chest, and that Derek can handle. “You know, I tried to wait up for you,” he says instead of continuing with his recap of lunchtime. “I was gonna, but there was a really important dream to have.”
Stiles’ toes squirm contentedly at the thought of Derek waiting up for him. “What was the dream?”
Derek tells him about his trip to the weird, Egyptian gas station to buy out their dandelion-scented detergent supply, and Stiles laughs, small at first, and then again, louder, when the absurdity sinks in. That’s when Derek goes for his dick, brushes his pajama pants out of the way and takes it in his hand. Stiles makes a muffled sound. “Fuck Matt,” Derek tells him.
“Mm,” Stiles sighs. “I don’ think he’d like that…”
“Fuck anybody who makes you feel like shit.”
He slowly works Stiles’ dick. It doesn’t take much to make him hard; it never does. Stiles trembles a little, more anticipatory than anxious now. “But what do I do, um, with people who hold me and touch my dick—”
“Whatever you want to,” Derek replies calmly. “Those types, they’ll let you have your way with them.”
“Yeah? My way? What am I, some kind of dastardly—oh, holy shit. Uh.”
“You gonna come?”
“In a fucking second, my god.” He twists a little: “Kiss me?”
Derek does, once, twice. Like he has to be told. Stiles’ mouth isn’t sinful. It’s the opposite. It’s plush and inviting where nothing else on Stiles—except maybe his ass—is either of those things. It’s everything Derek thinks he hasn’t earned yet. He might never deserve this, but he’ll take it until he’s told to stop. He’s lost count of how many times, how long he’s kissed Stiles just now, but Stiles goes a little limp. Then he drops his head back against the pillow and spills all over Derek’s hand. Derek strokes him through it, feels him shudder.
When Stiles finally gets control of his breathing, opens his eyes again, he rolls onto his back, reaches for Derek. “You, um—you want me to—?” He plucks vaguely at Derek’s sweatpants, but Derek shakes his head sleepily.
“Nah. I’m good for now.” He’s hard, as he has to be after watching Stiles fall through an orgasm. But it’s not in the way where he really wants to do anything about it. He just wants to lie in bed and be warm and safe.
Then he realizes Stiles is looking at him sort of desperately, like he’s parsing something out. It lasts long enough to make Derek antsy.
“I knew it, you know,” Stiles whispers suddenly. Derek opens his mouth, and then shuts it, alarmed. Stiles just plows on: “I knew there was something about you, you touched my arm and I knew you were gonna ruin me on every other person forever, and I knew I was gonna let it happen.”
Derek swallows convulsively. He doesn’t get it, doesn’t get it at all. He moves quickly forward, misses Stiles’ mouth and kisses his chin instead. It doesn’t take much maneuvering to get it right, with the both of them working together, but it does take some time, because Stiles is laughing at him.
“M'tired,” Stiles finally sighs against Derek’s slack lips some time later, and, yeah. Tired. Sleep. Back to sleep with the both of them, Derek thinks. He shoves Stiles in a slow sort of way: he’s turned to face Derek at some point, for ease of making out, but Derek coaxes him back the other way. Derek wants to spoon him, probably until they’re both dead.
Stiles is warm and soft, is breathing slow and heavy-limbed already. He lets Derek tug his pajama pants back into place, toss their ankles together in a pile under the sheets.
“Thanks, baby,” Stiles says drowsily, trailing off at the end like he’s already half asleep.
It’ll be a while yet before Derek can get back to sleep, anyway, so he nuzzles into Stiles’ neck and picks up where he left off. “So after lunch I went back to the computer and figured out I had Norton and McAfee on it at the same time…"