Teen Wolf Fic: We Are Not Tragedies (Part Two)
Title: We Are Not Tragedies (Part Two)
See full header at Part One.
Part Two
Stiles snatches a handful of Derek’s shirt and holds tight. The fact that his first act upon regaining control of his body post-demon-possession is holding back an angry werewolf probably says something unflattering about his sense of self-preservation, but it has the desired effect. Derek stops trying to pull away and stays braced over Stiles, caging him with his limbs.
“Wait,” Stiles rasps. He’s cold, and achy, and kind of damp, and he’s shaking a bit, but none of that seems so bad, because he can feel his body like it’s his own now. It no longer feels like watching a news report from his senses. Derek is a heavy cloud of anger above him. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut. “Hey, I’m sorry in advance, but I’m going to need you to not run away just yet.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Derek sounds breathless, like he’s just gone ten rounds against the bad guy of the week which, okay, could be a loose interpretation of what just happened. In any case, Stiles feels his heart slamming against his sternum, probably unnecessarily loudly from Derek’s point of view, and all Stiles really did was lie here, so he can’t blame Derek for being winded.
“Actually, could you-“ When Derek starts to pull away again, Stiles tugs him back. “No! Stay. Please. Could you just…” Stiles can’t say “hold me” to Derek Hale, not even now, when he can feel Derek’s come starting to leak out of him.
Luckily Derek, master of the unspoken, is able to interpret. He wraps his arms around Stiles and tugs. Stiles makes it to a sitting positions and lets Derek maneuver them until Stiles is comfortably settled back against Derek’s warm, solid weight.
Stiles hopes the shivering isn’t too annoying. He’s lost track of his clothes, and it’s not that warm out. Luckily, Derek’s ridiculous werewolf heat, his body snug against Stiles’, seem to have an effect. The shaking fades, and Stiles can breathe again.
The silence is starting to stretch precariously, and each passing moment surprises Stiles with its total lack of Derek-voiced protest.
“So,” Stiles says eventually. His words seem to have fled, one in ten or so making it out to stand in for the rest of Stiles’ absent sentences. “Demon?”
“Gone.” Derek raises his chin towards the dark woods. “It got what it wanted.”
“Yeah.” Stiles swallows, hard. He’s trying not to think about what the demon might have done with his little power boost. “For now.”
“It’s not taking you again.” Derek’s growl radiates from his chest and rumbles into Stiles. “I won’t let it.”
Stiles nods. He doesn’t even mind that Derek’s hypothetical plan is probably something terrible, like, “bite disembodied supernatural entity with pointy werewolf teeth, repeat until problem goes away.” It’s the thought that counts. More tension seeps out of Stiles’ body, weight returning like his muscles are remembering who they’re supposed to answer to. With great muscle control comes great annoyance, apparently, because now Stiles can feel twigs and dry leaves digging into his bare skin.
“So, clothes, probably.” Stiles tries to push himself up, but Derek’s grip tightens, pinning him. Derek’s attention is focused far away, off into the trees ahead. “What?”
“Sirens. In the preserve. Coming closer.”
“The cheerleader-Becky. She must have called 911.” While Stiles is glad she got help for herself, he could have used a bit more recovery time before moving on to the “destroying evidence” portion of the evening’s entertainment. “Help me up.”
Derek doesn’t let go. “We can wait until they get here. You should go to the hospital.”
“Wait until--?” Stiles squirms far enough in the circle of Derek’s arms that he can see his Derek’s face. He doesn’t look like he’s kidding. “Are you crazy? We can’t stay here. They can’t find us like this.”
“You’re hurt. You need-“
“Not that hurt.” To prove his point, Stiles tugs at Derek’s arms until he lets go. When Stiles pushes himself upright on shaky legs, Derek hovers, hands outstretched to steady Stiles if he falls, which Stiles is absolutely not going to do, because he is not hurt. He snatches his muddy jeans from a tangle of sticks and starts tugging them on. “Come on. We’ve gotta get out of here.”
“You should at least-“
“We have to go.”
“I don’t want you to-“
“Just stop wasting time and help me find my shoes.”
“Stiles, listen-“ Derek reaches out, but Stiles snatches his hand away and cradles it against his chest.
“My dad can’t find me like this, okay. Please?”
Derek’s face scrunches, then goes still. At last, he nods.
“Okay.” Stiles turns away, starts scouring the forest floor for his shirt. When he turns back, Derek has Stiles’ flannel and hoodie draped over his left arm, and Stiles’ battered All Stars in his right hand. “Thanks.”
Derek circles the clearing, probably applying his expertise at making people believe supernatural creatures don’t exist, while Stiles puts himself together. “Is there somewhere we can go?” he asks when Derek completes his circuit. “Not my place.”
Derek frowns. “There’s my loft, but-“
“Fine, that’s great.”
Derek drives. Stiles doesn’t like riding shotgun in his own car, but he’s shaking again (shock, his mind supplies helpfully), and he is not going to survive a demon possession just to wrap his beautiful Jeep around a tree, thank you very much.
Derek opens the door for Stiles after they park, and keeps a warm, heavy hand on Stiles shoulder all the way up the elevator, through the door, and into the deserted loft. Once inside, they stand there in silence long enough for Stiles to conclude that neither of them has any idea what to do next. Luckily, Stiles has lots of experience in that department.
“So.” Stiles half-turns to face Derek. “I’m muddy and I bet I don’t smell very good.”
“You smell fine.”
“Yeah, well.” Stiles drops his eyes, because he’s pretty sure he smells filthy. On the way to the floor, his gaze catches on Derek. “I got your shirt dirty.” Stiles’ come is drying in spots and flecks across the front of Derek’s black t-shirt. A giggle bubbles up from Stiles’ throat, and then another, and then a whole, hysterical torrent spills out, unstoppable. Stiles is doubled over, clutching his knees and waiting out the giggle stragglers when he realizes Derek’s hand is still on his shoulder. He makes sure to stand up slowly so he won’t accidentally dislodge it. “Shower.”
Derek steers Stiles towards a hole broken in the wall-nothing so pedestrian as a doorway in this house-that leads to a smaller room with a toilet, sink, and giant clawfoot tub beneath a rusty showerhead.
“Of course,” Stiles says. He supposes it’s still a step up from a burnt-out house or abandoned train depot. Stiles steps over the remains of some bricks into the bathroom, but whirls around when Derek’s hand falls from his shoulder.
Derek is staring at the floorboards.
Stiles looks at the tub, then at Derek, then at the dark void of the loft beyond the broken wall, then at Derek again. “Um, can you--?”
“I’ll leave.” Derek turns.
“Canyounotdothat?” Stiles blurts out. Derek turns back, but only halfway. “I mean, you’ve already seen it all. If you don’t mind, I’d rather not… It’d be better if you were around.”
Derek looks like he’s being stabbed, repeatedly, but he nods. He wrestles with the knobs over the tub until the shower sputters to life. “The water takes a while to heat up.”
Derek grips the sink with both hands and glares at the tarnished faucet while Stiles peels off the remnants of his torn clothes. Derek keeps up his contemplation of the plumbing when Stiles steps under the spray. His head snaps up when Stiles hisses-Derek wasn’t kidding about the temperature-but almost immediately turns away again.
Stiles refuses to budge from his place under the cold water, preferring the freezing rivulets tracing lines across his skin to the option of another moment spent marinating in the scent of his own shame: forest dirt, drying come, and spilled secrets. It’s not fair, he knows, to make Derek stay here for this, not after everything Derek’s already had to put up with tonight, but, well, life’s not fair. Sometimes a demon needs your virginity to power a spell. Sometimes a hot werewolf feels morally obligated to have sex with you against his will. Sometimes all your most private fantasies get dragged out into the open by a mindreading hell creature. Honestly, Stiles should have expected as much from his life at this point.
The water does, eventually, get warm. Stiles lets his forehead rest against the cracked tile. But once he starts to slide, he can’t stop himself. He ends up sitting in the bottom of the tub, arms wrapped around his knees, blinking water out of his eyes.
The shower rattles to a stop when someone turns the knobs, and then Derek appears in Stiles’ line of sight, crouched next to the tub, heedless of the growing puddle.
“Derek?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“That… doesn’t really apply.” Derek pulls a blue towel off the rack next to the sink and drapes it around Stiles’ shoulders.
Stiles catches Derek’s hands and holds them there, near the vulnerable hollow of Stiles’ throat. “Yes, it does. Thank you. For doing what had to be done. I mean, I know it couldn’t have been your idea of a good time-“
“No,” Derek says softly.
“Yeah.” Stiles relinquishes Derek’s hands, setting them down on the lip of the tub. “So I’m sorry you had to do that.”
“Wait.” Derek’s frowning intently. “Do you think I…?”
“What?”
“It’s not that…” Derek snaps his teeth together as if he could bite his words into submission. “I’m not saying…”
Stiles waits, wraps the towel more tightly around his shoulders, and lets the growing suspicion in his chest start to work its way to his mouth. “Did the demon lie?”
“What?” Derek’s eyes cut to the side, away from Stiles.
“When it said that stuff. About you wanting me?”
“No.” Derek pushes to his feet. “It didn’t lie.”
“Okay.” Stiles hoists himself up using the edge of the tub. He tucks the towel around his waist and rubs a hand through his damp hair while he thinks. “So you’re saying that in different circumstances…”
“They weren’t different. You couldn’t…” Derek’s hands flex and clench into fists. “You didn’t have a choice.”
“Not this time around, no. I’m not saying the situation was ideal, Derek, obviously. But of all the possible scenarios here, I say we count this one as a win.”
“A win.” Derek spins around to catch Stiles in his skeptical glare.
“I am fine.”
“You’re hurt!”
“So are you, apparently! With some kind of major head trauma!” Stiles steps out of the tub and advances on Derek. “Because I am not… unless…” He stops and squints at Derek, who won’t meet his eyes. “Was it, like, awful? Because that’s… If you didn’t want this at all, and you’re saying I’m not someone you’d want to… be with, like that. Then I guess, yeah, that must be kind of traumatizing for you.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Tell me what you’re saying, then, Derek, because I’m obviously not getting the message.”
Derek huffs a breath out and turns to face Stiles. “I’m saying I’m sorry. I should have figured out something else. If it had been different…” He shakes his head quickly. “You would have found a way to fix this. You wouldn’t have just… given in.”
“You did the best you could, Derek! Remember when I called this a win?”
“How can it possibly be--?”
“Derek, the alternative was that the demon took my body out for a joy-ride and had me fuck someone-or several people-that I don’t know and am not already in love with, okay? So yeah, I’d call this a win.”
Derek has gone statue-still, and it’s only when Stiles mentally replays his last few sentences that he figures out why. He hadn’t meant to say that, the l-word. He’s barely let himself think that word in the past few months, not about Derek, even though more and more of Stiles’ thoughts lately have started tangling themselves around Derek, as if he were a pleasant new water feature in the overgrown garden of Stiles mind, which apparently has lost the ability to create coherent metaphors.
And yeah, it’s probably not fair to express the profound gratitude he has that Derek was there, since there’s no one else in the entire world with whom Stiles could imaging living through this. But he probably shouldn’t say that, because Stiles wasn’t the demon’s only victim tonight. He ventures a look at Derek, whose eyes haven’t left Stiles face. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Derek tugs a robe down from a peg wedged into a hole in the brickwork. It’s a dark red color, and threadbare. It smells like Derek. He wraps it around Stiles’ shoulders and leaves his hand there, half curled around the back of Stiles’ neck. “I’m not. I’m not sorry it was me. I can’t stand the idea of someone else… But it still shouldn’t have happened.”
“Bad shit is always going to happen. We live in Beacon Hills. Awful stuff will always find us. This wasn’t your fault.”
Derek pulls his hand away. “Stiles, we can’t ignore what happened. I ra-“
“Don’t,” Stiles snaps. “Don’t ever say that.”
“Fine. But I’m not going to forget, and I don’t believe you are, either.”
“I’m not saying it was nothing, all right? I recognize the legitimate need for, like, years of therapy, but what you’re saying-that’s not what happened between us. Listen to me!” Suddenly, two steps is too far away-Stiles has to grab Derek’s arm and pull him back, so he can say this face to face. “It’s not. And actually, what I have with you, I mean, whatever this is,” Stiles flails his free hand at Derek, “hanging out together avoiding death and maybe flirting, is one of the best things I have going for me. I mean, you’re one of my very favorite things, like, of all of everything, and that asshole demon is not going to ruin it for me, understand?”
“I’m not a good thing. You shouldn’t--”
“Don’t tell me how to feel. The demon was right. I would have said yes to you. And you just said you would have wanted it, too. And that’s… that’s not something I would have figured out on my own, probably. I’ll understand if you don’t feel the same way about me after… after what happened. But you should know I haven’t changed my mind about you. I meant what I said, before.”
“That you were already-“
“Yeah.”
Derek frowns down at Stiles’ hand still wrapped around his arm. “I can’t talk you out of it.”
“Uh, which of us is better at talking?”
“As measured in quality or quantity?” Derek asks with a raised eyebrow.
“Ha very ha. So no, I’m not budging on this.”
“Stiles.” Derek leans forward slowly, so slowly that Stiles finally has to put him out of his misery and lean up into the kiss. Stiles wraps a hand around the back of Derek’s neck and holds on, drinking in the warmth, heat, and rightness of finally getting to be in full control of kissing Derek Hale. He stays until he absolutely, positively, accept no substitute, has to breathe. When he pulls back, Derek comes with, leaning their foreheads together. “Stiles.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says. “You and me.” That’s enough to start with.
See full header at Part One.
Part Two
Stiles snatches a handful of Derek’s shirt and holds tight. The fact that his first act upon regaining control of his body post-demon-possession is holding back an angry werewolf probably says something unflattering about his sense of self-preservation, but it has the desired effect. Derek stops trying to pull away and stays braced over Stiles, caging him with his limbs.
“Wait,” Stiles rasps. He’s cold, and achy, and kind of damp, and he’s shaking a bit, but none of that seems so bad, because he can feel his body like it’s his own now. It no longer feels like watching a news report from his senses. Derek is a heavy cloud of anger above him. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut. “Hey, I’m sorry in advance, but I’m going to need you to not run away just yet.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Derek sounds breathless, like he’s just gone ten rounds against the bad guy of the week which, okay, could be a loose interpretation of what just happened. In any case, Stiles feels his heart slamming against his sternum, probably unnecessarily loudly from Derek’s point of view, and all Stiles really did was lie here, so he can’t blame Derek for being winded.
“Actually, could you-“ When Derek starts to pull away again, Stiles tugs him back. “No! Stay. Please. Could you just…” Stiles can’t say “hold me” to Derek Hale, not even now, when he can feel Derek’s come starting to leak out of him.
Luckily Derek, master of the unspoken, is able to interpret. He wraps his arms around Stiles and tugs. Stiles makes it to a sitting positions and lets Derek maneuver them until Stiles is comfortably settled back against Derek’s warm, solid weight.
Stiles hopes the shivering isn’t too annoying. He’s lost track of his clothes, and it’s not that warm out. Luckily, Derek’s ridiculous werewolf heat, his body snug against Stiles’, seem to have an effect. The shaking fades, and Stiles can breathe again.
The silence is starting to stretch precariously, and each passing moment surprises Stiles with its total lack of Derek-voiced protest.
“So,” Stiles says eventually. His words seem to have fled, one in ten or so making it out to stand in for the rest of Stiles’ absent sentences. “Demon?”
“Gone.” Derek raises his chin towards the dark woods. “It got what it wanted.”
“Yeah.” Stiles swallows, hard. He’s trying not to think about what the demon might have done with his little power boost. “For now.”
“It’s not taking you again.” Derek’s growl radiates from his chest and rumbles into Stiles. “I won’t let it.”
Stiles nods. He doesn’t even mind that Derek’s hypothetical plan is probably something terrible, like, “bite disembodied supernatural entity with pointy werewolf teeth, repeat until problem goes away.” It’s the thought that counts. More tension seeps out of Stiles’ body, weight returning like his muscles are remembering who they’re supposed to answer to. With great muscle control comes great annoyance, apparently, because now Stiles can feel twigs and dry leaves digging into his bare skin.
“So, clothes, probably.” Stiles tries to push himself up, but Derek’s grip tightens, pinning him. Derek’s attention is focused far away, off into the trees ahead. “What?”
“Sirens. In the preserve. Coming closer.”
“The cheerleader-Becky. She must have called 911.” While Stiles is glad she got help for herself, he could have used a bit more recovery time before moving on to the “destroying evidence” portion of the evening’s entertainment. “Help me up.”
Derek doesn’t let go. “We can wait until they get here. You should go to the hospital.”
“Wait until--?” Stiles squirms far enough in the circle of Derek’s arms that he can see his Derek’s face. He doesn’t look like he’s kidding. “Are you crazy? We can’t stay here. They can’t find us like this.”
“You’re hurt. You need-“
“Not that hurt.” To prove his point, Stiles tugs at Derek’s arms until he lets go. When Stiles pushes himself upright on shaky legs, Derek hovers, hands outstretched to steady Stiles if he falls, which Stiles is absolutely not going to do, because he is not hurt. He snatches his muddy jeans from a tangle of sticks and starts tugging them on. “Come on. We’ve gotta get out of here.”
“You should at least-“
“We have to go.”
“I don’t want you to-“
“Just stop wasting time and help me find my shoes.”
“Stiles, listen-“ Derek reaches out, but Stiles snatches his hand away and cradles it against his chest.
“My dad can’t find me like this, okay. Please?”
Derek’s face scrunches, then goes still. At last, he nods.
“Okay.” Stiles turns away, starts scouring the forest floor for his shirt. When he turns back, Derek has Stiles’ flannel and hoodie draped over his left arm, and Stiles’ battered All Stars in his right hand. “Thanks.”
Derek circles the clearing, probably applying his expertise at making people believe supernatural creatures don’t exist, while Stiles puts himself together. “Is there somewhere we can go?” he asks when Derek completes his circuit. “Not my place.”
Derek frowns. “There’s my loft, but-“
“Fine, that’s great.”
Derek drives. Stiles doesn’t like riding shotgun in his own car, but he’s shaking again (shock, his mind supplies helpfully), and he is not going to survive a demon possession just to wrap his beautiful Jeep around a tree, thank you very much.
Derek opens the door for Stiles after they park, and keeps a warm, heavy hand on Stiles shoulder all the way up the elevator, through the door, and into the deserted loft. Once inside, they stand there in silence long enough for Stiles to conclude that neither of them has any idea what to do next. Luckily, Stiles has lots of experience in that department.
“So.” Stiles half-turns to face Derek. “I’m muddy and I bet I don’t smell very good.”
“You smell fine.”
“Yeah, well.” Stiles drops his eyes, because he’s pretty sure he smells filthy. On the way to the floor, his gaze catches on Derek. “I got your shirt dirty.” Stiles’ come is drying in spots and flecks across the front of Derek’s black t-shirt. A giggle bubbles up from Stiles’ throat, and then another, and then a whole, hysterical torrent spills out, unstoppable. Stiles is doubled over, clutching his knees and waiting out the giggle stragglers when he realizes Derek’s hand is still on his shoulder. He makes sure to stand up slowly so he won’t accidentally dislodge it. “Shower.”
Derek steers Stiles towards a hole broken in the wall-nothing so pedestrian as a doorway in this house-that leads to a smaller room with a toilet, sink, and giant clawfoot tub beneath a rusty showerhead.
“Of course,” Stiles says. He supposes it’s still a step up from a burnt-out house or abandoned train depot. Stiles steps over the remains of some bricks into the bathroom, but whirls around when Derek’s hand falls from his shoulder.
Derek is staring at the floorboards.
Stiles looks at the tub, then at Derek, then at the dark void of the loft beyond the broken wall, then at Derek again. “Um, can you--?”
“I’ll leave.” Derek turns.
“Canyounotdothat?” Stiles blurts out. Derek turns back, but only halfway. “I mean, you’ve already seen it all. If you don’t mind, I’d rather not… It’d be better if you were around.”
Derek looks like he’s being stabbed, repeatedly, but he nods. He wrestles with the knobs over the tub until the shower sputters to life. “The water takes a while to heat up.”
Derek grips the sink with both hands and glares at the tarnished faucet while Stiles peels off the remnants of his torn clothes. Derek keeps up his contemplation of the plumbing when Stiles steps under the spray. His head snaps up when Stiles hisses-Derek wasn’t kidding about the temperature-but almost immediately turns away again.
Stiles refuses to budge from his place under the cold water, preferring the freezing rivulets tracing lines across his skin to the option of another moment spent marinating in the scent of his own shame: forest dirt, drying come, and spilled secrets. It’s not fair, he knows, to make Derek stay here for this, not after everything Derek’s already had to put up with tonight, but, well, life’s not fair. Sometimes a demon needs your virginity to power a spell. Sometimes a hot werewolf feels morally obligated to have sex with you against his will. Sometimes all your most private fantasies get dragged out into the open by a mindreading hell creature. Honestly, Stiles should have expected as much from his life at this point.
The water does, eventually, get warm. Stiles lets his forehead rest against the cracked tile. But once he starts to slide, he can’t stop himself. He ends up sitting in the bottom of the tub, arms wrapped around his knees, blinking water out of his eyes.
The shower rattles to a stop when someone turns the knobs, and then Derek appears in Stiles’ line of sight, crouched next to the tub, heedless of the growing puddle.
“Derek?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“That… doesn’t really apply.” Derek pulls a blue towel off the rack next to the sink and drapes it around Stiles’ shoulders.
Stiles catches Derek’s hands and holds them there, near the vulnerable hollow of Stiles’ throat. “Yes, it does. Thank you. For doing what had to be done. I mean, I know it couldn’t have been your idea of a good time-“
“No,” Derek says softly.
“Yeah.” Stiles relinquishes Derek’s hands, setting them down on the lip of the tub. “So I’m sorry you had to do that.”
“Wait.” Derek’s frowning intently. “Do you think I…?”
“What?”
“It’s not that…” Derek snaps his teeth together as if he could bite his words into submission. “I’m not saying…”
Stiles waits, wraps the towel more tightly around his shoulders, and lets the growing suspicion in his chest start to work its way to his mouth. “Did the demon lie?”
“What?” Derek’s eyes cut to the side, away from Stiles.
“When it said that stuff. About you wanting me?”
“No.” Derek pushes to his feet. “It didn’t lie.”
“Okay.” Stiles hoists himself up using the edge of the tub. He tucks the towel around his waist and rubs a hand through his damp hair while he thinks. “So you’re saying that in different circumstances…”
“They weren’t different. You couldn’t…” Derek’s hands flex and clench into fists. “You didn’t have a choice.”
“Not this time around, no. I’m not saying the situation was ideal, Derek, obviously. But of all the possible scenarios here, I say we count this one as a win.”
“A win.” Derek spins around to catch Stiles in his skeptical glare.
“I am fine.”
“You’re hurt!”
“So are you, apparently! With some kind of major head trauma!” Stiles steps out of the tub and advances on Derek. “Because I am not… unless…” He stops and squints at Derek, who won’t meet his eyes. “Was it, like, awful? Because that’s… If you didn’t want this at all, and you’re saying I’m not someone you’d want to… be with, like that. Then I guess, yeah, that must be kind of traumatizing for you.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Tell me what you’re saying, then, Derek, because I’m obviously not getting the message.”
Derek huffs a breath out and turns to face Stiles. “I’m saying I’m sorry. I should have figured out something else. If it had been different…” He shakes his head quickly. “You would have found a way to fix this. You wouldn’t have just… given in.”
“You did the best you could, Derek! Remember when I called this a win?”
“How can it possibly be--?”
“Derek, the alternative was that the demon took my body out for a joy-ride and had me fuck someone-or several people-that I don’t know and am not already in love with, okay? So yeah, I’d call this a win.”
Derek has gone statue-still, and it’s only when Stiles mentally replays his last few sentences that he figures out why. He hadn’t meant to say that, the l-word. He’s barely let himself think that word in the past few months, not about Derek, even though more and more of Stiles’ thoughts lately have started tangling themselves around Derek, as if he were a pleasant new water feature in the overgrown garden of Stiles mind, which apparently has lost the ability to create coherent metaphors.
And yeah, it’s probably not fair to express the profound gratitude he has that Derek was there, since there’s no one else in the entire world with whom Stiles could imaging living through this. But he probably shouldn’t say that, because Stiles wasn’t the demon’s only victim tonight. He ventures a look at Derek, whose eyes haven’t left Stiles face. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Derek tugs a robe down from a peg wedged into a hole in the brickwork. It’s a dark red color, and threadbare. It smells like Derek. He wraps it around Stiles’ shoulders and leaves his hand there, half curled around the back of Stiles’ neck. “I’m not. I’m not sorry it was me. I can’t stand the idea of someone else… But it still shouldn’t have happened.”
“Bad shit is always going to happen. We live in Beacon Hills. Awful stuff will always find us. This wasn’t your fault.”
Derek pulls his hand away. “Stiles, we can’t ignore what happened. I ra-“
“Don’t,” Stiles snaps. “Don’t ever say that.”
“Fine. But I’m not going to forget, and I don’t believe you are, either.”
“I’m not saying it was nothing, all right? I recognize the legitimate need for, like, years of therapy, but what you’re saying-that’s not what happened between us. Listen to me!” Suddenly, two steps is too far away-Stiles has to grab Derek’s arm and pull him back, so he can say this face to face. “It’s not. And actually, what I have with you, I mean, whatever this is,” Stiles flails his free hand at Derek, “hanging out together avoiding death and maybe flirting, is one of the best things I have going for me. I mean, you’re one of my very favorite things, like, of all of everything, and that asshole demon is not going to ruin it for me, understand?”
“I’m not a good thing. You shouldn’t--”
“Don’t tell me how to feel. The demon was right. I would have said yes to you. And you just said you would have wanted it, too. And that’s… that’s not something I would have figured out on my own, probably. I’ll understand if you don’t feel the same way about me after… after what happened. But you should know I haven’t changed my mind about you. I meant what I said, before.”
“That you were already-“
“Yeah.”
Derek frowns down at Stiles’ hand still wrapped around his arm. “I can’t talk you out of it.”
“Uh, which of us is better at talking?”
“As measured in quality or quantity?” Derek asks with a raised eyebrow.
“Ha very ha. So no, I’m not budging on this.”
“Stiles.” Derek leans forward slowly, so slowly that Stiles finally has to put him out of his misery and lean up into the kiss. Stiles wraps a hand around the back of Derek’s neck and holds on, drinking in the warmth, heat, and rightness of finally getting to be in full control of kissing Derek Hale. He stays until he absolutely, positively, accept no substitute, has to breathe. When he pulls back, Derek comes with, leaning their foreheads together. “Stiles.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says. “You and me.” That’s enough to start with.