lions in cages [teen wolf ff]
Two weeks ago I kind of... disliked this pairing. Turns out I hated it without any heat to it, hence this silly fic? Birthday present for Ali. :)
Teen Wolf,
Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
vague spoilers to 2nd season
+/- 2600 words
this work on ao3
Stiles is used to the constant presence in his life that is Derek Hale. In fact, he’s so used to it that he’s genuinely worried when Derek is not somewhere near, looming, threatening or at least trying to maim him in some unpleasant way.
He is more than worried and it’s upsetting him, to be honest. Who would have thought that he’d miss the Alpha throwing him that dark look every other minute? Or throwing him, actually. Against the wall. Or pinning him to it.
Wow, wow, stop right there, Stilinski. Stiles’ train of thought so doesn’t need to head that way right now.
To sum up. Derek’s AWOL, and Stiles has not only noticed, but is also concerned.
Of course he’s concerned, he’s a decent human being, or so he keeps telling that part of his brain which is freaking out right now for the reasons he’d rather not investigate any further.
He’d ask Scott where Derek is and why he stopped his slightly stalker-ish routine all of the sudden, since Scott is part of Derek’s pack and all. But his best friend is busy doing important boyfriend-y stuff with Allison. Go figure.
Stiles has two options, really - either to suck it up and let his own curiosity die down on its own or man up and look for Derek himself.
And who is he kidding, he’s a curious person by default.
~~
“Stiles. You are known for great ideas but this? This is so not one of them.”
It is a sunny mid-afternoon but even sunshine can’t mask how depressing (and scary) this place is. The Hale residence looks intimidating to put it mildly and there are at least one hundred and fifty seven other things Stiles would rather be doing right now. Including tagging along Scott and Allison on their date.
Or maybe not. He sighs and steps up on the porch.
He only wants to check up on Derek. Who is probably just practicing brooding somewhere in a corner and doesn’t want to be bothered, Stiles tells himself. Still. Just in case.
Before he can knock he notices that the front door is left ajar and as a cop’s kid Stiles can tell that is never a good sign. But if coming here was a bad idea, how bad going inside is? The absolute worst idea of the world’s worst ideas, that’s how bad.
Despite the big, fat warnings blinking red in his head, Stiles goes inside. He knows better than to shout his greetings, though - it’s better not to announce his presence if there are some crazy murderers in the house. He regrets not taking a lacrosse stick with him as he approaches what supposedly is a living room and something almost knocks him over.
“What the fuck!” he manages, as he takes a glance and sees Derek’s half wolfed-out face inches from his own. “Warn a guy, will you?!”
Failed logic, since he stealthily sneaked into Derek’s house himself.
Derek doesn’t answer, he just kind of… stands there and pants. He shifts back and Stiles notices his glossy eyes and trickles of sweat, dripping down his hairline. That just can’t be good.
“Hey. Um. Wow. You don’t look so hot,” Stiles observes. Derek looks as if he wants to say something or maybe growl menacingly and then… promptly collapses on the floor.
Huh.
~~
After confirming that Derek is, in fact, still alive, just very feverish and unconscious, Stiles takes a closer look at the place and winces internally. It’s a mess, and not in that it’s a half-burned house where everyone comes to fight and blow stuff up way, although that one’s true, too. It looks like Derek tried to hole himself up on a ratty couch, if the equally ratty blankets sprawled on it are any indication.
Not an environment for a sick person, Stiles concludes. And his logic is flawless, except for the times when it isn’t (like when he decided to come here, for example). It’s a quick decision now.
Hauling a passed-out, sick Alpha to Stiles’ Jeep turns out to be a little tricky. His back will be killing him tomorrow, but he still manages to do it, somehow.
It’s not the most thrilling drive of his life - he has to stay focused on the road while propelling Derek so that he sits more or less vertically and not in his lap, and all of this wondering how the hell he’s going to carry the Alpha upstairs, to his bedroom.
Thankfully, Derek wakes up just as Stiles pulls up the Jeep in front of the Stilinski house. Stiles can see a protest forming on his lips, so he speaks hastily.
“It was either that or the hospital, and I’m pretty sure you’d rip my throat out for the latter. So. Not a word. Now get out.”
“What about your dad?” Derek asks as they approach the house. It sounds more like “wattaburda” but Stiles gets it.
“He’s working the late shift today.” And Stiles’s really, really grateful for that. And for the fact that Derek can climb the stairs himself. He needs a little nudge once in a while, but all in all, he manages to do it by himself. Stiles is almost proud when they finally reach his room.
“Alright. So I’m gonna go downstairs and look for some aspirin. And to check if we have anything edible in the kitchen. Why don’t you sit here and wait until I…”
Apparently Derek has plans on his own, because he practically face-plants on Stiles’ bed.
“…or you could do that.”
~~
Derek is on and off like a light for the better part of the afternoon. In the meantime Stiles cooks some chicken soup (from bouillon cubes), tries to reach Scott on his cell for the fifteenth time (to no avail) and googles wolves and mysterious illnesses. When the search is vague at best, he goes for all canines. He wishes Scott would pick up his damn phone. He a) is a werewolf himself b) works at a vet clinic. He is supposed to know what to do in case your (not so) friendly neighborhood werewolf has sniffles. Stiles is not even that good with dogs; the only pet he had was a fish when he was about ten.
Internet is rather unhelpful. He finds a rockabilly band from San Francisco, a MMORPG game and a whole lot of fan fiction which he steers safely away from.
One glance at the lifeless form of a werewolf lying on his bed and he knows he needs to do something. He settles on a cold compress. And blankets, he adds as an afterthought, when he notices Derek shivering. Lots of blankets.
Stiles contemplates undressing Derek for a brief second. But no. Just no. He takes the leather jacket off, though. It can’t be comfortable.
What has his life become, exactly? He can’t focus on anything, torn between checking Derek’s temperature (steady 109,3, which is terrifying for humans and only a bit out of norm for dogs, internet confirms) and checking if he’s alive.
He almost jumps out of his skin when he hears his dad’s car park in front of the house. And of course this is the moment Derek wakes up. He has this confused, trapped-wild-animal look on his face as he unsuccessfully tries to untangle himself from the blankets on Stiles’ bed. Which is quite an accurate analogy, come to think of it. The trapped wild animal thing, that is.
“Shhh, shush. Derek. You’re at my house, calm down. And try not to make any noise because my dad’s back and I have no idea how to explain this to him. So. Quiet. I will be back in a second.” His dad calls for him as soon as there’s a sound of door slamming shut. Stiles sighs. “Make that five.”
He goes downstairs, trying his best to look innocent.
“Hi, dad.”
Stiles’ dad looks almost as exhausted as Stiles feels.
“Long day at work?”
“Same old, buddy. Is that… chicken soup?”
Oh, crap. Right. Stiles forgot all about it. His dad shuffles past Stiles and finds the soup still on the stove.
“Yeah, uh… I think I caught something at school? Maybe? So I made myself chicken soup, that’s what mom always made when…”
Aaand that look on dad’s face is Stiles’ cue to shut the hell up.
“Want some?”
They end up eating in silence, Stiles feeling like an ass for lying (again) and making dad worried (again). He excuses himself lamely a few minutes later and when dad tries to follow him to his bedroom, he babbles something along the lines of I’m fine, really, you don’t have to tuck me in and I have a lot of homework for tomorrow and teenager’s room, dad, privacy!
All of it makes him feel even more like an ass and he wants to storm upstairs and fling Derek out of the window.
He doesn’t do that, of course. It’s a nice thought, though.
~~
Later, the sheer irony of the situation hits him like a truck. The big, badass wolf is down with a flu. A were-flu. A very bad case of it. But still.
It would be hilarious Stiles weren’t the one to take care of him. And where the hell is Scott? If Stiles has to handle all of this alone just because his best friend is getting some, he is not going talk to him for the nearest decade.
And what the hell was that, downstairs with his dad? It’s as if his brain suddenly missed a few essential synapses.
“You so owe me for that, Hale,” he mumbles accusingly and Derek is, of course, conveniently unconscious.”I pulled some dick moves in front of my dad and you should be grateful I am not doing the rational thing to do, which is throwing your sorry ass out.”
Yes, he wouldn’t have said that if Derek was awake. Small victories, so sue him.
All that crap in books about even the scariest people looking peaceful and younger while asleep is a bunch of lies, too. Derek manages to look as threatening and horrifying restlessly asleep as when he’s awake.
It’s past eleven when Stiles decides to change Derek’s compress for the last time and crash on the couch in the guest room.
He sits on the edge of the bed and touches a tentative finger (and then the entire hand a second later) to Derek’s forehead. His skin is hot and clammy, but at least he stopped tossing and turning a while ago.
Derek’s eyes open, huge, brows raised.
Stiles pulls his hand away quickly, as if Derek’s forehead was on fire. Which it is, really. And Derek stares at him with what looks like an honest intent to cause Stiles some bodily harm. So Stiles blurts first thing on his mind.
“Are you vaccinated? I bet it’s because you’re not vaccinated, isn’t it, you missed your annual rabies vaccination.”
“Funny,” replies Derek, devoid of any humor.
“Should I take you to the… um… vet?”
Derek snorts. Like actually almost laughs. And hell if it’s not a sign of how much out of it Derek really is, because normally Stiles wonders if Derek’s got the muscles responsible for facial expressions.
“It’s just a fever.”
“Sure.”
“It is. I just need… Have you… been here with me all the time?” Derek looks a bit confused as he glances around the room.
“I took the liberty of going to the bathroom but basically, yes.”
Derek just kind of “hmmph”s at that and Stiles sees his eyes starting to droop already. Uh-oh.
“No, but seriously, dude. Don’t you need to see someone? A doctor, maybe? Some sort of werewolf specialist? A priest?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Like hell you will.” Stiles deadpans and reaches for his phone. Which is immediately snapped out of his hand. “What the…”
He doesn’t finish. Derek’s vice-like grip closes on Stiles’ wrist and Stiles tumbles on top of him, to his utter horror. After a minute of awkward lying and Derek’s nose pressed to his sternum, Stiles attempts to wriggle himself out of this situation. No such luck, now both of his wrists are trapped.
“Look,” Stiles tries to reason. He’s known to be a logical guy, right? He’s not sure logic will work on Derek Hale, though. But it’s worth a shot. “It’s getting worse and if we… I mean if you don’t do something about it, you’re gonna…”
He shuts up, because Derek’s hand sneaks up on his waist. What.
“Body heat,” Derek murmurs directly into the back of Stiles’ neck and Stiles does not shiver, nope.
“You’re delirious!” Stiles manages to say, and he wishes his voice didn’t squeak so much. “Your body temperature needs to go down. Down, Derek. That body heat stuff? It’s for hypothermia, not fever, genius. ”
Derek says nothing. Oh God, did he pass out again? Or worse, did he die on him? Stiles blindly reaches out behind, because Derek’s spooning him now (do not think about that, really don’t). There’s a pulse. Good.
Maybe in Derek’s fever-ridden brain it does make sense, Stiles won’t question it. Instead, he settles for: “I hope you know what you’re doing. I really do.”
And then he braces himself for a perplexing night.
~~
Stiles wakes up with a start. There’s a dark shape hovering over him and that entitles him to shriek. In a very manly way. And it’s Derek. Of course it’s Derek.
“Wow, hey, Derek, where do you think you’re going?”
“Back.”
Wow, thank you, Captain Obvious. It’s not the best time for sarcasm, though, because Derek’s already out of the room and Stiles bolts upright. The older man is halfway to the front door when he catches up with him and blocks his way.
“You know what? No. Stop right there. I didn’t do all of this for you so you can go and prance around the woods the minute you don’t feel like fainting on the spot. So sit down and maybe eat that friggin’ chicken soup I made yesterday. It should still taste the same if I reheat it, anyway.”
Derek glares something serious at him, but Stiles doesn’t flinch. Then he tries to shove him out of the way. Stiles (almost) doesn’t budge.
“See? You have to get better so you can manhandle me properly. But for now. Eat. The damn. Soup.”
Derek backs away visibly and follows exasperated Stiles to the kitchen.
It’s not even six in the morning and they’re having soup. It seems almost… domestic.
Derek sniffs the soup suspiciously, but takes the spoon and gingerly lifts it to his mouth.
It’s so surreal Stiles can only watch. Because, last night recap? They cuddled. Well, more like Derek was maybe-not-so-purposely choking Stiles. But it’s still a lot to process for him. It’s a whole new level of insanity in his life. And he’s had his fair share of insanity in the past few months.
Derek looks better. A lot better, in fact. Maybe the cuddling actually helped, dumb as it sounds.
Stiles is about to share this piece of information when Derek sneezes. And then both of them freeze, waiting for any sounds coming from Stiles’ dad’s bedroom.
Stiles relaxes after a few seconds while Derek looks marginally apologetic. “I hate my life.”
~~
“Sooo… you’re a cuddler, huh. Who would have thought.”
“Mention that to anybody, and that includes Scott, and you’re dead.”
“Uh. Sure, tough guy. Your cuddly secret is safe with me.”
(fin)
Teen Wolf,
Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
vague spoilers to 2nd season
+/- 2600 words
this work on ao3
Stiles is used to the constant presence in his life that is Derek Hale. In fact, he’s so used to it that he’s genuinely worried when Derek is not somewhere near, looming, threatening or at least trying to maim him in some unpleasant way.
He is more than worried and it’s upsetting him, to be honest. Who would have thought that he’d miss the Alpha throwing him that dark look every other minute? Or throwing him, actually. Against the wall. Or pinning him to it.
Wow, wow, stop right there, Stilinski. Stiles’ train of thought so doesn’t need to head that way right now.
To sum up. Derek’s AWOL, and Stiles has not only noticed, but is also concerned.
Of course he’s concerned, he’s a decent human being, or so he keeps telling that part of his brain which is freaking out right now for the reasons he’d rather not investigate any further.
He’d ask Scott where Derek is and why he stopped his slightly stalker-ish routine all of the sudden, since Scott is part of Derek’s pack and all. But his best friend is busy doing important boyfriend-y stuff with Allison. Go figure.
Stiles has two options, really - either to suck it up and let his own curiosity die down on its own or man up and look for Derek himself.
And who is he kidding, he’s a curious person by default.
~~
“Stiles. You are known for great ideas but this? This is so not one of them.”
It is a sunny mid-afternoon but even sunshine can’t mask how depressing (and scary) this place is. The Hale residence looks intimidating to put it mildly and there are at least one hundred and fifty seven other things Stiles would rather be doing right now. Including tagging along Scott and Allison on their date.
Or maybe not. He sighs and steps up on the porch.
He only wants to check up on Derek. Who is probably just practicing brooding somewhere in a corner and doesn’t want to be bothered, Stiles tells himself. Still. Just in case.
Before he can knock he notices that the front door is left ajar and as a cop’s kid Stiles can tell that is never a good sign. But if coming here was a bad idea, how bad going inside is? The absolute worst idea of the world’s worst ideas, that’s how bad.
Despite the big, fat warnings blinking red in his head, Stiles goes inside. He knows better than to shout his greetings, though - it’s better not to announce his presence if there are some crazy murderers in the house. He regrets not taking a lacrosse stick with him as he approaches what supposedly is a living room and something almost knocks him over.
“What the fuck!” he manages, as he takes a glance and sees Derek’s half wolfed-out face inches from his own. “Warn a guy, will you?!”
Failed logic, since he stealthily sneaked into Derek’s house himself.
Derek doesn’t answer, he just kind of… stands there and pants. He shifts back and Stiles notices his glossy eyes and trickles of sweat, dripping down his hairline. That just can’t be good.
“Hey. Um. Wow. You don’t look so hot,” Stiles observes. Derek looks as if he wants to say something or maybe growl menacingly and then… promptly collapses on the floor.
Huh.
~~
After confirming that Derek is, in fact, still alive, just very feverish and unconscious, Stiles takes a closer look at the place and winces internally. It’s a mess, and not in that it’s a half-burned house where everyone comes to fight and blow stuff up way, although that one’s true, too. It looks like Derek tried to hole himself up on a ratty couch, if the equally ratty blankets sprawled on it are any indication.
Not an environment for a sick person, Stiles concludes. And his logic is flawless, except for the times when it isn’t (like when he decided to come here, for example). It’s a quick decision now.
Hauling a passed-out, sick Alpha to Stiles’ Jeep turns out to be a little tricky. His back will be killing him tomorrow, but he still manages to do it, somehow.
It’s not the most thrilling drive of his life - he has to stay focused on the road while propelling Derek so that he sits more or less vertically and not in his lap, and all of this wondering how the hell he’s going to carry the Alpha upstairs, to his bedroom.
Thankfully, Derek wakes up just as Stiles pulls up the Jeep in front of the Stilinski house. Stiles can see a protest forming on his lips, so he speaks hastily.
“It was either that or the hospital, and I’m pretty sure you’d rip my throat out for the latter. So. Not a word. Now get out.”
“What about your dad?” Derek asks as they approach the house. It sounds more like “wattaburda” but Stiles gets it.
“He’s working the late shift today.” And Stiles’s really, really grateful for that. And for the fact that Derek can climb the stairs himself. He needs a little nudge once in a while, but all in all, he manages to do it by himself. Stiles is almost proud when they finally reach his room.
“Alright. So I’m gonna go downstairs and look for some aspirin. And to check if we have anything edible in the kitchen. Why don’t you sit here and wait until I…”
Apparently Derek has plans on his own, because he practically face-plants on Stiles’ bed.
“…or you could do that.”
~~
Derek is on and off like a light for the better part of the afternoon. In the meantime Stiles cooks some chicken soup (from bouillon cubes), tries to reach Scott on his cell for the fifteenth time (to no avail) and googles wolves and mysterious illnesses. When the search is vague at best, he goes for all canines. He wishes Scott would pick up his damn phone. He a) is a werewolf himself b) works at a vet clinic. He is supposed to know what to do in case your (not so) friendly neighborhood werewolf has sniffles. Stiles is not even that good with dogs; the only pet he had was a fish when he was about ten.
Internet is rather unhelpful. He finds a rockabilly band from San Francisco, a MMORPG game and a whole lot of fan fiction which he steers safely away from.
One glance at the lifeless form of a werewolf lying on his bed and he knows he needs to do something. He settles on a cold compress. And blankets, he adds as an afterthought, when he notices Derek shivering. Lots of blankets.
Stiles contemplates undressing Derek for a brief second. But no. Just no. He takes the leather jacket off, though. It can’t be comfortable.
What has his life become, exactly? He can’t focus on anything, torn between checking Derek’s temperature (steady 109,3, which is terrifying for humans and only a bit out of norm for dogs, internet confirms) and checking if he’s alive.
He almost jumps out of his skin when he hears his dad’s car park in front of the house. And of course this is the moment Derek wakes up. He has this confused, trapped-wild-animal look on his face as he unsuccessfully tries to untangle himself from the blankets on Stiles’ bed. Which is quite an accurate analogy, come to think of it. The trapped wild animal thing, that is.
“Shhh, shush. Derek. You’re at my house, calm down. And try not to make any noise because my dad’s back and I have no idea how to explain this to him. So. Quiet. I will be back in a second.” His dad calls for him as soon as there’s a sound of door slamming shut. Stiles sighs. “Make that five.”
He goes downstairs, trying his best to look innocent.
“Hi, dad.”
Stiles’ dad looks almost as exhausted as Stiles feels.
“Long day at work?”
“Same old, buddy. Is that… chicken soup?”
Oh, crap. Right. Stiles forgot all about it. His dad shuffles past Stiles and finds the soup still on the stove.
“Yeah, uh… I think I caught something at school? Maybe? So I made myself chicken soup, that’s what mom always made when…”
Aaand that look on dad’s face is Stiles’ cue to shut the hell up.
“Want some?”
They end up eating in silence, Stiles feeling like an ass for lying (again) and making dad worried (again). He excuses himself lamely a few minutes later and when dad tries to follow him to his bedroom, he babbles something along the lines of I’m fine, really, you don’t have to tuck me in and I have a lot of homework for tomorrow and teenager’s room, dad, privacy!
All of it makes him feel even more like an ass and he wants to storm upstairs and fling Derek out of the window.
He doesn’t do that, of course. It’s a nice thought, though.
~~
Later, the sheer irony of the situation hits him like a truck. The big, badass wolf is down with a flu. A were-flu. A very bad case of it. But still.
It would be hilarious Stiles weren’t the one to take care of him. And where the hell is Scott? If Stiles has to handle all of this alone just because his best friend is getting some, he is not going talk to him for the nearest decade.
And what the hell was that, downstairs with his dad? It’s as if his brain suddenly missed a few essential synapses.
“You so owe me for that, Hale,” he mumbles accusingly and Derek is, of course, conveniently unconscious.”I pulled some dick moves in front of my dad and you should be grateful I am not doing the rational thing to do, which is throwing your sorry ass out.”
Yes, he wouldn’t have said that if Derek was awake. Small victories, so sue him.
All that crap in books about even the scariest people looking peaceful and younger while asleep is a bunch of lies, too. Derek manages to look as threatening and horrifying restlessly asleep as when he’s awake.
It’s past eleven when Stiles decides to change Derek’s compress for the last time and crash on the couch in the guest room.
He sits on the edge of the bed and touches a tentative finger (and then the entire hand a second later) to Derek’s forehead. His skin is hot and clammy, but at least he stopped tossing and turning a while ago.
Derek’s eyes open, huge, brows raised.
Stiles pulls his hand away quickly, as if Derek’s forehead was on fire. Which it is, really. And Derek stares at him with what looks like an honest intent to cause Stiles some bodily harm. So Stiles blurts first thing on his mind.
“Are you vaccinated? I bet it’s because you’re not vaccinated, isn’t it, you missed your annual rabies vaccination.”
“Funny,” replies Derek, devoid of any humor.
“Should I take you to the… um… vet?”
Derek snorts. Like actually almost laughs. And hell if it’s not a sign of how much out of it Derek really is, because normally Stiles wonders if Derek’s got the muscles responsible for facial expressions.
“It’s just a fever.”
“Sure.”
“It is. I just need… Have you… been here with me all the time?” Derek looks a bit confused as he glances around the room.
“I took the liberty of going to the bathroom but basically, yes.”
Derek just kind of “hmmph”s at that and Stiles sees his eyes starting to droop already. Uh-oh.
“No, but seriously, dude. Don’t you need to see someone? A doctor, maybe? Some sort of werewolf specialist? A priest?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Like hell you will.” Stiles deadpans and reaches for his phone. Which is immediately snapped out of his hand. “What the…”
He doesn’t finish. Derek’s vice-like grip closes on Stiles’ wrist and Stiles tumbles on top of him, to his utter horror. After a minute of awkward lying and Derek’s nose pressed to his sternum, Stiles attempts to wriggle himself out of this situation. No such luck, now both of his wrists are trapped.
“Look,” Stiles tries to reason. He’s known to be a logical guy, right? He’s not sure logic will work on Derek Hale, though. But it’s worth a shot. “It’s getting worse and if we… I mean if you don’t do something about it, you’re gonna…”
He shuts up, because Derek’s hand sneaks up on his waist. What.
“Body heat,” Derek murmurs directly into the back of Stiles’ neck and Stiles does not shiver, nope.
“You’re delirious!” Stiles manages to say, and he wishes his voice didn’t squeak so much. “Your body temperature needs to go down. Down, Derek. That body heat stuff? It’s for hypothermia, not fever, genius. ”
Derek says nothing. Oh God, did he pass out again? Or worse, did he die on him? Stiles blindly reaches out behind, because Derek’s spooning him now (do not think about that, really don’t). There’s a pulse. Good.
Maybe in Derek’s fever-ridden brain it does make sense, Stiles won’t question it. Instead, he settles for: “I hope you know what you’re doing. I really do.”
And then he braces himself for a perplexing night.
~~
Stiles wakes up with a start. There’s a dark shape hovering over him and that entitles him to shriek. In a very manly way. And it’s Derek. Of course it’s Derek.
“Wow, hey, Derek, where do you think you’re going?”
“Back.”
Wow, thank you, Captain Obvious. It’s not the best time for sarcasm, though, because Derek’s already out of the room and Stiles bolts upright. The older man is halfway to the front door when he catches up with him and blocks his way.
“You know what? No. Stop right there. I didn’t do all of this for you so you can go and prance around the woods the minute you don’t feel like fainting on the spot. So sit down and maybe eat that friggin’ chicken soup I made yesterday. It should still taste the same if I reheat it, anyway.”
Derek glares something serious at him, but Stiles doesn’t flinch. Then he tries to shove him out of the way. Stiles (almost) doesn’t budge.
“See? You have to get better so you can manhandle me properly. But for now. Eat. The damn. Soup.”
Derek backs away visibly and follows exasperated Stiles to the kitchen.
It’s not even six in the morning and they’re having soup. It seems almost… domestic.
Derek sniffs the soup suspiciously, but takes the spoon and gingerly lifts it to his mouth.
It’s so surreal Stiles can only watch. Because, last night recap? They cuddled. Well, more like Derek was maybe-not-so-purposely choking Stiles. But it’s still a lot to process for him. It’s a whole new level of insanity in his life. And he’s had his fair share of insanity in the past few months.
Derek looks better. A lot better, in fact. Maybe the cuddling actually helped, dumb as it sounds.
Stiles is about to share this piece of information when Derek sneezes. And then both of them freeze, waiting for any sounds coming from Stiles’ dad’s bedroom.
Stiles relaxes after a few seconds while Derek looks marginally apologetic. “I hate my life.”
~~
“Sooo… you’re a cuddler, huh. Who would have thought.”
“Mention that to anybody, and that includes Scott, and you’re dead.”
“Uh. Sure, tough guy. Your cuddly secret is safe with me.”
(fin)