This is worth fighting for (gift for kototyph)
Title: This is worth fighting for
Author: pollitt
Recipient: kototyph
Pairings: Derek/Stiles, background Scott/Isaac
Rating: R
Word Count: ~3650
Genre: AU (WWII)
Warnings: n/a
Summary: England, 1943. It’s been six months since Stiles has seen either Derek or Scott, and more than a month since he’s heard from Scott--a quick postcard with a Paris postmark that was light on detail and heavy with secrets.
Author's Notes: Thank you to my betas, [to be revealed] and [to be revealed] for their cheerleading, tense and comma wrangling, and for asking the right questions. I couldn't have done this without them.
To kototyph, thank you for the inspiring prompts! I tried to work in as many of your likes as fit the story. I had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope you enjoy reading it. Happy TW holidays!
Title is taken from the title of a Jimmy Dorsey tune
From the kitchen window, Stiles can see the first fat flakes of snow falling to the ground as he stands at the sink and adds a bit more whiskey to his mug. In the dining room he can hear the static crackle and disjointed words emitted from the radio. As he walks back to his papers and pen on the table, he hears a familiar gravelly voice cut through the din.
Stiles grabs his pen and turns up the volume, twisting the tuner to try and clear some of the static, to try and catch whatever details he can, when there’s a knock at the door. He hastily flips a switch at the side and the static and code becomes the low tones of Bing Crosby crooning about his dreams and glistening trees. He ignores the twist in his chest at the sudden burst of memory as he answers the door.
Short of his mother showing up alive and well and having made a trans-Atlantic flight, the last people he expected to see tonight are standing on the other side of the threshold -- Scott, a curly-haired man...Isaac, if Stiles remembers correctly, and, of course, Derek.
“Merry Christmas,” Scott says, a tad too brightly. There’s a nervous tension around his eyes and Stiles can see the hard set of Derek’s mouth.
It’s been six months since he's seen either of them, and over a month since he’s heard from Scott--a quick postcard with a Paris postmark that was light on detail and heavy with secrets. As much as Stiles has tried not to, he’s scanned the papers daily for their names among the casualty lists. And lately, there hasn't been anyone to take those papers out of his hands or to tell him to quit thinking like that.
“I don’t know where on Earth you’ve been, but Christmas isn’t for another five days here, Scotty,” Stiles says, keeping his voice light.
Scott looks behind them, out onto the street, and then back at Stiles, calming only when Isaac’s hand touches his shoulder. Stiles wonders if it’s the whiskey that’s making his brain buzz.
“Can we come in?” Isaac asks, and Stiles says "Sure" and steps aside.
As they walk inside, Stiles tries not to look too long at Derek, who seems to be doing the same thing and not meeting his eye. Stiles tries, and fails, not to think about the last time he saw Derek, how they'd stood in this same hallway as Derek said it was over before he walked away.
Derek’s hair is a month past shorn, and Scott’s isn't; it’s downright shaggy. Even though they're wearing civilian clothes, and even if Stiles didn’t have an inkling of what they’d been up to, Stiles would still feel like he’s just entered a secret agent story.
“Where’s your dad? Is he here?” Scott asks, looking around into the living room.
“He’s gone,” Stiles answers, fighting back the urge to ask what's going on.
“What?” Scott’s eyes are wide with disbelief, and when Stiles chances a look at Derek, he can see the same fear. Only Derek’s always better about hiding it. “How? When?”
“He’s not dead,” Stiles corrects, putting his hand on Scott’s shoulder and offering what he hopes is a reassuring smile. He looks at Derek, who looks calmly impassive again, and then at Isaac, who seems to be taking everything in. “They needed him back in the States, and I think he was glad to trade blitzes for practice raids.”
“So it’s just you here?” Derek asks.
“Unless you count the mice and the occasional stray at the back steps. I'm fending for myself these days.”
Never a fan of awkward silences, Stiles continues when no one speaks up. “So, not that I don’t like having unexpected guests at midnight, but I’m guessing it’s not my brilliant company that brings you here tonight. And considering the way Scott was just hunting for any suspicious shadows outside, I’m guessing this isn’t a social call.”
Scott reaches up to scratch his neck--it’s been his tell for as long as Stiles has known him, and it never fails to make him look years younger than 21--and in that instant Stiles can see the flash of silver in the chain around Scott’s neck and the etching of the wolf’s head on the medallion.
“I knew it. I knew that’s what your postcard meant. My best friend is a secret agent, a Wolf,” Stiles is saying before he can stop himself.
Scott’s eyes widen, and that's all it takes, his desperate look at Derek, and the jig is up. Stiles hopes that Scott's better at the faking it with anyone else, with everyone else.
“Damn it,” Derek says, rolling his eyes and stepping forward, pushing Scott out of the way. He’s crowding Stiles against the wall, one hand flat on Stiles’s chest before Stiles can really start processing what's happening. Stiles can see the dead seriousness in his eyes, and he can feel Derek’s breath on his face as he says, low and rough, “You can't tell anyone. If you do...”
Stiles swallows past the lump in his throat, breathing through his nose and willing his body to stay still, for his heart to calm down. It’s not fear making his skin prickle, making the sweat bead on his lip, but a rush of desire so intense it almost buckles his knees. He squeezes his hands tight, his fingernails digging painfully into the meat of his palms, to keep from reaching out and touching Derek then and there.
“He won’t. Derek, you know you can--” Scott starts to say but Stiles interrupts, his voice calm and sure as he stares equally as intensely at Derek.
“You know I would never do that.” Stiles puts his hand on Derek’s chest, “No matter what’s happened, when have I ever spilled your secrets? Any of your secrets.” Stiles pushes, and whether it’s the surprise of his strength and gesture, or his words, Derek steps back easily, his hand dropping from Stiles’s chest. “Why don’t we get out of the hallway and into a room with chairs, and maybe then you can tell me what the hell is going on.”
“Good idea,” Isaac says.
“I’m afraid I don’t have anything gourmet to eat, but I have some decent whiskey that my dear dad left for me that I can offer you,” Stiles says, pointing toward the chairs in the living room area.
Stiles pours three more glasses, and once drinks are in hand, once they’ve toasted, he asks, “So, what have you guys been up to?”
Even Derek cracks something close to a smile at that.
They talk, or at least as much as three secret operatives and a doctoral student who dabbles in some extracurricular eavesdropping for the Allies can while still never quite saying what it is they've been up to.
When they do finally get to the crux of the matter, why Scott and Derek are really here, Stiles isn't surprised at all. He's very good at what he does.
"The Argents,” he says, leaning back in the chair. He raises an eyebrow at Derek. “I’m guessing this is where you tell me you need my genius and my bad habit for listening. What’s the mission, sir?”
“Nothing that can’t wait for the morning,” Derek answers, stretching out his legs. Stiles knows if he did the same, their feet could touch. He shakes his head. Clearly it’s getting late.
“I’ve got an extra bed and the couch in my dad’s office,” Stiles says, looking at Scott and Isaac, who look like they’re about to fall asleep, their heads bending toward one another’s shoulders.
“If you and Isaac don’t mind sharing a room,” he adds for formality’s sake.
“We don’t,” Scott says, his cheeks flushing. Stiles is going to have to remember to give him guff for it sometime.
“I can take the couch out here,” Derek nods at the old couch in the corner of the room. “And keep watch.”
“The hell you will.” Stiles looks at him, daring Derek to argue with him. “You can stay in my room. My bed is big enough for the both of us and you know it.”
Surprisingly, Derek doesn’t argue.
“You remember where it is, right?”
Stiles has no doubt that Derek knows a thousand and four ways to kill a man without a weapon, including with the look he gives to Stiles in response. Stiles doesn’t back down. “I’ll lock up.”
Scott promises to follow Isaac in a minute and hangs back as Isaac and Derek walk toward the bedrooms.
“You going to be okay?” Scott asks. “I wanted to tell you about it. About what we were doing.”
“You basically did. You’re horrible at keeping secrets, Scott,” Stiles answers with a grin that he can feel pull at his cheeks. He doesn't hold any grudges about the secrets Scott had to keep, and even if he did, they'd be trampled into the ground by how good it feels to see his best friend again. That doesn't mean he can't give Scott at least a little bit of a hard time for one secret he forgot to mention. He looks toward the hallway. “Although that--you and Isaac... I had no idea...”
“Yeah.” Scott blushes and then looks serious. “Derek misses you. He’s been miserable.”
“Well if you can tell, it has to be pretty bad.” Scott smiles and gives him a quick hug that reminds Stiles of home. “Thanks.”
He watches as Scott heads down the hallway and then, after a couple of deep breaths, he follows. As he passes by the guest room, he can hear low voices. It’s a force of habit that his hearing sharpens, and it's easy to pick out Scott’s words.
“He’s my best friend. I trust him with my life. You should trust him too.”
“Trust has never come easily for me,” Isaac answers. “And when it’s your life on the line...”
Stiles hears the rustle of fabric and the soft sounds he recognizes as two mouths meeting. He dares a quick look into the room, sees them holding one another, Scott’s fingers threaded into the curls at the back of Isaac’s head.
Their lives are anything but safe, and tossing a relationship into the mix could be a recipe for disaster, but Stiles thinks back to how they looked at one another tonight. There’s no question they’ve both accepted that chance.
And now it’s time to see if Derek is willing to do the same.
“This is something I didn’t think I’d see again,” Stiles says when he reaches his doorway and sees Derek standing in his room. "Just so you know, telling me that you were going to repeatedly run headfirst into potentially deadly situations is a hell of a lot less hard on the heart than telling me it’s over."
Stiles leans against the doorframe, his arms crossed. Derek looks down and then over to the top of Stiles’s dresser, basically anywhere but at Stiles.
“And don’t even think about telling me that it had to be a secret,” he adds. At that comment, Derek meets his eyes at last.
“It wasn’t that. It’s not about the danger I’m in. It doesn’t just end with me. I can’t keep you safe. If we were together, your life would be in danger.”
“Scott and Isaac --”
“They’re different. They’re Wolves. They know the risks. They made that choice.”
“Just because I’m not one of you doesn’t mean I’m helpless. Or that it’ll keep me from being hurt.”
“There’s more of a chance if you’re with me.”
“Maybe.” Stiles moves into Derek’s space. “But at least we’d be together.”
Stiles reaches up and starts to unbutton Derek’s shirt, sliding his hand under the fabric of one side, to reveal skin and the medallion hanging at the center of Derek’s chest -- the black lines etched into the silver and the wolf’s head. He reaches out to touch it, the tip of his finger tracing over the lines. Derek’s hand covers his.
“I just wanted, want, to keep you safe,” Derek’s admits quietly.
“I know.” Stiles turns his hand and catches Derek’s, squeezing gently. “Who’s going to keep you safe?”
“Scott and Isaac.”
“They have each other to watch out for. No one can watch your back like me.” Stiles doesn’t wait for Derek’s reply, the beginning of a smile is enough confirmation for him to lean in.
The kiss isn’t much more than a press of lips at first, and Stiles forgets how close they're standing and bumps Derek’s chin as he reaches up to cup Derek’s jaw. It’s all a bit awkward, but they're just getting started. They have all night to get familiar with one another again, and Stiles plans on spending every waking moment getting as refamiliarized with Derek as he can.
“Tell me that you showing up at my door tonight wasn’t just about the mission,” Stiles says as Derek’s arms wrap around his waist, closing the rest of the distance between them. “That it wasn’t just because of orders from your higher-ups.”
“Of course it wasn’t,” Derek answers, managing to sound annoyed and affectionate at the same time. He leans in for another kiss and then stops, looking at something behind Stiles’s shoulder and, moving them in one step, he reaches out and says, “Door.”
“Don’t think we’re done talking about this.”
“I’d rather--” Derek starts to work on Stiles’s buttons, one by one, until he reaches the waistband of Stiles’s trousers. Derek presses the heel of his hand against Stiles’s groin.
Stiles leans into the touch and when he’s recovered his breath, says, “Of course, more pressing matters are in your hands.”
Derek’s smile is sharp, and he tugs Stiles’s shirt out from his trousers and pulls Stiles closer by his hips until their chests touch.
It’s been a long time since they've been here, too long, but their hands still know where to touch to bring out a moan or shudder, how to make one another pant against sweat damp skin as their clothes make their way to the floor as they make their way onto the bed. When Stiles pushes Derek back against the headboard and straddles his waist, it's as if no time has passed at all.
"You're thinner," Stiles says, running his hand over Derek's chest and over his side, feeling the hard bones of Derek's ribs.
"The term is leaner," Derek says, running his hands up Stiles's thighs, his fingers curling around Stiles's hips.
"Too much running and too little food," Stiles answers, arching back when one of Derek's hands moves over his stomach and curls around him, stroking slowly. "I heard on the... radio. About Wolves. I'll make you bacon. I have some. Rationed. Someone needs to take care of you."
Derek's hand stops abruptly, and Stiles opens his eyes, lifting his head to look back at Derek. There’s a look on his face that Stiles can't quite read--fear and awe came to mind.
"Stiles.” Derek’s voice is raw.
Stiles swallows, the urge to say more fighting with the need to make Derek forget about everything that isn't the two of them. He reaches over to the bedside table and the jar of petroleum jelly.
Derek's eyes are almost black when Stiles’s slick fingers touch him, sliding from tip to crown. "Starting with this," Stiles says, raising himself up onto his knees. He lines himself up and then sinks slowly back down, reacquainting himself with the feel. He doesn't even try to keep the hiss of pleasure, the shudder of his body as Derek lifts his hips, pushing the rest of the way inside.
"Sorry," Derek says wrapping his arms around Stiles's waist, holding him still. "I couldn't--"
"Here, I'm okay with your lack of patience. So okay." Stiles shifts, and smiles as Derek's hips jerk and his fingers dig into Stiles's back. "You know best of all I'm not easily broken."
In answer, Derek puts a hand around Stiles’s neck, pulling him that last inch into a kiss as his hips thrust upward, setting a rhythm that all too soon puts lie to Stiles words as he breaks apart in Derek’s arms, biting back a howl.
Derek presses his face into the hollow of Stiles’s throat and says things in a voice too quiet for Stiles to interpret as he follows Stiles over the edge.
“That doesn’t count as talking about it,” Stiles says against Derek’s sweat-slicked temple.
“Can’t blame me for trying.” Derek’s hands stay on Stiles’s hips as he lifts himself off of Derek’s lap.
Derek’s touch lingers as well, lightly tracing up and down Stiles’s side as Stiles stretches over the side of the bed, reaching for something to clean themselves up with and running the towel over both of their chests and stomachs.
“I’m right here,” Stiles says, settling onto his stomach next to Derek. He catches one of Derek’s hands in his and kisses the first knuckle of each finger.
Derek touches Stiles's cheek, keeping the connection as he leans in and completes the circuit with a kiss that doesn't end for several lazy minutes.
“Your hair is longer than I remember,” Derek says, sliding his fingers through Stiles’s hair, against the grain.
“Just forgot to get it cut.” Stiles stretches and feels the burn of the muscles in his thighs. He’s going to be sore tomorrow, but right now, it feels amazing. “Haven’t had anyone to tell me it was getting out of control.”
“Good.” Derek leans down and kisses Stiles’s shoulder and then bites -- hard enough to hurt, maybe hard enough to break skin. Stiles knows marking when he feels it. “I like that.”
Stiles turns, catching Derek off guard and easily pushing him onto his back. Derek isn't the only one who has a possessive streak.
The jar of petroleum jelly is still within reach, and Stiles dips his finger inside before reaching down, running his fingertips up and down Derek’s thigh. He smiles a little wickedly as Derek’s legs fall open. In response to the invitation, Stiles traces a finger up along Derek’s inner thigh, over the crease where hip and thigh meet and he leans forward and kisses him slowly, deepening the kiss as Derek’s mouth falls open with sighed “oh” as Stiles presses his finger inside.
“Six months without you.” Stiles sucks on the wing of Derek’s collarbone. “Do you know how long that is?”
“You know I do.” Derek’s face is flushed as he grips the back of Stiles's neck.
Stiles curls his tongue around the shell of Derek’s ear as he curls his finger inside Derek. “I need you.”
“I,” Derek starts to say, his hand at the back of Stiles’s neck urging him down for a kiss, but Stiles resists. He needs to see Derek’s face.
“I’ve got you,” he says softly.
Stiles watches Derek's face as he adds a second finger, as Derek's defenses fall away.
This time, there is no place for Derek’s words to hide. “I need you.”
Stiles leans down and before they can kiss again, Derek’s mouth moves and he says against the curve of Stiles’s lips, “I love you, Stiles.”
“I love you, too,” Stiles says as Derek tenses around him and comes.
ooooo
“Whatever this thing is, wherever it is you’re going, I’m going too. I made the mistake of letting you walk away before, and these last six months have been hell." Stiles stands at the side of the bed and pulls on a pair of boxers. “I don’t care if I have to follow you into danger.”
"You never were the stay at home and worry type. It doesn't fit you." Derek holds out a hand as Stiles climbs back onto the mattress.
"Nope." Stiles presses a kiss to the center of Derek's breastbone before he settles against Derek’s side. "Just accept that you're stuck with me."
"There could be worse things." Derek says as he wraps his arms around Stiles’s shoulders.
“Were you really playing ‘White Christmas’?” Derek asks just as Stiles is starting to drift toward sleep.
“That was a complete coincidence.” Stiles places a sleepy kiss to the closest spot of skin he can reach. “That was our first picture. I still can’t believe you actually agreed to see Holiday Inn.”
“I don't even remember the movie.”
Stiles thinks about Glenn Miller on the record player and the feel of Derek’s shirt under his hands and the scratch of Derek’s unshaven cheek against his own. He remembers waking up and seeing Derek asleep in his bed that first morning.
"Neither do I.”
ooooo
Stiles wakes up with a full bladder, an empty bed, and the smell of coffee and eggs drifting in from the kitchen.
“So,” Stiles says once he’s dressed and looking presentable. He sets his mug of coffee on the table and lets his hand brush the back of Derek’s shoulder as he moves the chair to sit down. “What’s this plan you need me to help you with?”
“Good night?” Scott asks, failing to keep the smile off of his face.
“Very. And you? I hope you two had enough room?” Stiles replies, rising to Scott’s challenge.
“We made it work.” Scott’s grin is wide and Isaac’s ears turn a dark shade of pink and Stiles can see how he could make Scott smile like that.
He looks over at Derek, who’s watching him, and when he meets Stiles’s eyes, he’s missing the deadly glare and serious scowl. He looks happy. He also rolls his eyes.
“The plan,” Derek says, loud enough to bring everyone’s attention back to him, “is that we need to find out what you’ve learned about what the Argents have been working on--what do you know about Operation Monkshood?”
Author: pollitt
Recipient: kototyph
Pairings: Derek/Stiles, background Scott/Isaac
Rating: R
Word Count: ~3650
Genre: AU (WWII)
Warnings: n/a
Summary: England, 1943. It’s been six months since Stiles has seen either Derek or Scott, and more than a month since he’s heard from Scott--a quick postcard with a Paris postmark that was light on detail and heavy with secrets.
Author's Notes: Thank you to my betas, [to be revealed] and [to be revealed] for their cheerleading, tense and comma wrangling, and for asking the right questions. I couldn't have done this without them.
To kototyph, thank you for the inspiring prompts! I tried to work in as many of your likes as fit the story. I had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope you enjoy reading it. Happy TW holidays!
Title is taken from the title of a Jimmy Dorsey tune
From the kitchen window, Stiles can see the first fat flakes of snow falling to the ground as he stands at the sink and adds a bit more whiskey to his mug. In the dining room he can hear the static crackle and disjointed words emitted from the radio. As he walks back to his papers and pen on the table, he hears a familiar gravelly voice cut through the din.
Stiles grabs his pen and turns up the volume, twisting the tuner to try and clear some of the static, to try and catch whatever details he can, when there’s a knock at the door. He hastily flips a switch at the side and the static and code becomes the low tones of Bing Crosby crooning about his dreams and glistening trees. He ignores the twist in his chest at the sudden burst of memory as he answers the door.
Short of his mother showing up alive and well and having made a trans-Atlantic flight, the last people he expected to see tonight are standing on the other side of the threshold -- Scott, a curly-haired man...Isaac, if Stiles remembers correctly, and, of course, Derek.
“Merry Christmas,” Scott says, a tad too brightly. There’s a nervous tension around his eyes and Stiles can see the hard set of Derek’s mouth.
It’s been six months since he's seen either of them, and over a month since he’s heard from Scott--a quick postcard with a Paris postmark that was light on detail and heavy with secrets. As much as Stiles has tried not to, he’s scanned the papers daily for their names among the casualty lists. And lately, there hasn't been anyone to take those papers out of his hands or to tell him to quit thinking like that.
“I don’t know where on Earth you’ve been, but Christmas isn’t for another five days here, Scotty,” Stiles says, keeping his voice light.
Scott looks behind them, out onto the street, and then back at Stiles, calming only when Isaac’s hand touches his shoulder. Stiles wonders if it’s the whiskey that’s making his brain buzz.
“Can we come in?” Isaac asks, and Stiles says "Sure" and steps aside.
As they walk inside, Stiles tries not to look too long at Derek, who seems to be doing the same thing and not meeting his eye. Stiles tries, and fails, not to think about the last time he saw Derek, how they'd stood in this same hallway as Derek said it was over before he walked away.
Derek’s hair is a month past shorn, and Scott’s isn't; it’s downright shaggy. Even though they're wearing civilian clothes, and even if Stiles didn’t have an inkling of what they’d been up to, Stiles would still feel like he’s just entered a secret agent story.
“Where’s your dad? Is he here?” Scott asks, looking around into the living room.
“He’s gone,” Stiles answers, fighting back the urge to ask what's going on.
“What?” Scott’s eyes are wide with disbelief, and when Stiles chances a look at Derek, he can see the same fear. Only Derek’s always better about hiding it. “How? When?”
“He’s not dead,” Stiles corrects, putting his hand on Scott’s shoulder and offering what he hopes is a reassuring smile. He looks at Derek, who looks calmly impassive again, and then at Isaac, who seems to be taking everything in. “They needed him back in the States, and I think he was glad to trade blitzes for practice raids.”
“So it’s just you here?” Derek asks.
“Unless you count the mice and the occasional stray at the back steps. I'm fending for myself these days.”
Never a fan of awkward silences, Stiles continues when no one speaks up. “So, not that I don’t like having unexpected guests at midnight, but I’m guessing it’s not my brilliant company that brings you here tonight. And considering the way Scott was just hunting for any suspicious shadows outside, I’m guessing this isn’t a social call.”
Scott reaches up to scratch his neck--it’s been his tell for as long as Stiles has known him, and it never fails to make him look years younger than 21--and in that instant Stiles can see the flash of silver in the chain around Scott’s neck and the etching of the wolf’s head on the medallion.
“I knew it. I knew that’s what your postcard meant. My best friend is a secret agent, a Wolf,” Stiles is saying before he can stop himself.
Scott’s eyes widen, and that's all it takes, his desperate look at Derek, and the jig is up. Stiles hopes that Scott's better at the faking it with anyone else, with everyone else.
“Damn it,” Derek says, rolling his eyes and stepping forward, pushing Scott out of the way. He’s crowding Stiles against the wall, one hand flat on Stiles’s chest before Stiles can really start processing what's happening. Stiles can see the dead seriousness in his eyes, and he can feel Derek’s breath on his face as he says, low and rough, “You can't tell anyone. If you do...”
Stiles swallows past the lump in his throat, breathing through his nose and willing his body to stay still, for his heart to calm down. It’s not fear making his skin prickle, making the sweat bead on his lip, but a rush of desire so intense it almost buckles his knees. He squeezes his hands tight, his fingernails digging painfully into the meat of his palms, to keep from reaching out and touching Derek then and there.
“He won’t. Derek, you know you can--” Scott starts to say but Stiles interrupts, his voice calm and sure as he stares equally as intensely at Derek.
“You know I would never do that.” Stiles puts his hand on Derek’s chest, “No matter what’s happened, when have I ever spilled your secrets? Any of your secrets.” Stiles pushes, and whether it’s the surprise of his strength and gesture, or his words, Derek steps back easily, his hand dropping from Stiles’s chest. “Why don’t we get out of the hallway and into a room with chairs, and maybe then you can tell me what the hell is going on.”
“Good idea,” Isaac says.
“I’m afraid I don’t have anything gourmet to eat, but I have some decent whiskey that my dear dad left for me that I can offer you,” Stiles says, pointing toward the chairs in the living room area.
Stiles pours three more glasses, and once drinks are in hand, once they’ve toasted, he asks, “So, what have you guys been up to?”
Even Derek cracks something close to a smile at that.
They talk, or at least as much as three secret operatives and a doctoral student who dabbles in some extracurricular eavesdropping for the Allies can while still never quite saying what it is they've been up to.
When they do finally get to the crux of the matter, why Scott and Derek are really here, Stiles isn't surprised at all. He's very good at what he does.
"The Argents,” he says, leaning back in the chair. He raises an eyebrow at Derek. “I’m guessing this is where you tell me you need my genius and my bad habit for listening. What’s the mission, sir?”
“Nothing that can’t wait for the morning,” Derek answers, stretching out his legs. Stiles knows if he did the same, their feet could touch. He shakes his head. Clearly it’s getting late.
“I’ve got an extra bed and the couch in my dad’s office,” Stiles says, looking at Scott and Isaac, who look like they’re about to fall asleep, their heads bending toward one another’s shoulders.
“If you and Isaac don’t mind sharing a room,” he adds for formality’s sake.
“We don’t,” Scott says, his cheeks flushing. Stiles is going to have to remember to give him guff for it sometime.
“I can take the couch out here,” Derek nods at the old couch in the corner of the room. “And keep watch.”
“The hell you will.” Stiles looks at him, daring Derek to argue with him. “You can stay in my room. My bed is big enough for the both of us and you know it.”
Surprisingly, Derek doesn’t argue.
“You remember where it is, right?”
Stiles has no doubt that Derek knows a thousand and four ways to kill a man without a weapon, including with the look he gives to Stiles in response. Stiles doesn’t back down. “I’ll lock up.”
Scott promises to follow Isaac in a minute and hangs back as Isaac and Derek walk toward the bedrooms.
“You going to be okay?” Scott asks. “I wanted to tell you about it. About what we were doing.”
“You basically did. You’re horrible at keeping secrets, Scott,” Stiles answers with a grin that he can feel pull at his cheeks. He doesn't hold any grudges about the secrets Scott had to keep, and even if he did, they'd be trampled into the ground by how good it feels to see his best friend again. That doesn't mean he can't give Scott at least a little bit of a hard time for one secret he forgot to mention. He looks toward the hallway. “Although that--you and Isaac... I had no idea...”
“Yeah.” Scott blushes and then looks serious. “Derek misses you. He’s been miserable.”
“Well if you can tell, it has to be pretty bad.” Scott smiles and gives him a quick hug that reminds Stiles of home. “Thanks.”
He watches as Scott heads down the hallway and then, after a couple of deep breaths, he follows. As he passes by the guest room, he can hear low voices. It’s a force of habit that his hearing sharpens, and it's easy to pick out Scott’s words.
“He’s my best friend. I trust him with my life. You should trust him too.”
“Trust has never come easily for me,” Isaac answers. “And when it’s your life on the line...”
Stiles hears the rustle of fabric and the soft sounds he recognizes as two mouths meeting. He dares a quick look into the room, sees them holding one another, Scott’s fingers threaded into the curls at the back of Isaac’s head.
Their lives are anything but safe, and tossing a relationship into the mix could be a recipe for disaster, but Stiles thinks back to how they looked at one another tonight. There’s no question they’ve both accepted that chance.
And now it’s time to see if Derek is willing to do the same.
“This is something I didn’t think I’d see again,” Stiles says when he reaches his doorway and sees Derek standing in his room. "Just so you know, telling me that you were going to repeatedly run headfirst into potentially deadly situations is a hell of a lot less hard on the heart than telling me it’s over."
Stiles leans against the doorframe, his arms crossed. Derek looks down and then over to the top of Stiles’s dresser, basically anywhere but at Stiles.
“And don’t even think about telling me that it had to be a secret,” he adds. At that comment, Derek meets his eyes at last.
“It wasn’t that. It’s not about the danger I’m in. It doesn’t just end with me. I can’t keep you safe. If we were together, your life would be in danger.”
“Scott and Isaac --”
“They’re different. They’re Wolves. They know the risks. They made that choice.”
“Just because I’m not one of you doesn’t mean I’m helpless. Or that it’ll keep me from being hurt.”
“There’s more of a chance if you’re with me.”
“Maybe.” Stiles moves into Derek’s space. “But at least we’d be together.”
Stiles reaches up and starts to unbutton Derek’s shirt, sliding his hand under the fabric of one side, to reveal skin and the medallion hanging at the center of Derek’s chest -- the black lines etched into the silver and the wolf’s head. He reaches out to touch it, the tip of his finger tracing over the lines. Derek’s hand covers his.
“I just wanted, want, to keep you safe,” Derek’s admits quietly.
“I know.” Stiles turns his hand and catches Derek’s, squeezing gently. “Who’s going to keep you safe?”
“Scott and Isaac.”
“They have each other to watch out for. No one can watch your back like me.” Stiles doesn’t wait for Derek’s reply, the beginning of a smile is enough confirmation for him to lean in.
The kiss isn’t much more than a press of lips at first, and Stiles forgets how close they're standing and bumps Derek’s chin as he reaches up to cup Derek’s jaw. It’s all a bit awkward, but they're just getting started. They have all night to get familiar with one another again, and Stiles plans on spending every waking moment getting as refamiliarized with Derek as he can.
“Tell me that you showing up at my door tonight wasn’t just about the mission,” Stiles says as Derek’s arms wrap around his waist, closing the rest of the distance between them. “That it wasn’t just because of orders from your higher-ups.”
“Of course it wasn’t,” Derek answers, managing to sound annoyed and affectionate at the same time. He leans in for another kiss and then stops, looking at something behind Stiles’s shoulder and, moving them in one step, he reaches out and says, “Door.”
“Don’t think we’re done talking about this.”
“I’d rather--” Derek starts to work on Stiles’s buttons, one by one, until he reaches the waistband of Stiles’s trousers. Derek presses the heel of his hand against Stiles’s groin.
Stiles leans into the touch and when he’s recovered his breath, says, “Of course, more pressing matters are in your hands.”
Derek’s smile is sharp, and he tugs Stiles’s shirt out from his trousers and pulls Stiles closer by his hips until their chests touch.
It’s been a long time since they've been here, too long, but their hands still know where to touch to bring out a moan or shudder, how to make one another pant against sweat damp skin as their clothes make their way to the floor as they make their way onto the bed. When Stiles pushes Derek back against the headboard and straddles his waist, it's as if no time has passed at all.
"You're thinner," Stiles says, running his hand over Derek's chest and over his side, feeling the hard bones of Derek's ribs.
"The term is leaner," Derek says, running his hands up Stiles's thighs, his fingers curling around Stiles's hips.
"Too much running and too little food," Stiles answers, arching back when one of Derek's hands moves over his stomach and curls around him, stroking slowly. "I heard on the... radio. About Wolves. I'll make you bacon. I have some. Rationed. Someone needs to take care of you."
Derek's hand stops abruptly, and Stiles opens his eyes, lifting his head to look back at Derek. There’s a look on his face that Stiles can't quite read--fear and awe came to mind.
"Stiles.” Derek’s voice is raw.
Stiles swallows, the urge to say more fighting with the need to make Derek forget about everything that isn't the two of them. He reaches over to the bedside table and the jar of petroleum jelly.
Derek's eyes are almost black when Stiles’s slick fingers touch him, sliding from tip to crown. "Starting with this," Stiles says, raising himself up onto his knees. He lines himself up and then sinks slowly back down, reacquainting himself with the feel. He doesn't even try to keep the hiss of pleasure, the shudder of his body as Derek lifts his hips, pushing the rest of the way inside.
"Sorry," Derek says wrapping his arms around Stiles's waist, holding him still. "I couldn't--"
"Here, I'm okay with your lack of patience. So okay." Stiles shifts, and smiles as Derek's hips jerk and his fingers dig into Stiles's back. "You know best of all I'm not easily broken."
In answer, Derek puts a hand around Stiles’s neck, pulling him that last inch into a kiss as his hips thrust upward, setting a rhythm that all too soon puts lie to Stiles words as he breaks apart in Derek’s arms, biting back a howl.
Derek presses his face into the hollow of Stiles’s throat and says things in a voice too quiet for Stiles to interpret as he follows Stiles over the edge.
“That doesn’t count as talking about it,” Stiles says against Derek’s sweat-slicked temple.
“Can’t blame me for trying.” Derek’s hands stay on Stiles’s hips as he lifts himself off of Derek’s lap.
Derek’s touch lingers as well, lightly tracing up and down Stiles’s side as Stiles stretches over the side of the bed, reaching for something to clean themselves up with and running the towel over both of their chests and stomachs.
“I’m right here,” Stiles says, settling onto his stomach next to Derek. He catches one of Derek’s hands in his and kisses the first knuckle of each finger.
Derek touches Stiles's cheek, keeping the connection as he leans in and completes the circuit with a kiss that doesn't end for several lazy minutes.
“Your hair is longer than I remember,” Derek says, sliding his fingers through Stiles’s hair, against the grain.
“Just forgot to get it cut.” Stiles stretches and feels the burn of the muscles in his thighs. He’s going to be sore tomorrow, but right now, it feels amazing. “Haven’t had anyone to tell me it was getting out of control.”
“Good.” Derek leans down and kisses Stiles’s shoulder and then bites -- hard enough to hurt, maybe hard enough to break skin. Stiles knows marking when he feels it. “I like that.”
Stiles turns, catching Derek off guard and easily pushing him onto his back. Derek isn't the only one who has a possessive streak.
The jar of petroleum jelly is still within reach, and Stiles dips his finger inside before reaching down, running his fingertips up and down Derek’s thigh. He smiles a little wickedly as Derek’s legs fall open. In response to the invitation, Stiles traces a finger up along Derek’s inner thigh, over the crease where hip and thigh meet and he leans forward and kisses him slowly, deepening the kiss as Derek’s mouth falls open with sighed “oh” as Stiles presses his finger inside.
“Six months without you.” Stiles sucks on the wing of Derek’s collarbone. “Do you know how long that is?”
“You know I do.” Derek’s face is flushed as he grips the back of Stiles's neck.
Stiles curls his tongue around the shell of Derek’s ear as he curls his finger inside Derek. “I need you.”
“I,” Derek starts to say, his hand at the back of Stiles’s neck urging him down for a kiss, but Stiles resists. He needs to see Derek’s face.
“I’ve got you,” he says softly.
Stiles watches Derek's face as he adds a second finger, as Derek's defenses fall away.
This time, there is no place for Derek’s words to hide. “I need you.”
Stiles leans down and before they can kiss again, Derek’s mouth moves and he says against the curve of Stiles’s lips, “I love you, Stiles.”
“I love you, too,” Stiles says as Derek tenses around him and comes.
ooooo
“Whatever this thing is, wherever it is you’re going, I’m going too. I made the mistake of letting you walk away before, and these last six months have been hell." Stiles stands at the side of the bed and pulls on a pair of boxers. “I don’t care if I have to follow you into danger.”
"You never were the stay at home and worry type. It doesn't fit you." Derek holds out a hand as Stiles climbs back onto the mattress.
"Nope." Stiles presses a kiss to the center of Derek's breastbone before he settles against Derek’s side. "Just accept that you're stuck with me."
"There could be worse things." Derek says as he wraps his arms around Stiles’s shoulders.
“Were you really playing ‘White Christmas’?” Derek asks just as Stiles is starting to drift toward sleep.
“That was a complete coincidence.” Stiles places a sleepy kiss to the closest spot of skin he can reach. “That was our first picture. I still can’t believe you actually agreed to see Holiday Inn.”
“I don't even remember the movie.”
Stiles thinks about Glenn Miller on the record player and the feel of Derek’s shirt under his hands and the scratch of Derek’s unshaven cheek against his own. He remembers waking up and seeing Derek asleep in his bed that first morning.
"Neither do I.”
ooooo
Stiles wakes up with a full bladder, an empty bed, and the smell of coffee and eggs drifting in from the kitchen.
“So,” Stiles says once he’s dressed and looking presentable. He sets his mug of coffee on the table and lets his hand brush the back of Derek’s shoulder as he moves the chair to sit down. “What’s this plan you need me to help you with?”
“Good night?” Scott asks, failing to keep the smile off of his face.
“Very. And you? I hope you two had enough room?” Stiles replies, rising to Scott’s challenge.
“We made it work.” Scott’s grin is wide and Isaac’s ears turn a dark shade of pink and Stiles can see how he could make Scott smile like that.
He looks over at Derek, who’s watching him, and when he meets Stiles’s eyes, he’s missing the deadly glare and serious scowl. He looks happy. He also rolls his eyes.
“The plan,” Derek says, loud enough to bring everyone’s attention back to him, “is that we need to find out what you’ve learned about what the Argents have been working on--what do you know about Operation Monkshood?”