It Will Come Back to You
Title: It Will Come Back to You
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Teen Wolf kink meme prompt: After breaking up with his boyfriend, Stiles finds a wounded dog in the woods. Something about it reminds him of his ex, so he names it Derek. He doesn't know exactly how fitting that name is.
(or, how Stiles finds out that the ex-boyfriend that he's still in love with is a werewolf)
(Original is here.)
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Warnings: None.
Disclaimer: I'm sure that Derek would never get caught in a pink collar.
A/N: All I can think of is Professor Layton and the Malignant Tumor. "My man don't own me, I own my MAN!"
A/N 2: heard_the_owl did an amazing podfic which can be found here! (Seriously, go listen to it and praise her awesomeness.)
He finds the dog behind his house.
It’s big and black, probably a Sheppard or Malamute cross, and it’s got a hole the size of Texas in its side, which looks nasty but not, thankfully, deep.
It growls when Stiles approaches, ginormous canines on display, but Stiles has dated Derek Hale and everyone else’s glare has, so far, paled in comparison. Derek’s glare could make a man’s balls abandon ship and swim to Hawaii; this dog just makes Stiles cautious.
“Hey there, buddy,” Stiles says, “let’s put those teeth away. Didn’t your mom tell you not to play with sharp things?”
The dog snarls, and okay, yeah, that’s a little more Derek-esque.
“Okay,” Stiles says, “that was a little douchey, I get it. Just…have you noticed the hole in your side? By chance? Maybe? Because if I don’t get you to the vet, I’m pretty sure that you’re going to die.”
Surprisingly the dog stops with the mean face, and lets Stiles come over. He wants to pet it but he’s afraid the dog will bite his hand off, so he just looks over the wound, gags at the stench coming off of it, and takes a moment to hope it won’t stink up his jeep.
“Dude, you’re going to have to help with this,” Stiles says, and the dog actually stands up.
He slowly walks beside the dog (there’s no fucking way he’s gonna be able to pick him up) and pretends he doesn’t notice when the dog has to lean against him. Actually getting him in the jeep is embarrassing and terrifying, and involves almost touching the dog’s balls when he boosts him into the car, but eventually the dog is sprawled over the passenger seat and panting.
Okay. Awesome.
>>>
The dog spends most of the ride growling and snarling whenever Stiles gets distracted and shifts sloppily.
He has the oddest feeling that the dog is judging his driving skills.
>>>
The dog won’t let the vet touch him, so the vet calmly stabs him in the ass with a sedative, as practical as the man always is, and then lifts the dog up on the table. He’s halfway finished stitching the wound by the time the dog even realizes what’s happened.
Stiles approves of his style.
“You’ll have to watch for infection,” the vet says, “and give him antibiotics, but he’ll be fine. The stitches need to come out in about two weeks, so I’ll give you his medicine and see you back here then.”
Wait a minute.
“Whoa, hey, he’s not mine,” Stiles says, “can’t you keep him here?”
“I’m full up, I’m afraid,” the vet says. “Don’t worry, I’ll talk to your dad, let him know what’s going on so you don’t get in trouble for hiding strays in the house again.”
Okay, so this may not be the first stray he’s taken in. The raccoon was probably the final straw for his dad though, in regards to Stiles and strays.
“I,” Stiles says, and then caves because the dog looks adorably disoriented, “okay.”
The vet kindly helps him carry the dog to his jeep.
>>>
After the struggle just to get the dog in the house, the stairs are daunting-although Stiles does momentarily consider building a travois-so Stiles amasses a nest of blankets in the living room. The dog sways onto them and then decides the quickest way to lie down is to believe his legs don’t work anymore; he lolls in the blankets. When Stiles hides the pain killers and antibiotics in chunks of cheese the dog isn’t fooled, judging by the unimpressed look on his face, but he eats them anyway.
Stiles leaves the dog to bask in his medicated glory and fixes baked chicken (nothing fried for his dad) and puts about four servings on his plate. He flops down next to the dog and feeds him piece by piece, because Stiles really doesn’t want to clean up chicken-puke if the dog doesn’t react well to the meds. After a half an hour, Stiles relaxes and pops in a movie.
>>>
“We’re not keeping him,” is all his dad says when he gets home.
Then, he flees the room when the dog widens his eyes and does his very best to look pitiful.
“Damn,” Stiles says to the dog, “that’s really useful.”
>>>
“So, um, is he dying? Because his eyes are crossed and he looks really…looks really confused,” Stiles says when the vet answers his phone.
“No, Stiles,” the vet says patiently, “he’s just stoned right now.”
“Oh,” Stiles says, “oh. That’s awesome.”
“Goodnight, Stiles,” the vet says.
>>>
The weekend is spent getting trapped in the nest of covers and doing homework. The dog helpfully growls intimidatingly whenever Stiles gets distracted.
“You’re an awesome study partner,” Stiles says.
He could swear the dog rolled its eyes.
>>>
“Shadow?” Stiles says.
The dog, like all previous times, snarls at the name. Either Stiles is terrible at naming dogs, or this dog is just a jackass.
Stiles is sure it’s the latter, because who is he kidding, Stiles is awesome.
“Chico?” Stiles says, then, “oh my god, oh my god, okay! If you rip off my face you’ll tear your stitches!”
>>>
A week before the stitches come out, the vet calls.
“Do some light exercise with him,” he tells Stiles, “take him for some short walks. Part of the scar is on a very high-motion area, and I want to make sure that the scar tissue doesn’t impede his movement.”
“This is a plot to kill me, isn’t it?” Stiles says.
Which is how Stiles ends up with a pink camouflage collar and a furious dog.
“I have to take you on walks,” Stiles tries to explain, but the dog does not want to understand the concept of leash laws.
This starts the most frustrating conversation that Stiles has ever had.
“Look, this is the only martingale collar they had in your size, you giant mutant, and I need to take you on walks because that hole in your side? It won’t heal right otherwise.”
The dog glares and growls. Like he’s done the past five times Stiles has explained this.
“Oh my god,” because really, this is fucking ridiculous, “talking to you is like talking to Derek!”
And instead of mauling Stiles because he has dared to shout at him, the dog goes silent, ears twitching forward.
“Wow,” Stiles says, “if I had known yelling at you worked, I would have just come through the door screaming.”
He holds up the collar again, and this time the dog lets him put it on.
>>>
Stiles makes a habit of avoiding certain people, like Jackson, and teachers he’s forgotten to turn homework in to, and that crazy homeless guy outside of the library.
Laura Hale hasn’t been someone he’s avoided, even after Derek dumped him because Derek’s a douche, but after she sees him and the dog, does a double-take, and then literally collapses with laughter, he figures he might have to start doing so.
No one sane just falls down on the sidewalk laughing, and also the dog starts slinking around with his tail between his legs when he sees her, and no one gets to make Stiles’ dog feel that way, matching pink camo collar and leash or no.
>>>
Scott tries to come over that weekend.
After a never-to-be-mentioned-again incident with the Scott, the dog, and the dog’s teeth and Scott’s ass, both Scott and Stiles agree that Scott shouldn’t come over until the dog is gone.
>>>
On Wednesday, Stiles comes home and panics when the dog isn’t anywhere on the first floor. He finally drops his backpack off in his room, where he’s simultaneously really relieved and also has a heart attack; the combinations make for a weird fluttering tightness in his chest, which is probably not a good thing. The dog is curled up in his bed, burrowed under the covers, his exhales quiet but noticeable in the still room.
It hits Stiles, suddenly, that the dog is sleeping on (what used to be) Derek’s side of the bed. He’s sleeping like Derek too, face shoved in the pillow and on his side, front right leg tucked under the pillow and the other folded against his chest. God, the last time Stiles saw Derek sleeping here…but that’s a road Stiles promised himself he wouldn’t go down. Stiles may have been dumped, but he’s not a girl (no matter what Jackson occasionally implies) and he’s not going to be jaded or bitter or deeply depressed, because: a) that’s cliché, b) Stiles does have both pride and balls, and c) there are vague Bella Swan references down that road, and Stiles would rather shoot himself than be like Bella Swan in any way.
“You shouldn’t be up here,” Stiles says.
The dog cracks one eye open, then completely dismisses Stiles’ concern and rolls onto his back in a way that demands belly-scratching.
Stiles glares (“That’s actually a bitch-face,” Scott says in his head) but obliges, if only because watching the dog’s back leg itching the air never stops amusing him.
>>>
The dog won’t budge from his bed when Stiles is ready to go to sleep, so Stiles just sighs and climbs under the covers.
“You remind me of Derek,” Stiles whispers when they’ve both been settled for a while, because the room is quiet and dark and it doesn’t count in the still hours of midnight. “He was kind of an asshole, but I miss him.”
>>>
Thus starts the nightly routine of the dog sleeping in Stiles’ bed. The dog is a bed-hog and kicks the covers off both himself and Stiles (which is also Derek-esque, and kind of freaks Stiles out). So most mornings, Stiles wakes up curled around or under the dog, like the dog is a giant, heated teddy bear. Well, a giant, heated teddy bear until the dog wakes up and the first thing he does is glare at Stiles.
“This is your fault,” Stiles says. “If you wouldn’t kick off the covers, we wouldn’t be cuddling right now.”
Stiles squawks, in a completely righteously indignant way, when the dog literally kicks him out of bed.
>>>
“Holy shit,” Stiles says, “you have a tranquilizer gun.”
Stiles did not know this, but he appreciates the first-hand demonstration when the vet shoots the dog because, apparently, the dog doesn’t like the vet or his counters.
“Usually I need it for wild animals that are severely injured, but I decided to make an exception for this one,” the vet says as he and Stiles lug the dog into the exam room.
It takes maybe ten seconds for the vet to take out the stitches, and then he’s helping Stiles carry the dog to his car.
“Well, that was easy,” Stiles says as he drives them home.
The dog drools on his seat in agreement.
>>>
The dog is actually allowed to do some more exercise than walks, so Stiles takes him out in the back yard to play ball. Stiles throws the ball a few feet away from the dog, because this way Stiles won’t have to tromp around in the woods if the dog doesn’t fetch.
The dog stares at it, walks over, sniffs, and looks up to glare at Stiles as he pees on the ball.
“That’s my last tennis ball!” Stiles says.
>>>
Three days later, Stiles wakes up to a sunny Saturday morning, pressed to Derek’s chest, muscles warmth-lazy and relaxed.
Wait a minute.
Stiles opens his eyes and confirms that, no, he is not hallucinating the feel of Derek’s skin underneath his cheek. It’s also quite clear, from his uncovered hip, that Derek is not only in Stiles’ bed, but also naked.
Stiles is 99% sure that they did not have epic broken-up sex.
Stiles is also 99% sure that he fell asleep on the dog last night.
“What the actual fuck,” Stiles says to Derek’s very naked chest.
Derek stirs, runs a hand over Stiles’ head like he used to on lazy mornings, and then freezes.
“Shit,” he says when he opens his eyes.
“What the actual fuck,” Stiles repeats to Derek’s very surprised, very guilty face.
“Look, Stiles,” Derek starts, and no, no way.
“No way am I having any conversation with you while you’re naked,” Stiles says. “Like, for real? For serious? Get some clothes on.”
He’s preparing his awesome angry speech as he lifts up and then Derek slides out of the bed, and damn, Derek’s ass still makes Stiles lose his train of thought. Derek’s ass is kinda ridiculously epic, in a way that, even when Stiles hated Derek after they broke up, he felt no guilt over jerking off to the thought of said ass. That’s how great Derek’s ass is.
Derek glares at Stiles from the dresser, where he’s pulled on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt that Stiles never got around to returning.
Oh, right. Conversation.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, and I’m pretty sure I’m not,” Stiles says, “but didn’t I go to bed with my dog last night? Where is my dog, by the way?”
Really, where is his dog?
“Oh my god, you didn’t go crazy and kill my dog, did you?” Stiles says, because, “You’re not in a psychotic break where you killed my dog and then slept naked in my bed like you’ve conveniently forgotten that you broke up with me, are you?”
Oh holy god, Stiles is going to be murdered by his ex-boyfriend. Scott is going to be so pissed that Stiles died before he could properly grovel for the Unmentionable Incident.
“Stiles,” Derek says, “would you shut up and listen? I’m not in a psychotic break and I haven’t killed your dog.”
“Then where the hell is my dog? What did you do to him?”
Stiles really is worried now. The dog would never let Derek Hale sleep on his side of the bed.
“I haven’t done anything to him,” Derek says.
“Well of course I’m going to believe you, because it makes perfect sense that I woke up and you were naked in my bed. I mean, surely this is the way things happen, why hasn’t this happened sooner-”
“I am the dog,” Derek shouts over Stiles’ verbal diarrhea.
Stiles gapes. Did Derek just…was that. Stiles thinks he heard Derek wrong.
“Say what,” Stiles says.
Derek clenches his jaw so hard Stiles can hear his teeth grinding from across the room.
“I’m a werewolf,” he finally says.
Stiles is never going to be able to close his mouth again, the way that this conversation is going. Derek just said he was a werewolf. Stiles is terrified that this is reality.
“I can prove it,” Derek says, and then he starts shoving his shirt up and his pants down.
For a moment, Stiles panics because Derek has just told Stiles he was a werewolf, and now he’s getting naked, and none of this is convincing Stiles that Derek isn’t in a psychotic break.
And then he sees the scar.
It starts on Derek’s waist, right on his side, and curves down the top of Derek’s hipbone, ending in the groove there. It’s that new-pink color and Stiles can faintly see the stitch marks.
It’s in the exact place as the dog’s was.
Oh my god. Oh my god.
Derek Hale is a werewolf.
“You-” Stiles stares. And then stares some more.
Derek fidgets. Derek, Stiles’ ex-boyfriend who is actually a werewolf, has the gall to look like Stiles is being unduly mean by not telling Derek this is okay.
“You goddamn bastard,” Stiles says.
And then he throws the closest thing at Derek’s head, which happens to be a dog training book.
Stiles has a feeling that Derek lets it hit him in the chest, but that the stress ball Stiles throws right after that takes him by surprise when it hits him in the face.
“You asshole,” Stiles says, and now he’s pissed. “You slept in my bed. I pined for you-at you-fuck!”
He’s advancing on Derek, still throwing things, and Derek is hastily dodging them while trying to make it to the window.
“If you go out that window, I will hunt you down myself,” Stiles says. “I will hunt you down and kill you dead.”
Derek actually stops, but that might be because Stiles has stopped trying to throw things with sharp edges at him, like paperweights and protractors.
“Why,” and Stiles can’t finish that; there are too many sentences trying to force their way out. Why did you come here? Why didn’t you leave after the stitches were removed? Why didn’t you tell me?
“I could hurt you, okay?” Derek snaps. “I came over on the full moon and when I realized that the wolf wanted you, I had to stay away before I hurt you.”
“As you can see, I’m terribly mauled,” Stiles says, because, yes, the situation is serious, but Derek is being so stupid.
Derek glares, but it’s more his fuck-I-might-be-losing-this-argument glare than his you-make-me-feel-murderous glare, which is the glare the dog had mostly given him.
…How did Stiles not know the dog was really werewolf-Derek sooner?
“Wait a minute,” Stiles says, “the full moon was a week ago.”
“No it wasn’t,” Derek says.
“Yes it was,” Stiles says, “that was one of my excuses when you bit Scott’s ass. Oh my god! You bit my best friend’s ass!”
“I don’t like when the house smells like him,” is what Stiles thinks Derek mumbled, but he may just be hearing things.
“Really? The big scary werewolf couldn’t tell when it was the full moon?” Stiles says.
“I was probably wallowing in shame from having to wear that fucking collar,” Derek says.
Okay, Stiles can give him that one, but, “Oh my god! Your sister knew! She totally knew and she’s not actually crazy! Dude, you are never going to live that down.”
“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek says.
Ladies and gentlemen, Stiles Stilinski has just made Derek Hale blush.
“I need to call Laura,” Stiles says as he fumbles with his phone. “I need to call her so that we can, like, frame that collar over your mantle-piece. We can build a shrine around it.”
And then Derek lunges, and Stiles spends the next five minutes dodging him as Derek growls and threatens bodily harm.
But Stiles is completely awesome, and whilst dodging an angry werewolf he also manages to call Laura.
“It’s your sacred duty to build a shrine to that collar if Derek kills me!” Stiles says, and then Derek tackles him enthusiastically.
As Stiles is wheezing on the floor, he can hear Laura cracking up before Derek ends the call.
“I’m going to kick your ass,” Derek says.
He’s blanketing Stiles, pinning him down, body emitting so much heat Stiles is also too hot. Their faces are only inches apart and Derek’s pupils are starting to blow wide and god, Stiles has missed this so much.
“The hell you are,” Stiles says. “You, buddy, have so much groveling to do to make up for being an ass, uh-huh.”
“Well then,” Derek says, leaning closer, his eyes nothing but black and a thin, electric blue ring, “I guess I better start now.”
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Teen Wolf kink meme prompt: After breaking up with his boyfriend, Stiles finds a wounded dog in the woods. Something about it reminds him of his ex, so he names it Derek. He doesn't know exactly how fitting that name is.
(or, how Stiles finds out that the ex-boyfriend that he's still in love with is a werewolf)
(Original is here.)
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Warnings: None.
Disclaimer: I'm sure that Derek would never get caught in a pink collar.
A/N: All I can think of is Professor Layton and the Malignant Tumor. "My man don't own me, I own my MAN!"
A/N 2: heard_the_owl did an amazing podfic which can be found here! (Seriously, go listen to it and praise her awesomeness.)
He finds the dog behind his house.
It’s big and black, probably a Sheppard or Malamute cross, and it’s got a hole the size of Texas in its side, which looks nasty but not, thankfully, deep.
It growls when Stiles approaches, ginormous canines on display, but Stiles has dated Derek Hale and everyone else’s glare has, so far, paled in comparison. Derek’s glare could make a man’s balls abandon ship and swim to Hawaii; this dog just makes Stiles cautious.
“Hey there, buddy,” Stiles says, “let’s put those teeth away. Didn’t your mom tell you not to play with sharp things?”
The dog snarls, and okay, yeah, that’s a little more Derek-esque.
“Okay,” Stiles says, “that was a little douchey, I get it. Just…have you noticed the hole in your side? By chance? Maybe? Because if I don’t get you to the vet, I’m pretty sure that you’re going to die.”
Surprisingly the dog stops with the mean face, and lets Stiles come over. He wants to pet it but he’s afraid the dog will bite his hand off, so he just looks over the wound, gags at the stench coming off of it, and takes a moment to hope it won’t stink up his jeep.
“Dude, you’re going to have to help with this,” Stiles says, and the dog actually stands up.
He slowly walks beside the dog (there’s no fucking way he’s gonna be able to pick him up) and pretends he doesn’t notice when the dog has to lean against him. Actually getting him in the jeep is embarrassing and terrifying, and involves almost touching the dog’s balls when he boosts him into the car, but eventually the dog is sprawled over the passenger seat and panting.
Okay. Awesome.
>>>
The dog spends most of the ride growling and snarling whenever Stiles gets distracted and shifts sloppily.
He has the oddest feeling that the dog is judging his driving skills.
>>>
The dog won’t let the vet touch him, so the vet calmly stabs him in the ass with a sedative, as practical as the man always is, and then lifts the dog up on the table. He’s halfway finished stitching the wound by the time the dog even realizes what’s happened.
Stiles approves of his style.
“You’ll have to watch for infection,” the vet says, “and give him antibiotics, but he’ll be fine. The stitches need to come out in about two weeks, so I’ll give you his medicine and see you back here then.”
Wait a minute.
“Whoa, hey, he’s not mine,” Stiles says, “can’t you keep him here?”
“I’m full up, I’m afraid,” the vet says. “Don’t worry, I’ll talk to your dad, let him know what’s going on so you don’t get in trouble for hiding strays in the house again.”
Okay, so this may not be the first stray he’s taken in. The raccoon was probably the final straw for his dad though, in regards to Stiles and strays.
“I,” Stiles says, and then caves because the dog looks adorably disoriented, “okay.”
The vet kindly helps him carry the dog to his jeep.
>>>
After the struggle just to get the dog in the house, the stairs are daunting-although Stiles does momentarily consider building a travois-so Stiles amasses a nest of blankets in the living room. The dog sways onto them and then decides the quickest way to lie down is to believe his legs don’t work anymore; he lolls in the blankets. When Stiles hides the pain killers and antibiotics in chunks of cheese the dog isn’t fooled, judging by the unimpressed look on his face, but he eats them anyway.
Stiles leaves the dog to bask in his medicated glory and fixes baked chicken (nothing fried for his dad) and puts about four servings on his plate. He flops down next to the dog and feeds him piece by piece, because Stiles really doesn’t want to clean up chicken-puke if the dog doesn’t react well to the meds. After a half an hour, Stiles relaxes and pops in a movie.
>>>
“We’re not keeping him,” is all his dad says when he gets home.
Then, he flees the room when the dog widens his eyes and does his very best to look pitiful.
“Damn,” Stiles says to the dog, “that’s really useful.”
>>>
“So, um, is he dying? Because his eyes are crossed and he looks really…looks really confused,” Stiles says when the vet answers his phone.
“No, Stiles,” the vet says patiently, “he’s just stoned right now.”
“Oh,” Stiles says, “oh. That’s awesome.”
“Goodnight, Stiles,” the vet says.
>>>
The weekend is spent getting trapped in the nest of covers and doing homework. The dog helpfully growls intimidatingly whenever Stiles gets distracted.
“You’re an awesome study partner,” Stiles says.
He could swear the dog rolled its eyes.
>>>
“Shadow?” Stiles says.
The dog, like all previous times, snarls at the name. Either Stiles is terrible at naming dogs, or this dog is just a jackass.
Stiles is sure it’s the latter, because who is he kidding, Stiles is awesome.
“Chico?” Stiles says, then, “oh my god, oh my god, okay! If you rip off my face you’ll tear your stitches!”
>>>
A week before the stitches come out, the vet calls.
“Do some light exercise with him,” he tells Stiles, “take him for some short walks. Part of the scar is on a very high-motion area, and I want to make sure that the scar tissue doesn’t impede his movement.”
“This is a plot to kill me, isn’t it?” Stiles says.
Which is how Stiles ends up with a pink camouflage collar and a furious dog.
“I have to take you on walks,” Stiles tries to explain, but the dog does not want to understand the concept of leash laws.
This starts the most frustrating conversation that Stiles has ever had.
“Look, this is the only martingale collar they had in your size, you giant mutant, and I need to take you on walks because that hole in your side? It won’t heal right otherwise.”
The dog glares and growls. Like he’s done the past five times Stiles has explained this.
“Oh my god,” because really, this is fucking ridiculous, “talking to you is like talking to Derek!”
And instead of mauling Stiles because he has dared to shout at him, the dog goes silent, ears twitching forward.
“Wow,” Stiles says, “if I had known yelling at you worked, I would have just come through the door screaming.”
He holds up the collar again, and this time the dog lets him put it on.
>>>
Stiles makes a habit of avoiding certain people, like Jackson, and teachers he’s forgotten to turn homework in to, and that crazy homeless guy outside of the library.
Laura Hale hasn’t been someone he’s avoided, even after Derek dumped him because Derek’s a douche, but after she sees him and the dog, does a double-take, and then literally collapses with laughter, he figures he might have to start doing so.
No one sane just falls down on the sidewalk laughing, and also the dog starts slinking around with his tail between his legs when he sees her, and no one gets to make Stiles’ dog feel that way, matching pink camo collar and leash or no.
>>>
Scott tries to come over that weekend.
After a never-to-be-mentioned-again incident with the Scott, the dog, and the dog’s teeth and Scott’s ass, both Scott and Stiles agree that Scott shouldn’t come over until the dog is gone.
>>>
On Wednesday, Stiles comes home and panics when the dog isn’t anywhere on the first floor. He finally drops his backpack off in his room, where he’s simultaneously really relieved and also has a heart attack; the combinations make for a weird fluttering tightness in his chest, which is probably not a good thing. The dog is curled up in his bed, burrowed under the covers, his exhales quiet but noticeable in the still room.
It hits Stiles, suddenly, that the dog is sleeping on (what used to be) Derek’s side of the bed. He’s sleeping like Derek too, face shoved in the pillow and on his side, front right leg tucked under the pillow and the other folded against his chest. God, the last time Stiles saw Derek sleeping here…but that’s a road Stiles promised himself he wouldn’t go down. Stiles may have been dumped, but he’s not a girl (no matter what Jackson occasionally implies) and he’s not going to be jaded or bitter or deeply depressed, because: a) that’s cliché, b) Stiles does have both pride and balls, and c) there are vague Bella Swan references down that road, and Stiles would rather shoot himself than be like Bella Swan in any way.
“You shouldn’t be up here,” Stiles says.
The dog cracks one eye open, then completely dismisses Stiles’ concern and rolls onto his back in a way that demands belly-scratching.
Stiles glares (“That’s actually a bitch-face,” Scott says in his head) but obliges, if only because watching the dog’s back leg itching the air never stops amusing him.
>>>
The dog won’t budge from his bed when Stiles is ready to go to sleep, so Stiles just sighs and climbs under the covers.
“You remind me of Derek,” Stiles whispers when they’ve both been settled for a while, because the room is quiet and dark and it doesn’t count in the still hours of midnight. “He was kind of an asshole, but I miss him.”
>>>
Thus starts the nightly routine of the dog sleeping in Stiles’ bed. The dog is a bed-hog and kicks the covers off both himself and Stiles (which is also Derek-esque, and kind of freaks Stiles out). So most mornings, Stiles wakes up curled around or under the dog, like the dog is a giant, heated teddy bear. Well, a giant, heated teddy bear until the dog wakes up and the first thing he does is glare at Stiles.
“This is your fault,” Stiles says. “If you wouldn’t kick off the covers, we wouldn’t be cuddling right now.”
Stiles squawks, in a completely righteously indignant way, when the dog literally kicks him out of bed.
>>>
“Holy shit,” Stiles says, “you have a tranquilizer gun.”
Stiles did not know this, but he appreciates the first-hand demonstration when the vet shoots the dog because, apparently, the dog doesn’t like the vet or his counters.
“Usually I need it for wild animals that are severely injured, but I decided to make an exception for this one,” the vet says as he and Stiles lug the dog into the exam room.
It takes maybe ten seconds for the vet to take out the stitches, and then he’s helping Stiles carry the dog to his car.
“Well, that was easy,” Stiles says as he drives them home.
The dog drools on his seat in agreement.
>>>
The dog is actually allowed to do some more exercise than walks, so Stiles takes him out in the back yard to play ball. Stiles throws the ball a few feet away from the dog, because this way Stiles won’t have to tromp around in the woods if the dog doesn’t fetch.
The dog stares at it, walks over, sniffs, and looks up to glare at Stiles as he pees on the ball.
“That’s my last tennis ball!” Stiles says.
>>>
Three days later, Stiles wakes up to a sunny Saturday morning, pressed to Derek’s chest, muscles warmth-lazy and relaxed.
Wait a minute.
Stiles opens his eyes and confirms that, no, he is not hallucinating the feel of Derek’s skin underneath his cheek. It’s also quite clear, from his uncovered hip, that Derek is not only in Stiles’ bed, but also naked.
Stiles is 99% sure that they did not have epic broken-up sex.
Stiles is also 99% sure that he fell asleep on the dog last night.
“What the actual fuck,” Stiles says to Derek’s very naked chest.
Derek stirs, runs a hand over Stiles’ head like he used to on lazy mornings, and then freezes.
“Shit,” he says when he opens his eyes.
“What the actual fuck,” Stiles repeats to Derek’s very surprised, very guilty face.
“Look, Stiles,” Derek starts, and no, no way.
“No way am I having any conversation with you while you’re naked,” Stiles says. “Like, for real? For serious? Get some clothes on.”
He’s preparing his awesome angry speech as he lifts up and then Derek slides out of the bed, and damn, Derek’s ass still makes Stiles lose his train of thought. Derek’s ass is kinda ridiculously epic, in a way that, even when Stiles hated Derek after they broke up, he felt no guilt over jerking off to the thought of said ass. That’s how great Derek’s ass is.
Derek glares at Stiles from the dresser, where he’s pulled on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt that Stiles never got around to returning.
Oh, right. Conversation.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, and I’m pretty sure I’m not,” Stiles says, “but didn’t I go to bed with my dog last night? Where is my dog, by the way?”
Really, where is his dog?
“Oh my god, you didn’t go crazy and kill my dog, did you?” Stiles says, because, “You’re not in a psychotic break where you killed my dog and then slept naked in my bed like you’ve conveniently forgotten that you broke up with me, are you?”
Oh holy god, Stiles is going to be murdered by his ex-boyfriend. Scott is going to be so pissed that Stiles died before he could properly grovel for the Unmentionable Incident.
“Stiles,” Derek says, “would you shut up and listen? I’m not in a psychotic break and I haven’t killed your dog.”
“Then where the hell is my dog? What did you do to him?”
Stiles really is worried now. The dog would never let Derek Hale sleep on his side of the bed.
“I haven’t done anything to him,” Derek says.
“Well of course I’m going to believe you, because it makes perfect sense that I woke up and you were naked in my bed. I mean, surely this is the way things happen, why hasn’t this happened sooner-”
“I am the dog,” Derek shouts over Stiles’ verbal diarrhea.
Stiles gapes. Did Derek just…was that. Stiles thinks he heard Derek wrong.
“Say what,” Stiles says.
Derek clenches his jaw so hard Stiles can hear his teeth grinding from across the room.
“I’m a werewolf,” he finally says.
Stiles is never going to be able to close his mouth again, the way that this conversation is going. Derek just said he was a werewolf. Stiles is terrified that this is reality.
“I can prove it,” Derek says, and then he starts shoving his shirt up and his pants down.
For a moment, Stiles panics because Derek has just told Stiles he was a werewolf, and now he’s getting naked, and none of this is convincing Stiles that Derek isn’t in a psychotic break.
And then he sees the scar.
It starts on Derek’s waist, right on his side, and curves down the top of Derek’s hipbone, ending in the groove there. It’s that new-pink color and Stiles can faintly see the stitch marks.
It’s in the exact place as the dog’s was.
Oh my god. Oh my god.
Derek Hale is a werewolf.
“You-” Stiles stares. And then stares some more.
Derek fidgets. Derek, Stiles’ ex-boyfriend who is actually a werewolf, has the gall to look like Stiles is being unduly mean by not telling Derek this is okay.
“You goddamn bastard,” Stiles says.
And then he throws the closest thing at Derek’s head, which happens to be a dog training book.
Stiles has a feeling that Derek lets it hit him in the chest, but that the stress ball Stiles throws right after that takes him by surprise when it hits him in the face.
“You asshole,” Stiles says, and now he’s pissed. “You slept in my bed. I pined for you-at you-fuck!”
He’s advancing on Derek, still throwing things, and Derek is hastily dodging them while trying to make it to the window.
“If you go out that window, I will hunt you down myself,” Stiles says. “I will hunt you down and kill you dead.”
Derek actually stops, but that might be because Stiles has stopped trying to throw things with sharp edges at him, like paperweights and protractors.
“Why,” and Stiles can’t finish that; there are too many sentences trying to force their way out. Why did you come here? Why didn’t you leave after the stitches were removed? Why didn’t you tell me?
“I could hurt you, okay?” Derek snaps. “I came over on the full moon and when I realized that the wolf wanted you, I had to stay away before I hurt you.”
“As you can see, I’m terribly mauled,” Stiles says, because, yes, the situation is serious, but Derek is being so stupid.
Derek glares, but it’s more his fuck-I-might-be-losing-this-argument glare than his you-make-me-feel-murderous glare, which is the glare the dog had mostly given him.
…How did Stiles not know the dog was really werewolf-Derek sooner?
“Wait a minute,” Stiles says, “the full moon was a week ago.”
“No it wasn’t,” Derek says.
“Yes it was,” Stiles says, “that was one of my excuses when you bit Scott’s ass. Oh my god! You bit my best friend’s ass!”
“I don’t like when the house smells like him,” is what Stiles thinks Derek mumbled, but he may just be hearing things.
“Really? The big scary werewolf couldn’t tell when it was the full moon?” Stiles says.
“I was probably wallowing in shame from having to wear that fucking collar,” Derek says.
Okay, Stiles can give him that one, but, “Oh my god! Your sister knew! She totally knew and she’s not actually crazy! Dude, you are never going to live that down.”
“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek says.
Ladies and gentlemen, Stiles Stilinski has just made Derek Hale blush.
“I need to call Laura,” Stiles says as he fumbles with his phone. “I need to call her so that we can, like, frame that collar over your mantle-piece. We can build a shrine around it.”
And then Derek lunges, and Stiles spends the next five minutes dodging him as Derek growls and threatens bodily harm.
But Stiles is completely awesome, and whilst dodging an angry werewolf he also manages to call Laura.
“It’s your sacred duty to build a shrine to that collar if Derek kills me!” Stiles says, and then Derek tackles him enthusiastically.
As Stiles is wheezing on the floor, he can hear Laura cracking up before Derek ends the call.
“I’m going to kick your ass,” Derek says.
He’s blanketing Stiles, pinning him down, body emitting so much heat Stiles is also too hot. Their faces are only inches apart and Derek’s pupils are starting to blow wide and god, Stiles has missed this so much.
“The hell you are,” Stiles says. “You, buddy, have so much groveling to do to make up for being an ass, uh-huh.”
“Well then,” Derek says, leaning closer, his eyes nothing but black and a thin, electric blue ring, “I guess I better start now.”