Field Trip (gift for scikopathik9)
Title: Field Trip
Author: templemarker
Recipient: scikopathik9
Pairings: Derek/Stiles
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1060
Warnings: N/A
Summary:
Author's Notes: Thanks to dsudis for pulling me into this challenge and perpet_fic for workshopping and speedy beta. Happy holidays!
The sound of the wind picked up so that the whistle through the trees was deafening. The night outside was dark, no moon to be seen, and the air was damp with autumn rain. It was like the beginning--or really, the end--of a Poe story, only with grumpy dudes, a broken fan belt, and one Mylar blanket not quite large enough to hold two.
"I'm too hot," Derek complained, mumbling his words.
"You cannot possibly be too hot," Stiles said. If he'd been willing to sacrifice the precarious heat exchange system he'd set up after fifteen minutes of staring down Derek's eyebrows, painstakingly arranging the crinkly Mylar, and positioning himself for maximum body-warmth stealing, he would have looked up and glared at Derek's flushed, stupid face. "It's like thirty degrees out there and we're in a damp cave. You can't be hot."
"You're like one of those heat packet things," Derek said disapprovingly. "One of those things humans stick in their pockets for their hands."
"I am still cold," Stiles lied smoothly, curling his fingers into the worn jersey fabric of Derek's sweatshirt, "and as the resident human in this tete-a-tete with vicious nature I declare you to be the one to suck it up, bitch."
Derek's silence was very loud.
Stiles let his eyes close, trying to block out the hellish wind just outside the mouth of the cave (when did Beacon Hills get a cave system? why was his life like a constant game of Minecraft?) and the nagging frustration that his dad was going to be freaking the hell out soon if he wasn't already working himself into a pulmonary embolism. No bars on the phone, miles away from any emergency highway phones, and Derek had categorically refused to entertain the idea of leaving him alone to run and get help. Or at least a new fan belt. Stiles had guns. A gun. He even knew how to use it, like, most of the time. Just because he hadn't been to the shooting range in three years after that one time with his dad and his dad's .40 cal Beretta and some minor hearing loss didn't mean he couldn't defend himself. But Derek just stared him down in that irritating way he had of stonewalling Stiles, and steered them towards a surprisingly dry and, in context, very convenient cave.
"Why are you so hot?" Derek burst out, which in Derek terms was more like a hushed epithet in a church. "How can you be cold. You're like a quippy space heater."
"I don't know, dude," Stiles said with a sigh, adjusting his head on Derek's chest. The rumble of his heartbeat was just beneath Stiles' ear, a quick half-beat too fast to be entirely normal. Not that Stiles went around pillowing his head on other guys' chests or anything; he just watched a lot of ER reruns. "Maybe it only goes out instead of in."
He could practically feel Derek frown. "Do you have a fever?" he asked, and before Stiles could protest, Derek had freed his arm and reached a hand around to feel at Stiles' forehead.
"Oh my god, quit it," Stiles said, trying to move his forehead out of Derek's awkward reach while simultaneously trying not to move one inch away from Derek's creepy werewolf fireplace of a body. "Seriously, how could you even tell; your hand has to be like extra warm right now anyway."
Derek grunted but didn't disagree. Out loud, anyway. He dropped his hand so that it was resting on the back of Stiles' neck, and yeah, it was super hot and felt really nice against the strip of exposed skin above the collar of Stiles' jacket. He may have made a noise of pleasure that had only appeared in ... well, in alternate circumstances before, and as soon as he made the noise, he winced.
Derek huffed out something like a laugh and lightly squeezed the back of Stiles' neck. "You know what I want right now?" Derek said after a beat of silence. Stiles was surprised enough that he almost cracked open an eye to stare curiously at Derek. He just made a questioning noise instead.
"Pancakes," Derek said, half-hushed but completely serious. "I could really go for some strawberry pancakes, whipped cream, some bacon on the side."
"You're a terrible person," Stiles half-moaned into Derek's torso. "We ate, like, trail mix and smushed peanut butter sandwiches for dinner, dude, and you're talking about manna from heaven? That's not fucking buddies."
Stiles' pillow started moving, and Stiles almost punched Derek in the kidney when he realized Derek was laughing at him. Or with him. Their relationship had become very different in the last few months--it was hard to tell sometimes.
"And some coffee," Derek added, fingers tightening momentarily around Stiles' neck.
"Coffee would be great," Stiles said, braving the slight sting of the crisp air to look up at Derek. Derek was looking out into the night, seeing things Stiles couldn't even sense, and Stiles was suddenly pathetically grateful Derek had unilaterally decided to stay. It would have sucked being out in a cave, just him, the Mylar blanket, and the medium to high probability of hypothermia.
"How about in the morning, after we get the car towed," Derek said, "and replace that damn belt and then buy an extra to put in your toolbox because what kind of dumbass doesn't carry a spare fanbelt in his car, we go get some pancakes." He paused for a second, and Stiles could swear that he felt Derek's fingers feather the back of Stiles' head. Or maybe it was a gust of wind blowing in from outside. "My treat," Derek said.
Stiles licked his chapped lips and tried not to move, not even a little, because those awkward thoughts that usually developed in his own bed in his own room were fucking small potatoes compared to the awkward thoughts he was having while the object of his occasional (or frequent, whatever) awkward thoughts was his own personal fireplace.
"I'm going to hold you to that, dude," he said finally, and willed himself to at least catnap. He thought he felt a warm press of lips against his forehead, oddly like his mother used to give him, and let himself sink into heat and the surety that Derek was scarier than anything out there.
Author: templemarker
Recipient: scikopathik9
Pairings: Derek/Stiles
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1060
Warnings: N/A
Summary:
Author's Notes: Thanks to dsudis for pulling me into this challenge and perpet_fic for workshopping and speedy beta. Happy holidays!
The sound of the wind picked up so that the whistle through the trees was deafening. The night outside was dark, no moon to be seen, and the air was damp with autumn rain. It was like the beginning--or really, the end--of a Poe story, only with grumpy dudes, a broken fan belt, and one Mylar blanket not quite large enough to hold two.
"I'm too hot," Derek complained, mumbling his words.
"You cannot possibly be too hot," Stiles said. If he'd been willing to sacrifice the precarious heat exchange system he'd set up after fifteen minutes of staring down Derek's eyebrows, painstakingly arranging the crinkly Mylar, and positioning himself for maximum body-warmth stealing, he would have looked up and glared at Derek's flushed, stupid face. "It's like thirty degrees out there and we're in a damp cave. You can't be hot."
"You're like one of those heat packet things," Derek said disapprovingly. "One of those things humans stick in their pockets for their hands."
"I am still cold," Stiles lied smoothly, curling his fingers into the worn jersey fabric of Derek's sweatshirt, "and as the resident human in this tete-a-tete with vicious nature I declare you to be the one to suck it up, bitch."
Derek's silence was very loud.
Stiles let his eyes close, trying to block out the hellish wind just outside the mouth of the cave (when did Beacon Hills get a cave system? why was his life like a constant game of Minecraft?) and the nagging frustration that his dad was going to be freaking the hell out soon if he wasn't already working himself into a pulmonary embolism. No bars on the phone, miles away from any emergency highway phones, and Derek had categorically refused to entertain the idea of leaving him alone to run and get help. Or at least a new fan belt. Stiles had guns. A gun. He even knew how to use it, like, most of the time. Just because he hadn't been to the shooting range in three years after that one time with his dad and his dad's .40 cal Beretta and some minor hearing loss didn't mean he couldn't defend himself. But Derek just stared him down in that irritating way he had of stonewalling Stiles, and steered them towards a surprisingly dry and, in context, very convenient cave.
"Why are you so hot?" Derek burst out, which in Derek terms was more like a hushed epithet in a church. "How can you be cold. You're like a quippy space heater."
"I don't know, dude," Stiles said with a sigh, adjusting his head on Derek's chest. The rumble of his heartbeat was just beneath Stiles' ear, a quick half-beat too fast to be entirely normal. Not that Stiles went around pillowing his head on other guys' chests or anything; he just watched a lot of ER reruns. "Maybe it only goes out instead of in."
He could practically feel Derek frown. "Do you have a fever?" he asked, and before Stiles could protest, Derek had freed his arm and reached a hand around to feel at Stiles' forehead.
"Oh my god, quit it," Stiles said, trying to move his forehead out of Derek's awkward reach while simultaneously trying not to move one inch away from Derek's creepy werewolf fireplace of a body. "Seriously, how could you even tell; your hand has to be like extra warm right now anyway."
Derek grunted but didn't disagree. Out loud, anyway. He dropped his hand so that it was resting on the back of Stiles' neck, and yeah, it was super hot and felt really nice against the strip of exposed skin above the collar of Stiles' jacket. He may have made a noise of pleasure that had only appeared in ... well, in alternate circumstances before, and as soon as he made the noise, he winced.
Derek huffed out something like a laugh and lightly squeezed the back of Stiles' neck. "You know what I want right now?" Derek said after a beat of silence. Stiles was surprised enough that he almost cracked open an eye to stare curiously at Derek. He just made a questioning noise instead.
"Pancakes," Derek said, half-hushed but completely serious. "I could really go for some strawberry pancakes, whipped cream, some bacon on the side."
"You're a terrible person," Stiles half-moaned into Derek's torso. "We ate, like, trail mix and smushed peanut butter sandwiches for dinner, dude, and you're talking about manna from heaven? That's not fucking buddies."
Stiles' pillow started moving, and Stiles almost punched Derek in the kidney when he realized Derek was laughing at him. Or with him. Their relationship had become very different in the last few months--it was hard to tell sometimes.
"And some coffee," Derek added, fingers tightening momentarily around Stiles' neck.
"Coffee would be great," Stiles said, braving the slight sting of the crisp air to look up at Derek. Derek was looking out into the night, seeing things Stiles couldn't even sense, and Stiles was suddenly pathetically grateful Derek had unilaterally decided to stay. It would have sucked being out in a cave, just him, the Mylar blanket, and the medium to high probability of hypothermia.
"How about in the morning, after we get the car towed," Derek said, "and replace that damn belt and then buy an extra to put in your toolbox because what kind of dumbass doesn't carry a spare fanbelt in his car, we go get some pancakes." He paused for a second, and Stiles could swear that he felt Derek's fingers feather the back of Stiles' head. Or maybe it was a gust of wind blowing in from outside. "My treat," Derek said.
Stiles licked his chapped lips and tried not to move, not even a little, because those awkward thoughts that usually developed in his own bed in his own room were fucking small potatoes compared to the awkward thoughts he was having while the object of his occasional (or frequent, whatever) awkward thoughts was his own personal fireplace.
"I'm going to hold you to that, dude," he said finally, and willed himself to at least catnap. He thought he felt a warm press of lips against his forehead, oddly like his mother used to give him, and let himself sink into heat and the surety that Derek was scarier than anything out there.